Okay, I know I’m going to sound like a bad cliché, but yesterday, I was riveted to Oprah Winfrey’s show on bio-identical hormones. She had Suzanne Somers (and the wonderful Christiane Northrup) on talking about them and menopause and how taking them changed her life for the better.

I watched it like a prisoner in captivity might watch a video on how to chip her way through brick. That’s because, just a day earlier, I’d been reading Oprah’s column in her magazine about her recent health issues and hormone-replacement therapies and stumbled upon a passage that literally made me cry. It read:

 “…I started talking to more friends in their 40s and 50s, and soon we were all aha’ing each other. This is what some described: Anxiety. Fatigue. Low-grade depression. Lack of confidence, curiosity, drive, ambition. A sense of being overwhelmed. Feeling flat and dead and afraid. A general feeling of malaise…”

Talk about an Aha moment. After months of feeling like a ball of frayed and tangled twine, I realized that these words described me. Tired, always. Sad and weepy. Wondering whether I’ll ever write that book, get a good job, be able to relax from the constant churning of wheels in my mind. And even though I’m not nearly as inundated with stuff as I’ve ever been, I often feel like a hamster buried under a pile of wood. The thought of doing anything makes me want to crawl under the coffee table and rock. 

Just the other night, I said to Dan: “It’s not me. None of these feelings. It’s not me. I’m a happy person. Energetic and hopeful. Ready to take on the world. What’s WRONG with me? Where’d I go?”

Now granted, we are living in troubled times, so I don’t ascribe all of my feelings to hormonal jihad. But it’s got a whole lot to do with it. Or so I’ve learned, after reading that passage in O Magazine, bearing witness to Somers’ story, and having an anything-but-gentle conversation with my mother.

Me: I don’t know, why I’m always on edge and crying. Am I crazy? Is it the sleep deprivation that’s doing it?

My mother: YOU’RE NOT CRAZY, YOU’RE IN MENOPAUSE! I WAS DONE WHEN I WAS 45. YOU’RE 46. IT’S MEN-O-PAUSE. HELLO? ANYBODY CAN SEE THAT IT’S MENOPAUSE. I DON’T CARE THAT YOU STILL GET YOUR PERIODS EVERY MONTH. SO WHAT? ONE DAY, THEY’RE JUST GONNA STOP. THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED TO ME. MOM-MOM TOO. THAT’S IT. DONE. [Slight raspberry sound here.] M-E-N-O-P-A-U-S-E. NOW, DON’T YOU FEEL BETTER? [Pause for air.]

Me: uh huh.

—————————————————————————-

Truth be told, I hated her delivery, but she was–is–right. It all makes sense now–the always dieting and never losing weight, the constant exhaustion, the lack of Z’s, the issues of too hot and then, not hot enough, and then some. I’m not crazy. There is no sub-level default in my wiring. I am simply finding my way into another of life’s big transitions. And my hormones are simply kicking up the dust accordingly.

What makes me most crazy is that I needed, shall we say, a frank conversation with my mother to get some validation. (Something I never could have predicted in my younger and more rebellious youth.) She had to tell me to stay the course, find someone to help me address these symptoms so I could move on with a better quality of life. My mother.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my mother and appreciate her good intentions, but shouldn’t the bearer of this news, in particular, been any one of the three doctors I went to see last year? The endocrinologist who told me my blood tests were normal. The physician’s assistant who skirted around almost every issue pertaining to the now obvious symptoms of pending menopause. The pats on the hand–both literal and figurative: You’re fine. Here’s a good book to help you. And well, you’re getting older. Maybe you just won’t sleep that good anymore.

Not a one of them reached out to try and provide some resolution–some assurance of what normal was. Or the possibility that I couldn’t find what I needed in a paperback. Or that maybe, just maybe, I could do something to address the issues other than just accept that life, as I knew it in my 20s and 30s, would never be the same again.

Can anybody relate? If so, write to me at streetcarcomm@aol.com.

Until next time!

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Last week, as you know, I went to Texas with my friends–all nutritionists and personal trainers–and, for most of the overweight and underutilized (shall I say) like me, the kind we’d dub “health fanatics”. I met them when we all worked for Gatorade and, despite their perfect eating habits and dedication to exercise (as opposed to my slugness), I love them anyway. I do. They are brilliant mentors, wildly intelligent and accomplished, not to mention quite beautiful all the way around.

