Come Hell and Hot Water

Beskrivelse

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “She’s coming today. Pray for me.” “Oh, boy. Did you hide your laptop?” “Shoot! No, I forgot. Thanks for the reminder.” Jeremy, Jeff, and I all employ M.E., a housekeeper who came highly recommended by my old pal Don. He was absolutely right about how thorough she is. Cleans the place down to the nubs, but he left out the part about her being a one-woman wrecking ball. The most accident-prone person I have ever known, a title previously held, in my wide swath of a circle, by yours truly. I once dove off a diving board and missed the pool. Okay, so maybe she is the second most spatially challenged gal among us, but boy howdy, is her track record is impressive. Between our three homes, she has killed two computers and sent an insanely heavy ceramic bowl crashing to the floor of Jeff’s place. He had to have the hardwood in that room re-sanded and stained. She has busted my ballerina statue to smithereens and once positioned a large bottle of dish soap in such a way that it emptied itself into my broom closet when I opened the door. A sudsy mess that was a clean-up as endless as you are thinking it might have been. She has been coming to my place of residence for two years now, in two different spaces. She was hard on the one in Beverly Hills, but here in Beachwood, she is setting new records for mayhem. Every single time she cleans, she renders both sets of sliding glass doors in the bathroom shower inoperable. I am not strong enough to lift them back onto their tracks, so I have to wait until someone with adequate hands comes to visit to have them set them right again, only to have her return and yank them off-kilter. If she cannot figure out how to open something, she will attack it with such brute force that the mechanism is completely shot, unusable. She will break a faucet handle right off. None of us has the heart to let her go. She is a sweet gal and works hard, and all of our dogs like and trust her (which is a big deal for canine parents). When she is due for a visit, we all make sure that we can be out of the house or at least earshot of the banging and clanging, the whacking and wringing. My nervous system is not cut out for it. I would rather come home to the very clean and likely shambles that my apartment has become. I prefer to deal with her visits after the fact. Two weeks ago, I welcomed M.E. and handed her two treats to feed the dog, a ritual that they both enjoy. It is almost impossible for me to concentrate when she is around, so I hightailed it to the gym, ran errands, and even allowed myself to eat a yummy late breakfast out at “Swingers,” the cafe that was central to the movie of the same name. Still bohemian, still run-down, still one of my favorites. Not all that clean, but darned cozy. I headed home, hoping that I had given M.E. sufficient time to accomplish her mission. Upon arrival, I was disappointed to see that she was still in the middle of her routine. She does not clean one room at a time, but rather does bits and pieces of all of them at once. This leaves everything in complete disarray for several hours. I have tried to suggest that she finish one room before starting another, but I have not gotten that message across. I speak Spanish well enough to communicate with most folks, but she is reluctant to have a conversation in her native tongue and prefers halted pidgin English, which is very hard for me to understand, because she has a peculiar way with it. “I go DASH. Is good? Dog he eats?” She also mimes things for me when there is a tool that she wants or a cleaning product she would prefer to use. We manage. I was heading to the kitchen when I heard loud banging on the sliding glass doors that lead to the outside. There is a lock, of course, but also a long piece of wood that my sister had cut to prop into the grooves at the base to prevent entry by unwanted guests, human or otherwise. When my sisters came to visit after I first moved in, they were impressed by the size of my place and the evident, though spotty, old-world charm of the building, but Laura was quick to note the vulnerabilities: “Not safe. Not secure. We need deadbolts and jamming rods. That balcony can be easily breached,” She said, peering over the side to the pavement two stories below. The girls measured every door and window and went to Lowe’s, where they had rods custom-cut to fit in the sills and prevent anyone from being able to