The once dazzling and undauntable Izzy Bauman, at 45, is a shadow of her former self, and nearly twice the size. Holed up in her suburban New York McMansion, Izzy, with the aid of Peapod, Amazon.com, and caller ID, has successfully managed to evade just about everyone from her highflying days with the exception of Howard (her long-suffering husband stuck with the carpooling and ferreting (interesing word choice) local goods between deliveries), and Samantha, her tragically untormented teenage daughter.
With her media-whoring shrink too busy ruminating on the pathologies of Fox TV’s latest celebrated wife killer to offer aid beyond another hastily dashed-off script, and the mesmeric Rabbi Schlomo Fekstein (enlisted by Izzy’s mother to “get some god into that house, for god’s sake”) spending their sessions exorcizing his own demons, Izzy’s salvation appears improbable.
That is, until Jesus Hernandez, the Nicaraguan stone mason she hired to wall in her property, corners her one afternoon behind the potting shed and confesses his love for her in shattered English. Amused by the fabulous absurdity of the idea, Izzy is also charmed by Jesus’ earnestness, and when he offers to take her on daily morning walks for exercise, she accepts. In the stillness of dawn on their long excursions down rolling country lanes, Izzy even begins to imagine that this wild-eyed evangelizing foreigner might help her find her way back to a world where there are still things worth dying –and living– for.
Well that's a hook.
It's also rife with cliche characters but that's a whole different crapometer.