Yet, sometimes, when I’m with them, I have to wonder what they see in me. I am, after all, a bit whiny during our annual excursions (to which I often bring my repressed eating-disordered low-esteemed little-girl Jilly, who waits all year to “let it out” to an understanding crowd, if you will.)

I also don’t love physical fitness to the same degree they do. (Doing it or watching it, as evidenced by their being riveted to a high-stakes game of Sunday pro football, while I longed for two hours of Lifetime Television.) Sure, I walk. Lift weights. But only purely out of necessity–and not necessarily for the joy of it all. The dogs need to do their business. And I refuse to be confused for a young Mama Cass–or a weakling.

And while an eight-hour hike through the desert sounds like a day at the spa for my friends, I much prefer an eight-hour spin around the dessert table. But hey, I learn a lot of stuff from them. I always enjoy being with them (even if I have to call my husband from the bathroom before the day’s activities to reconfirm the information on my health insurance card). They are always interesting and just a little inspiring.

Besides, if you ask me, every crowd needs someone who’s just a little out of the bounds of membership.

Keeps things real.

——————————

And so, this year, like every year, we had our long daily walks and yoga moments. But we also did something different–something we haven’t done in years past, and for me it was a real standout.  You see:

Aside from the hours spent playing “Apples to Apples” in the guest villa, the box of cards flanked by bottles of fine Cabernet, homemade chocolate-chip cookies, and balsamic-dressed strawberries. Aside from the two-hour walks around the 200-acres of private ranch–set by steely-haired cactus, llamas, mules, a Red-Horned buck, and a delightful silver-haired Labrador Retriever named Leo. Aside from the post-hike goat cheese and hearts of romaine salad, pumpkin bread, and mid-afternoon joy ride on golf carts that look like they’re detailed daily. Aside from the freshly grilled-salmon and sweet potato dinners, the night of real “Texas Barbeque” delivered to us by private security guards. Aside from each morning’s fine Italian-roast coffee bought special for the occasion at my gal pal’s favorite little out-of-the-way shop.

There is one moment in this weekend, in particular, I will remember for the rest of eternity:  The one spent on the Trampoline.

————————————

A trampoline the size of a small baby pool in the middle of almost Tuscany-like surroundings, despite our being just an hour outside of Austin, Texas. Where guest houses, game rooms, and exercise equipment populate four villas dressed in vintage Italian (think columns and distressed stone and painted ceramic). And in front of the gym and outdoor pool area: The trampoline. Again. Wrapped quietly in netting–and just begging to be, well, trampled.

It’s a 65-plus degree day. I looked at the trampoline and then at my five friends, standing beside a scenic overlook that captured a a clear sky, a drought-tired river (now a pillow of hard terra-cotta rock and stone), and a few two-storied caftans swimming precariously in what shallow waters remained.

The scene made me peaceful. Until, that is, my friend Stella, an accomplished Ivy League professor, middle-aged in calendar only, and somebody nobody would ever describe as “introverted” shouted: “C’mon Jilly, check this out! It’s awesome!”

I look over at her as she darts towards the tramp, flings herself up and on, and starts flying up and down on its rubber foundation, her ponytail whipping around like a gaggle of flappers. I can’t help but smile and think: Stella. So cute. But I’m not goin’ on that thing. No way. Have you seen these puppies? And then, I look down at my own self-endowment.

Besides, I’m 46. Aren’t I just a tad bit too old to climb up on a trampoline? I mean sure, we’re not too old to play Pac Man, or board games, or to squeal with glee at feeding carrots to a pack of donkeys (mine notwithstanding). There’s no possibility of joint or lower-back injury there. No risk for a glaucoma outbreak–or some unwelcome hormonal realignment.

But jumping on a trampoline? What’s the point? I mean, somebody is gonna get hurt and since I’ve got the most to lose from a body mass and D-cup perspective, it’s probably going to be me.

————————————————

Yet, as I stood contemplating the pointlessness of it all–and how I was simply too old and too girth-ridden to indulge in more youthful endeavors (after all, my best friend’s young boys jump on the trampoline and besides I’m afraid of heights)–I looked up to find the others had joined. Now, Stella, Lisa, Linda, Chris, and Dixie–most of whom are older than I, even pushing 60–are going up and down and head-to-head in a “who can jump higher” competition that would’ve challenged the most seasoned of leapfrogs.