open them from the outside. How did M.E. get out there? What was the chain of events that led to my housekeeper being stranded on the veranda for hours? She preferred not to say. Just flew past me when I unblocked the sliding glass door and went straight back to work. I barricaded myself in my bedroom and caught up on some reading. After she left that afternoon, I studied the scene. The window screen had been hastily replaced and needed to be refit. So, she must have been cleaning the large window in the dining room and decided she needed to polish the outside of the glass. She could have opened the nearby sliding doors and walked out onto the patio, but instead she climbed out of the window and stepped onto the bench below. She then removed the screen and shut the window so that she could reach every part of the pane. Once it was shiny and streak-free, she attempted to re-open it to climb back in, only to find the latch had fastened. I shudder to think of the force she used in attempting to free it up, and the assault on the sliding doors, which she no doubt delivered with muscularity, but my sisters would be happy to learn that their safety precautions held strong. M.E. proved without a doubt that they are effective. She is over seventy and has recently been let go by a client of 25 years. “She say me no come more. No me quiere. Veinte directoras.” (She doesn’t want me. Over twenty years.) She shook her head. I empathize with her former employer and can understand why that happened. I am sure that I could find someone a bit easier to communicate with, a little less hard on things, and it is tempting to try, but no. Jeremy, Jeff, and I are holding steady, hiding the valuables and hoping for the best. Jeremy has given up asking her what she would like for lunch, because she just looks at him funny when he does. He picks up something new for her to try every two weeks. Jeff offers leftovers. I leave out fresh fruit and snacks. We all give her bonuses at Christmas time. She wears the same size shoe as me, which is very uncommon. My feet are weirdly small for my size. 6 to 6-1/2. Hers are a match, which is some serious luck of the draw, because I am always finding a new pair uncomfortable or an old one that has gone unused and needs to be given away. POLISHED BY PERSISTENCE. When I relocated from Beverly Hills to Beachwood, she insisted on showing up to help me meet the moving van. She had to navigate two new bus routes to get to the place, and she was late, but she managed. It was a cold winter, and the apartment was freezing. I gave her my sweater and wrapped a travel blanket around my shoulders. I had her start in the bedroom, because I knew if she put away my kitchen equipment, there was a good chance I would never find it again. She tackled box after box, breaking each down expertly as it was emptied. My friend Gail came and brought chicken sandwiches and salads. M.E. took hers with her into the next room and kept right on working between bites. Gail figured out how to make the heater work, and slowly but surely, the three of us put the place together enough so that the dog and I could sleep in a bed and wake to a coffee pot and cup, a water bowl, and chow. It was late, nearly eleven o’clock, when her husband came to pick her up that night. I pressed several bills into her hand. She accepted it without looking to see what I had offered. I paid her more than double her regular fee, hoping she would be pleased when she got in the car and counted it. She deserved it. M.E. has worked hard all of her life. She loves her family, absolutely dotes on her granddaughter, and has never once complained to any one of us about anything. Her visits are disruptive and chaotic, but cleaning this place is a hard job, one that I am loath to do. I have learned to enjoy the game of trying to figure out where she has put a prized utensil or stacked a favorite mixing bowl. I manage now to squeeze through into the back of the shower because the doors won’t open. I am nonplussed when I find Windex in the laundry hamper or furniture polish in the fridge. The place is clean, the dog is happy, and most, if not all, of the damage can be undone. I have learned to be patient with my wildly impulsive and impatient housekeeper. She is a quirky little gal, but if a place needs cleaning, by God, she is going to clean it … come hell and hot water, M. E. is going to make it shine. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Where There is Smoke ...

