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The following podcast is a dear media production. There's a hole in this house, and her name is Jackie Schimel, and she's 30 fuckin years old. Sorry for the delay this week. Honestly, I was just lapping it up. I was celebrating myself, OK? I was basking in all things Jackie Schimmel. I was observing a national holiday, a.k.a. my birthday, a.k.a. the last birthday that I will ever fucking celebrate because I'm so sick of myself. Not really.
But I was like, what's the difference? Every other week, you dumb bitch. So yes, I had a five day, 30th birthday extravaganza. By day two, I was ready to drown myself in a tub, which I almost did because my friends made me do a nude photo shoot in a bathtub. Hello, everybody.
I hope you guys can't hear in the background. It's seven a.m. and my neighbor is doing some woodwork in the driveway. Now, if you're new to this podcast, you will know the tumultuous relationship that I have developed with my neighbor, Cheryl. One day she came over, her arm was missing. We asked no follow up questions. I then started talking about it on the podcast and maybe Sirius XM a couple of times. And now we are no longer speaking.
I gave them a simple hi hello. A courteous wave yesterday and was bringing in a bunch of flower deliveries. Humble brag.
So, you know, normally, like a normal neighbor would be like, oh, is it your birthday or you know, because I'm like bringing I mean, it looked like someone fucking died outside my house. It's very chiva fab if you don't know it. Chiva is.
You're lucky for my hashtag. Blessed Gentile listeners she is the period of mourning after someone dies. Perhaps my inner child where loved ones bring like food and then they help you grieve. It's like the week after somebody dies, dark turn.
Typically there's like a lot of deli platters and shitty cookies and labarge floral arrangements.
You know, honestly, the best part of death are the floral arrangements and bagels. Is that too dark? I think it's funny. It's fine. Anyways, so I see Cheryl in her woodworking husband outside.
I'm bringing in all the flowers and whatever. I give a hi hello. A little wave, a supple wave. They hold eye contact with me and look the fuck away, which means that there is a fuckin mole in my neighborhood. And when I find out who that motherfucker is, I'm going to show up to their doorstep in the midnight hour with a baklava on what is it called?
A balaclava. A balaclava. Balaclava, you know, and honestly, I'll probably do a combo platter. It will be a balaclava with a tray of baklava to ease the blow. And I'm going to get real close, but not too close because we're social distancing.
And I'm like, yo, stop narking to share your fucking God, let me live. And then I'll rollerblade off.
Remember when I bought rollerblades at the beginning of quarantine? Guess how many times I've used them once. Remember when I bought a bike at the beginning of quarantine? Ask me how many times I've used it once. Remember when I bought moon boots at the beginning of quarantine like kangaroo boots? Ask me how many times I use them. Thirteen. To be honest, people probably won't believe this about me if you listen to this podcast. But the truth is that I'm actually not a birthday person.
The first time I even celebrated my birthday was last year. I had a very a simple gathering, a Jackie palooza, if you will, where we watched The Real Housewives of New York Season three Scary Island trilogy. Did face masks, had vodka and trauma.
And it was perfect. There was twenty people. It was super, super easy breezy. I did it on a Sunday. It had a hard out at nine p.m. so I could put myself down. It was perfection. This year I'm like, listen, I'm going to be thirty. Probably the last birthday I will celebrate maybe ever. So let's blow it the fuck out. Now, obviously we are amidst a global pandemic. So it was perfect. I could only have, you know, a certain amount of people.
I made everyone get tested last minute last week. I'm like, what am I going to do? I need outfits. I need New York chilidogs. I need a projector. I need to feel I need blush rental furniture going for like a gay mid century. Palm Springs, Beverly Hills Hotel, pops of green art deco glassware, mix glassware, mini hand sanitizers with my face on it, cataloging all my awkward stages through the years.
Orchids, peonies, candles, candles, brass, brass, lucite, lamb chops, feather crystals, chili dogs, charcoal pills, more chili dogs, more charcoal pills, all of the mother fucking things. So I threw a Jackie palooza part. Do all my friends got tested? We had a throne for Gloria. She has not been out of her house. We wanted to create the most protected space ever. We had pink face masks. Nobody fucking wore them.
But we all got tested. And it was Van fucking Capstick. My sister surprised. Me with a cameo montage with James Kennedy, Beverly Mitchell, Sonya Morgan, Vicki Gunvalson, Barb from The Bachelor, the mom from The Bachelor, which was just honestly tragic. I'm going to submit it to Sundance. It was like The Conjuring. It was wild. And she kept referring to me as her fan, which you know how that makes my vagina web.