 “C’mon Jilly, C’MON!” they shouted from inside the net. They were holding hands now, riding the calm wave of the tramp, waiting for me to climb aboard. The pressure was on.

So after a few moments of I-can’t-do-this’s, I did: I walked slowly over to my dear friends, pushed the netting aside, put one chubby knee up on the ledge and then another, grabbed Lisa’s hand and then Linda’s, stood precariously up on what felt like shaky ground, and with white knuckles and a less-than-graceful wobble, followed the leader.

 “Is everybody ready,” Stella shouted, scanning the faces of the five-woman crowd that looked like kids waiting for the start of the Merry-Go-Round. Turn it on, that’s what our expressions said. Turn it on! And then…

“Okay ladies,” Stella yells, “let’s JUMP!” And before I could protest, we were out of the gate and airborne.  Twirling, giggling, jiggling, twisting, and yelping like a bunch of second graders. Yes, even me.

It was fantastic.

So thank YOU my girls–for making me. (And the nausea didn’t have any kind of hang time, so no worries.)

And to everybody else, take the leap, won’t you? I highly recommend it.

Until next time!

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Well, I’m off to Texas tomorrow, where everything is bigger and basted in barbeque sauce. Not that I imagine there’ll be much of that stuff, since I’m meeting a group of mostly nutritionists–friends from when I worked at Gatorade in Chicago. Most of us middle-aged, we’ve managed to stay in touch over the past four years by meeting every Martin Luther King weekend for a little R&R at “Fort Mort”: a private ranch just outside of Austin owned by one of my gal pal’s wealthy clients.

Since my husband’s been super sick over the past several weeks, there’s no better place for me to land than in the soft arms of those women who’ve dedicted their lives to a healthy immune system. On that end, I’ve already done my pre-work by taking irritating amounts of Vitamin C and Zicam (surely enough to cause my PCP to frown, but hey, whatever).

I’m sure I’m overdoing the prescribed limits, but I am determined to find my way South. No amount of nose-blowing or hurling is gonna keep me off that Delta flight (not even Delta itself, which must have changed my flight number at least a dozen times since I booked the ride several months ago.)  

Especially since, for once, it looks like my trip is timed well. They’re forecasting 0-degree windchills for tomorrow here in Philly, all while I’m gaining wind sheer, hopefully, up up and away on a moderately sized aircraft.

My task is to keep this good health going through at least Tuesday, when my all-too-brief vacation officially ends. Only then, can I revel in disease without the pressure of travel,  and drop without a care like an overworked sherpa.

Which reminds me: I’ve got to pack.

Why does this particular chore suck so much. I mean, what is it about being middle-aged and squishy (my new descriptor for chubby, since the conjoined sound of “chu” and the “ub” suddenly hurts like fingernails on a chalkboard) that makes packing such a chore? After all, I’m not going to the inaugural ball or packing for a weekend of clubbing in New York.

To the contrary, there’s a good chance I’ll be the only one who brings lipstick and a bra for the weekend. So why all the angst?

I think it must be inbred–imprinted in me at such a young age never to leave the house without makeup or to forget about my bulk–that despite my assertive age, this brand of angst will never end.

In fact, I fear I’ll never be any less self-conscious than I am today, even though I’m going to a place where nobody cares how I look or really what I do–and where the most strenuous activity I need pack for is raising a wine glass to my lips so many times, I could very well suffer a repetitive wrist injury.

Now Jill, don’t overthink it. Just pack those beloved black stretch pants and be done with it.

Why thank you, alter-ego, sensible-voice-that-doesn’t-surface-nearly-enough. I think I’ll take that advice and run with it. Well, maybe I’ll just start with a slow-walk…get in the mode…

In any event, I hope you all have a wonderful bone-chilling weekend–whatever that means for you. (Hey, bone chilling can be good, uh, I think…)

Until next time!


  Share

Well, I’m off to Texas tomorrow, where everything is bigger and basted in barbeque sauce. Not that I imagine there’ll be much of that stuff, since I’m meeting a group of mostly nutritionists–friends from when I worked at Gatorade in Chicago. Most of us middle-aged, we’ve managed to stay in touch over the past four years by meeting every Martin Luther King weekend for a little R&R at “Fort Mort”: a private ranch just outside of Austin owned by one of my gal’s wealthy clients.