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I have begged and pleaded. The building manager has spoken with them many times over the course of a year, but my neighbors are deaf to our entreaties. They continue to smoke inside and outside of their apartments. The fellow above me smokes in the bathroom and bedroom, which constantly floods my hallways and rooms with carcinogens. They smoke in the units below me and above me, beside me and across the way. When I took this apartment, it never occurred to me, nor was I warned that I would be living in such a toxic environment. There is one lady who lives downstairs and across from me, who brings her coffee cup and an ashtray and sits on the stairs directly under my bedroom, puffing every morning. I race to close the windows as my chest begins to ache and my throat constricts. I recently ran into her in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s and took a chance. “Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute? I just need to ask you something about—er— you and smoking? On the stairs?” “I am on the phone.” She snapped angrily. I had not noticed the tiny earbuds she was wearing. I waved an apology and headed to my car. “Hey, wait! I was on with a client, so thanks for that! Not cool.” “I am sorry.” “Well, what do you want?” She said, softening a tad. “I know you are trying to do the right thing. You are the only one who cares to at least go outside, and I appreciate that. It’s just that I am surrounded by smokers, inundated with it, and I have a terrible reaction to it. You are often smoking on the stairs right beneath my bedroom window and … “So that’s you? That’s you closing the windows? Slamming them? I hear someone doing that.” “Yes, I am sorry, but my chest burns; it’s still burning from your visit this morning, and I was wondering… Do you think I could give you my number so that when you are on your way to the stairwell you could shoot me a text? Then I could close up that side of the apartment. I am badly affected by it.” “No. I am not doing that. That feels weird.” “It would be such a big help … just so I can close the windows. I have to open them because the man upstairs smokes inside constantly and it is making me sick.” ‘That’s Nicky. He’s been there forever … not gonna change.” “If he could just step outside?” “Nah, he won’t. Used to be worse. They used to party until the wee hours. Crazy loud and all of them smoking and drinking. You’re lucky he’s older now.” “Well, it’s still pretty rough living underneath him. If I could just give you my number…” “Well, we should have each other’s number anyway. We ARE neighbors.” “Okay, great. Thank you.” Later that night I got a very, very long text from her. It was full of helpful ways that I could change my behavior, so that I might be better at accepting the deadly filthy habits of everyone around me. “Living here is a dance. You just have to think of it that way. What I think you need to do is have your windows sealed and then get some air purifiers. I have one in my place, and they are great.” She thoughtfully added several links to air purifiers that I could order from Amazon. She then sent photos of smoke-blowing machines that help chase foul air out of a building. There were several pictures of smoke removal devices to accompany that advice as well. Expensive gadgets those. The text went on and on, assuring me that it was my duty to purchase this equipment and get myself sealed up tight. She ended with: “Or maybe moving would be a good choice for you. For some people, that is ultimately the right solution. I just wanted to share some ideas that have helped me over the years in case any of them would make your situation a little more comfortable. Wishing you all the best …” This is why there are wars. I was so gob-smacked that I could not bring myself to write back. What to say? “Thank you so much for this truly stunning example of passive-aggression. You should be teaching this stuff. I mean, you are in a class of your own. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation! “ Or how about: “Why don’t you go %$ck yourself, you and Nicky the scumbag Sh%ithead upstairs! Eat %6ap you poisonous trash bag! Getting sick because you are thoughtless and Nicky the scumbag is a derelict is not a discomfort; it is &#$(ing life-threatening!” Instead, I just did not reply. I did not want to start a fight. Well, I do WANT to. I want to punch her and Nicky the scumbag right in the kiss-a-roo, but while I am not necessarily smart enough, I am definitely OLD enough to know better. The next day, I received another text, this one in ALL CAPS, demanding to know whether or not I had received her thoughtful message??!!!!! “Oh. Sorry. Yes. Thank you.” That was the best I could do. The whole situation is infuriating, and that gal is a piece of work. Honestly, it might be worth shelling out the twenty thousand or so dollars it will cost to relocate, so that I don’t have to come up with a civil response the next time I see her. I have, for the last thirty years or so, lived in houses. Stand-alone buildings. This whole apartment building thing is not familiar to me. I thought it would be best at my age to live somewhere that I wouldn’t have to worry about maintenance, so I am giving it a try. The place is run-down, but inside my unit there