Yup, I finally did it. I hired a personal assistant.
Why, you might ask? Because every boxing match needs a referee, every play needs a stage manager, and every circus needs a ringmaster. Plus in addition to keeping the lions out of the clown-car and the clowns off the trapeze, I really need someone to field (and prioritize) my calls, my inbox, handle my travel arrangements, and otherwise free up precious time so I can spin more tales of woe.
And of course, having a very busy family, I needed someone who can interface on that front as well. That's a polite way of saying that I need someone who can appreciate the other creative spirits who haunt my writerly abode.
So how did we know this person was the person? What exhaustive, executive, nanny 9-11 vetting process did we employ? We'll, let's just say the clincher was when this particular candidate peered over our second-floor banister and said, "We really should drag out a few mattresses, a bunch of pillows, and jump off this thing." Sold!
She won't start until March, but here's how everyone celebrated.