Since my husband’s been super sick over the past several weeks, there’s no better place for me to land than in the soft arms of those women who’ve dedicted their lives to a healthy immune system. On that end, I’ve already done my pre-work by taking irritating amounts of Vitamin C and Zicam (surely enough to cause my PCP to frown, but hey, whatever).

I’m sure I’m overdoing the prescribed limits, but I am determined to find my way South. No amount of nose-blowing or hurling is gonna keep me off that Delta flight (not even Delta itself, which must have changed my flight number at least a dozen times since I booked the ride several months ago.)  

Especially since, for once, it looks like my trip is timed well. They’re forecasting 0-degree windchills for tomorrow here in Philly, all while I’m gaining wind sheer, hopefully, up up and away on a moderately sized aircraft.

My task is to keep this good health going through at least Tuesday, when my all-too-brief vacation officially ends. Only then, can I revel in disease without the pressure of travel,  and drop without a care like an overworked sherpa.

Which reminds me: I’ve got to pack.

Why does this particular chore suck so much. I mean, what is it about being middle-aged and squishy (my new descriptor for chubby, since the conjoined sound of “chu” and the “ub” suddenly hurts like fingernails on a chalkboard) that makes packing such a chore? After all, I’m not going to the inaugural ball or packing for a weekend of clubbing in New York.

To the contrary, there’s a good chance I’ll be the only one who brings lipstick and a bra for the weekend. So why all the angst?

I think it must be inbred–imprinted in me at such a young age never to leave the house without makeup or to forget about my bulk–that despite my assertive age, this brand of angst will never end.

In fact, I fear I’ll never be any less self-conscious than I am today, even though I’m going to a place where nobody cares how I look or really what I do–and where the most strenuous activity I need pack for is raising a wine glass to my lips so many times, I could very well suffer a repetitive wrist injury.

Now Jill, don’t overthink it. Just pack those beloved black stretch pants and be done with it.

Why thank you, alter-ego, sensible-voice-that-doesn’t-surface-nearly-enough. I think I’ll take that advice and run with it. Well, maybe I’ll just start with a slow-walk…get in the mode…

In any event, I hope you all have a wonderful bone-chilling weekend–whatever that means for you. (Hey, bone chilling can be good, uh, I think…)

Until next time!


  Share

The other day, while my husband was getting into his Scooby Doo pajamas (yes, we cling to our youth in strange ways at 10 Avalon), I was startled and then elated by what I saw around his mid-section.

And being the loving and supportive wife that I am, I couldn’t resist commenting: “Honey, look at you. Is that what I think it is?”

He looked at me, at first confused, then down and seemingly proud (as evidenced by the straightening of his shoulders and well-executed Sara Palin wink), and then, at last, horrified. “Yes, and please don’t stare.”

But I couldn’t help myself. It’s like watching a couple make out at the table next to you. Or a five-year-old sass off to a hapless parent at the supermarket. You don’t want to watch, but you just can’t help yourself. Besides, it’s remotely validating to realize I’m not the only one in this house who has to watch the carbohydrates.

I never thought in the 48 celebrated months of knowing my husband–lean like an athlete, despite his idea of health food being a tub of Thousand Island dressing sprinkled with six leaves of spinach or a buffalo chicken sandwich where the bread is actually identifiable–that he’d ever get what he now has: A small belly.

Now don’t get me wrong, he’s no Ed McMahon in an undershirt. Or one of those middle-aged guys who makes you ponder the laws of gravity and whether men should bear children. But he also isn’t that flat-bellied six-pack over-hyped metabolic ball of animal flesh I met and married almost four years ago (although, in his defense, he still looks pretty good–even better than most, if I may generalize).

“I like it, honey,” I say. “The paunch makes you human. Brings you down to the rest of us.”

“Ha ha,”  he says, somehow pulling a pair of size 32 blue jeans over two pairs of long underwear as I watch in amazement. “I don’t like it. I gotta go on a diet.”

And there it was: The transformation complete. Welcome to my world. I have finally turned my hot hunky manly carpenter-turned-contractor-turned-rocker-turned project-manager-turned-save-the-environment-liberal into a neurotic and slightly Rubinesque little Jewish girl.