are huge rooms and a terrific kitchen, and it is not all bad; living here has its upsides. The building manager, a filmmaker from Eastern Europe, is a lovely man who does his job with a gentle heart. I like some of the folks that I see in the elevator or pass in the lobby. I enjoy being greeted by them. We pet each other’s dogs and say: “Take care!” “Have a great night!” or some such pleasantry. I have spent a huge portion of my life in hotel rooms, so I have learned to be flexible and can adapt to most any environment, but this one is fixin’ to kill me. Literally … and that burns me up. A LIFETIME OF EXPOSURE. When my Grandmother died of lung cancer at the age of seventy three, we all went right on smoking. It was a family practice. I was eleven when I took up the habit. All four kids started young, and Mom was our accomplice, our partner in crime. I tried to quit at least a dozen times in the ensuing decades, but did not manage to do so successfully until I was nearly fifty, almost twenty years ago. I empathize with people who are chained to the habit. For childhood smokers, it is especially difficult to give it up. Anyone could surmise that my sister Kim was putting her health at great risk. She smoked more than two packs a day and compounded that with copious amounts of marijuana. She smoked joints, bongs, and spliffs, and spent hours sitting under a tree in her backyard dedicated to the practice. She was at an acupuncture appointment, hoping for relief from the tremendous back pain she was suffering, when her body began to shut down. She spent two days in the ICU, where medical professionals tried in vain to solve first one, then another mystery as her body was ravaged by crisis after crisis. They could not save her. Tests later revealed that she had stage 5 lung cancer. There was nothing anyone could have done. Mom made it to eighty-three, but she struggled mightily with COPD and slow-growing throat cancer. She would switch back and forth between regulars and menthols, because the latter cooled the severe burning sensation that often took hold. We wore gas masks when we cleaned out her small apartment, and I tried to get her outdoors whenever possible, but there was no avoiding exposure to the plumes that constantly encircled her. When my sister called me to tell me that Mom forgot to smoke for an entire day, we knew it was the end. I changed my flight and got to LA the next morning, begging her from the gate at the airport and then the taxi on the ground to wait for me. I did not want my sister to handle her departure without me by her side. Mom waited; she was nothing if not strong-willed, and I was grateful. She died in my arms just forty minutes after I arrived. Three months later, my flesh was covered in raw rashes, and blisters were all over my hands and feet. My joints were so inflamed that it was excruciating to walk; I could barely turn a doorknob. My GP had no idea what was happening but sent me to a dermatologist who immediately referred me to a rheumatologist. Psoriatic Arthritis. It is genetic and a nasty disease but treatable with prohibitively expensive medications, so—treatable if you can afford insurance that will cover those. Many cannot. I am truly lucky that I can take them and that the illness did not manifest before the advent of today’s pharmaceutical solutions; I would be in a wheelchair by now. When I asked the doctor what triggered it—what caused the mutation to awaken and attack me—he said the two most common factors are stress and repeated exposure to smoke. “She got ya in the end, didn’t she?” my friend Gail said when we spoke of it later. My Mother both loved and hated me, because I was the one who stood up to her, called her out on her sometimes abhorrent behavior. As a child, her excessively violent blows routinely fell on me, but I never backed down. There were younger children to protect. Oh yes, she did. She managed to go out swinging and lighting one cigarette off of the other, leaving me forever wounded in body and mind. She got me good. So, I am putting up a fight in my building because no one should have to live in a polluted environment. Walking through the hall on the way to the kitchen for morning coffee, my chest burns as I pass through the smelly remains of Nicky the scumbag’s smoking hot extravaganza in the rooms above. He is up all night puffing away, and it travels through the vents in the bathroom. I will fight and hopefully make this apartment safer for the next tenant, because I will also leave. I’ll pay the money and endure the disruption, because my well-being depends upon it. I have to protect myself, something I have only late in life learned to do. It was a hard lesson. My brother, sister, and I have all broken free of the addiction that helped to numb the pain and quiet our jangled nerves. I have worked hard to make it out of the smoldering hell of my childhood. I have a great life, one I treasure, one I built against significant odds. I am not about to let a bunch of thoughtless, nicotine-riddled so-called “neighbors” set my health on fire. No, I am not. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

14. juli 202610 min

A Little More Time