Like me. 

————————————–

And while I’m proud, I am simultaneously starting to worry. Especially in light of what happened during a recent trip to Wegmans for groceries. We had just filled our cart with the requisite dressings and produce and sugar-free creamer and were on our way to the checkout, when I suddenly couldn’t find my husband.

After a quick scan of the area, I finally located him in housewares, fondling a ceramic mug as if it were the Hope Diamond.

“Babe,” I said gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Is everything okay?” he asks, rubbing his hand over the display like Vanna turning over a vowel. “It’s AWESOME. I mean, look at this china? It’s fantastic. We gotta get it. Can’t you just picture it, us sipping some fresh Hazelnut?” And with that, he holds the cup–painted with earth-toned flowers–up to his lips and role models the move.  

I stood there stunned into silence, amazed at how rapt he was to something that looked like it belonged at a coming-out party for debutantes. Humbled, I mumbled, “Put it in the cart.” And off we went. Me wondering, what’s next?

Is he going to start asking me if he looks fat in those pants? Will he cry for no reason? Suddenly find himself obsessed with black leather pumps? Start to crave chocolate? He’s already starting to redecorate without permission (as evidenced by his reorganizing without prompting the magazines in the downstairs bathroom).

It’s not that I don’t want him to express himself, it’s just that these kinds of behaviors don’t bode well for the balance in our household: There’s only room for one of us hormonal females. And while I hope my husband morphs back into uber-manly soon (there’s a glimmer of hope, since this morning I found him drooling over a Home Depot catalogue), I guess there are worse things.

Like not having anybody to share your angst with. Or going to one of your favorite shopping complexes and noticing how many shops have closed (–and counting, thanks George). Or losing your job.

Or, realizing that, no matter how much you spend on brushes and goop, you’ll never be able to blow dry your hair as well as they do at the salon. (Something my husband’s been complaining about a lot lately…)

Okay. Until next time!

(BTW, my husband does not know about this post. So if you see him, mums the word. In fact, you may want to ask him if he’s been working out.)

  Share

The other day, while my husband was getting into his Scooby Doo pajamas (yes, we cling to our youth in strange ways at 10 Avalon), I was startled and then elated by what I saw around his mid-section.

And being the loving and supportive wife that I am, I couldn’t resist commenting: “Honey, look at you. Is that what I think it is?”

He looked at me, at first confused, then down and seemingly proud (as evidenced by the straightening of his shoulders and well-executed Sara Palin wink), and then, at last, horrified. “Yes, and please don’t stare.”

But I couldn’t help myself. It’s like watching a couple make out at the table next to you. Or a five-year-old sass off to a hapless parent at the supermarket. You don’t want to watch, but you just can’t help yourself. Besides, it’s remotely validating to realize I’m not the only one in this house who has to watch the carbohydrates.

I never thought in the 48 celebrated months of knowing my husband–lean like an athlete, despite his idea of health food being a tub of Thousand Island dressing sprinkled with six leaves of spinach or a buffalo chicken sandwich where the bread is actually identifiable–that he’d ever get what he now has: A small belly.

Now don’t get me wrong, he’s no Ed McMahon in an undershirt. Or one of those middle-aged guys who makes you ponder the laws of gravity and whether men should bear children. But he also isn’t that flat-bellied six-pack over-hyped metabolic ball of animal flesh I met and married almost four years ago (although, in his defense, he still looks pretty good–even better than most, if I may generalize).

“I like it, honey,” I say. “The paunch makes you human. Brings you down to the rest of us.”

“Ha ha,”  he says, somehow pulling a pair of size 32 blue jeans over two pairs of long underwear as I watch in amazement. “I don’t like it. I gotta go on a diet.”

And there it was: The transformation complete. Welcome to my world. I have finally turned my hot hunky manly carpenter-turned-contractor-turned-rocker-turned project-manager-turned-save-the-environment-liberal into a neurotic and slightly Rubinesque little Jewish girl.

————————————–

And while I’m proud, I am simultaneously starting to worry. Especially in light of what happened during a recent trip to Wegmans for groceries. We had just filled our cart with the requisite dressings and produce and sugar-free creamer and were on our way to the checkout, when I suddenly couldn’t find my husband.

After a quick scan of the area, I finally located him in housewares, fondling a ceramic mug as if it were the Hope Diamond.