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I made time, which is not easy, as my not-so-subtle workaholic tendencies always put up quite the argument. Yes, I should have stayed home and worked on the many projects that are crying out for my attention. Yes, there are lists of things that need to be done. Print Bob’s script. Pose with Ivy Cove bag. Letter to building management to report neighbor for smoking in the bathroom. Book flight. Pick up SSD 1 TB for the ballet company, whatever the hell that is. All on the to-do, on the should-be-done. I wished I had just a little more time that day, but it would all have to wait. I wanted to see my family, so I took a French bath, gave the pits and bits a quick once-over, and headed out the door. I love to frequent a weird old Italian market in the Valley called The Monte Carlo. This is the first odd thing about it, because Monte Carlo, the place, is located on the French Riviera and is not in any way, shape, or form Italian, but that’s the name of the joint, and we all just go with it. As you enter, there is a quaint little dining area to the left. The locals pour in after soccer games and graduations, or just because, to dine on fresh pizza and pasta. They line up to order and are given a number, then everyone crowds into the booths with a soda and tells stories while they wait for their food. It’s a fun ritual to observe, and the mostly male staff is non-plussed when a child knocks a whole pie to the ground or elbows her Shirley Temple sideways, flooding the table. The items are replaced at no cost, and the young tears of frustration are quickly dried. A great scene, but not what I am there for. I head to the right and take a number. There is always a wait, but the ancient, hair-net-clad gentlemen behind the counter move with surprising speed. I will peruse the gluten-free section while awaiting my turn or cadge a bottle of imported balsamic glaze to drizzle over their house-made burrata. There is a whole case of gelato made right there, and another filled with pastries, cookies, and cannoli. The aisles boast some very good affordable imported wines as well as dried pastas, herbs, and oils. The deli counter is bursting with options. There are gallons of fresh marinara and meat sauce, cases of cheese and imported meats. Homemade sausage and neatly grated mozzarella, all sold in amounts large or small. Huge lettuces and other fresh veggies line the simple wooden bench in front. A visit there is, for me, the adult version of being a kid in a candy store. They even have eggplant prepped and fried to a golden crisp, ready to be molded into a parmigiana. Heaven. Once home, I set out all of the ingredients that I will bag up and take over, making sure to put the new stuffed toy I picked up for the nephew at Disneyland where it would be remembered. It is a lovely snow leopard, a little bigger than the other stuffies I have given him. It gratified me to hear recently that he often cradles the Winnie the Pooh doll I picked months ago. I am told that he offers it cookies and treats too. The alphabet puzzle I gave him last week was a dud. He liked dragging the box around by its corded handle, but opening it and playing with it? Nope. No chance. Big yawn. He ran around the house with a broom and a dog brush instead and shot the occasional basket with his blue ball. My sister Laura and I had a good time putting it together, but the most we could get him to do was put a few pieces back in the container afterward. It’s hit and miss with kids and gifts, but always fun to try. My sisters and I have a ritual. At least one night a week, we take turns choosing a meal to share and providing the ingredients to compose it. I suggested that I pick up the fantastic rustic bread and the above-mentioned burrata along with fixings for a spaghetti dinner. The girls had peaches in the fridge from their bi-weekly farm delivery, and I had some small Persian cucumbers and sweet ripe tomatoes on hand. A perfect early summer menu emerged. Fresh peach/tomato salad with cucumbers, mint, and burrata topped with a light homemade balsamic dressing, followed by simple red-sauce pasta with fresh sausage (regular and vegan) on the side and meatballs for the lad. He is eighteen months old and a whirling dervish. His moms are madly in love with him but admit that his energy level is at times so over-the-top that they have to rotate taking breaks in order to maintain their sanity. I love being able to go over and make a meal for them, so that they can relax for a few minutes. He was sleeping when I arrived. I smiled to see his Winnie tucked under one pale, chubby arm. The girls sat at the counter, and we all shared a glass of wine as I puttered around the kitchen. I have cooked so often there that I know the ins and outs of their well-stocked galley, but I still struggle with the “child locks” on the cupboards and stovetop. I can futz with those magnet thingies for what seems like an eternity, but I only occasionally manage to get things open. Sarah is the handy one in the family and is regularly required to intervene. We set the table outside and set up FaceTime so we could keep an eye on the baby as we ate. Dinner was delicious, the salad bursting with sweetness, crunch, and tang, the pasta simple and satisfying, and that damned bread! I am not supposed to eat it; the gluten activates my psoriatic arthritis, but it is so delicious that I had to have one piece and then just a little bit