“Babe,” I said gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Is everything okay?” he asks, rubbing his hand over the display like Vanna turning over a vowel. “It’s AWESOME. I mean, look at this china? It’s fantastic. We gotta get it. Can’t you just picture it, us sipping some fresh Hazelnut?” And with that, he holds the cup–painted with earth-toned flowers–up to his lips and role models the mimic.  

I stood there stunned into silence, amazed at how rapt he was to something that looked like it belonged at a coming-out party for debutantes. Humbled, I mumbled, “Put it in the cart.” And off we went. Me wondering, what’s next?

Is he going to start asking me if he looks fat in those pants? Will he cry for no reason? Suddenly find himself obsessed with J. Jill or Zappos? Start to crave chocolate? He’s already starting to redecorate without permission (as evidenced by his reorganizing without prompting the magazines in the downstairs bathroom).

It’s not that I don’t want him to express himself, it’s just that these kinds of behaviors don’t bode well for the balance in our household: There’s only room for one of us hormonal females. And while I hope my husband morphs back into uber-manly soon (there’s a glimmer of hope, since this morning I found him drooling over a Home Depot catalogue), I guess there are worse things.

Like not having anybody to share your angst with. Or going to one of your favorite shopping complexes and noticing how many shops have closed (–and counting, thanks George). Or losing your job.

Or, realizing that, no matter how much you spend on brushes and goop, you’ll never be able to blow dry your hair as well as they do at the salon. (Something my husband’s been complaining about a lot lately…)

Okay. Until next time!

(BTW, my husband does not know about this post. So if you see him, mums the word. In fact, you may want to ask him if he’s been working out.)

  Share

And the angels sing. And the clients line up like pretty little pills at the pharmacy. And the task of living, without fear of moving to a skid-row address, goes on.

Thank you, whoever, for not letting my husband and I swing from the end of a bungee rope for all too long. While the blood that’s rushed to our heads flows slowly downward, we remain eternally grateful.

And thank you, whoever, for not letting my donkey contract and then expand to size of a small navy boat as a result of too many (oh so comforting) Pop Tarts (brown cinnamon, I don’t even like brown cinnamon). While I’ll never be Twiggy, at least TLC is not knocking on my door to be the next one-ton woman in their series.

And thank you, as always, you brilliant-albeit-sadly-underrated writers of all things Lifetime Television. You, most of all, saw me the through the storm. (I bow to you.)

And now, it’s off to glorious work–writing, setting communication agendas, returning phone calls and emails, hawking my wares, grabbing whenever the wind hits me a piece of string cheese and a Fiber One bar. And, per my lone resolution, not planning or setting goals or thinking about baby or whether we should or wondering where I’ll be in five years from now or how in heaven’s name I’ll get there. Or if the milk in this morning’s latte didn’t taste just a tad bit too good to be skim. (It’s okay, my baby baristas, nobody’s perfect.)

No strategy. No woes. The perfect manifest.

Let it continue, at least until next time!

  Share

And the angels sing. And the clients line up like pretty little pills at the pharmacy. And the task of living, without fear of moving to a skid-row address, goes on.

Thank you, whoever, for not letting my husband and I swing from the end of a bungee rope for all too long. While the blood that’s rushed to our heads flows slowly downward, we remain eternally grateful.

And thank you, whoever, for not letting my donkey contract and then expand to size of a small navy boat as a result of too many (oh so comforting) Pop Tarts (brown cinnamon, I don’t even like brown cinnamon). While I’ll never be Twiggy, at least TLC is not knocking on my door to be the next one-ton woman in their series.

And thank you, as always, you brilliant-albeit-sadly-underrated writers of all things Lifetime Television. You, most of all, saw me the through the storm. (I bow to you.)

And now, it’s off to glorious work–writing, setting communication agendas, returning phone calls and emails, hawking my wares, grabbing whenever the wind hits me a piece of string cheese and a Fiber One bar. And, per my lone resolution, not planning or setting goals or thinking about baby or whether we should or wondering where I’ll be in five years from now or how in heaven’s name I’ll get there. Or if the milk in this morning’s latte didn’t taste just a tad bit too good to be skim. (It’s okay, my baby baristas, nobody’s perfect.)

No strategy. No woes. The perfect manifest.

Let it continue, at least until next time!

  Share