more. Sarah explained to me what an SSD with 1TB is and where to find one. The girls went over the new words that Kalen is finally using. He is physically very adept, learns how to use tools and toys quickly, has terrific balance and perfect aim, but until recently he was not that interested in talking. He is coming on strong now. “Mama,” Kitty,” Cheese,” and Doggie” are frequent utterances. I have tried to teach him to call me BB, but he is so far indifferent to that proposal. He can use sign language too. He’s got “good job, “all done,” and “more” down pat. He woke up groggy and a bit cranky at first but soon stood on his ladder/stool at the kitchen counter and shoved fistfuls of spaghetti into his mouth. I rinsed off the dishes, and we took turns refilling his plate when he pointed to the pasta and tapped his fingertips together for “more”. Then we were off to the races, singing and dancing and careening around the living room. I can keep up with him but admit to being a tad winded from the jig-like dance interludes. I told him about his present as I took it slowly out of the plastic Disney bag. The snow leopard was a big hit. He hugged it tight and took it everywhere, intermittently placing it on the coffee table so he could offer it some water from an empty cup. ONE MORE WAVE. There is never enough time to spend with my nieces and nephews and the new batch of grands. Some are blood, and some are not, but all are family. Lauren and 2-year-old Luna are in Colorado, where she and her husband have built a good life. Jenica is close by with Andrew and Lily; her brother Adam has settled with Zoe and Hannah in Kansas. I don’t see any of them often enough. Neither Conor nor his brother, Journey, has tied the knot yet, but I am betting that one will be heading down the aisle soon. Meghan does not seem the marrying kind but may surprise us. She has been a devoted aunt and caregiver to her best friend’s two girls and may end up finding her way to one or two of her own. Maya is still in college and way too smart to let anything interfere with getting a good education, but like her own multi-talented mom, I suspect she will find a way to do it all. The littles will grow and, like their parents before them, will begin to drift from me. The day always comes when a visit from their beloved aunt is no longer a special occasion. They will, in what will feel like no time at all, greet me with a quick smile and perfunctory hug and then go back to plans with their teen friends. It is a bittersweet moment, but an important development along the way. Their parent(s) and I will watch them bang out the front door with equal parts awe and terror, then we will collapse onto the sofa and remember when. I have often been asked why I did not want children. (Which, for the record, is rude, insensitive, and reeks of misogyny.) I did. There were years where I desperately wanted them, and I tried and tried and tried, but my body had other plans. I had had four surgeries to remove tumors before finally having the hysterectomy, which would give me back my health. I was just 40 years old. My second husband did not want kids, and by the time that marriage imploded, it might not have been, but it felt too late for me to adopt on my own. I have my sorrows, but I do not have any regrets. Unto each life … a little rain. By eight o’clock, little Kalen was growing weary, kept resting his head on his new buddy “Snowy,” and I had a long-Ish drive across town. The girls and I had packed me up with to-go containers from my last visit and a few grocery odds and ends that would likely go unused in their house “Hey, K, I have to go. BB needs to leave. I am going to go home now, okay?” It took him a minute to register this. He tootled around with Snowy and paid little attention until I picked up my bags and slung my purse over my shoulder, and then his eyes went wide. “It’s okay, buddy. I will wave to you in the window. Go there, and I will be able to see you, and we can wave. I’ll see you in the window!” His mom, Sarah, wrapped him up in her strong arms and headed toward the bay window that looks out upon their street. He looked at me with pleading eyes, his little hands clapping his fingertips together. “More, more, more!” “Aw, he’s signing ‘more’ for you. He wants more of you,” she said. I waved enthusiastically. “I have to go, honey. Meet me at the window.” His lip began to curl with disappointment, but his mom held him tight. “Aw. Sorry, baby; we will wave from the window, okay?” Outside, I rapped on the glass and made faces, waving bye-bye. Then I would leave and quickly jump back into the picture, getting weirder with each wave. He laughed and laughed, and I repeated the bit a few times, then made my way off the porch. There was still time for one more comedy moment, so I parted the bushes and appeared out of nowhere, mugging and goofy-eyed. I got a huge reaction and, as any good performer knows, that was my cue to disappear into the night. Always leave them laughing. Driving home, I smiled ruefully, remembering his little hands pleading with me to stay. I want just a little more, too, buddy. Just a little more of all of it … every damned day. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

30. juni 202610 min

Come Hell and Hot Water

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