Chad Johnson knew exactly who I was. He was very aggressive. The hair line, I'm happy to report has it's still superceding his lower lash line. His vertical blinds were pop and it looked like he had canvas shots of himself, really, by the way, small canvas shots of himself in his sad apartment.
And it was fantastic, the secret to making any event wonderful and fun and like flamboyant and ridiculous is juxtapositions. So I like really fancy appetizers and then really shitty food, like I love like a caviar and then a fucking schwarm, like a tartar and a fucking chili dog. The highs, lows and personalization.
It's the easiest way to make any event, any party, any gathering, anything in your home feel elevated for zero dollars.
So all I did was I bought a bunch of many hand sanitizers and went and got photo labels made online.
You know, it costs five fucking dollars to immortalize myself on a hand sanitizer, preferably the photo of me, my senior yearbook quote, which is a fraudulent Helen Keller quote. You're welcome. Welcome to the Bible podcast that says, Even though I can't see or here, I still love my Life by Helen Keller. Now, what's funny about that is it was not an inside joke with anyone but myself. It's called Self Love Everybody.
I also want to say I feel like I didn't say this at the top of the show. I had the best time in last week's episode with Alex Cooper from Call her Daddy. What a cool fucking girl. I'm going to be on her podcast soon ish. We recorded it. I don't know.
Not all of us are workhorses like this bitch who record an episode the morning its due.
It's not lovely, but it's my process and I have to get in the right mood to talk to myself for an hour.
No it, it's not, it's. No it is. But I love last week's episode so much. Alex Cooper. So fucking cool.
I got to tell ya.
I mean I know it's more fun and salacious in the Facebook groups to insinuate that female female podcasters like have beef for don't like each other. But it's just not true. I fucking love female podcasters. Well, not all of them. This isn't sisterhood of the traveling Amazon, Mike of mediocrity.
Oh, she's spicy at age thirty. But like all the real ones that have funny ass women hosting that are making money by providing real thoughts and opinions in lieu of fucking outfit posts and assembles. I fuck with hard, hard. Not only do I fuck with them, I root for them. I celebrate them. I'm in awe of the labor and and and hustle and ingenuity. I don't I literally don't know what that word means, but it feels feels good.
Feels mature. Oh. A lot of people have asked me how I feel to turn thirty. I consider thirty to be very, very young. And a lot of people say that when you turn thirty you have kind of like an existential life crisis where like where am I? What am I doing?
Where am I going? I couldn't be happier to be thirty. To be totally honest. I'm someone who has always felt just like born in the wrong decade. When I was twenty, I wanted to be thirty. When I was ten, I wanted to be twenty.
I, I like being with older people. I consider myself an old soul. Oh how. OK, all right. All right. Schimel, dial it back. I consider myself an old soul. Cool. I'm going to go stab myself now. Thank you so much for listening. Well, that was atrocious. Get this bitch a wood plank hashtag blessed. Maybe my neighbor could whittle me one hashtag blessed comic sans make it cursive. Disgusting, disgusting.
All you bitches with the new Instagram text options. If you're busting out a comic sans with the Quran mark in the background, fucking unfollow me or block me or delete me or I'll delete you.
Really, really, really know.
As I was saying, I am very happy to be thirty as myself in my life with with my head held high. You know, I don't like that we live in a society where to be relatable or likeable. We have to put ourselves down. I think that I have done that for a very long time because, you know, confidence is alienating. Self esteem is an ego. If the worst thing that you can say about someone is that they have a good massive ego.
And they're not hurting anybody, and their ego isn't coming from a place of insecurity to make other people feel like shit about themselves, but truly coming from a place of confidence and self love, that's fucking amazing.
You know, the people we have to be worried about, the people that fucking hate themselves, that are insecure, that need to put others down to elevate themselves. If you stick your head so far up your own asshole and you just think, God, I love my asshole, it's bleached, it's perfect. I love you, you're fabulous. Those are not the people that are, you know, in the fucking Reddit chat rooms. Bring in a bitch down there enamored with themselves.
They're completely sufficient and happy and fulfilled. And the dangerous ones are the ones that fucking hate themselves. Ask me how many times I've left a negative podcast review. Ask me how many times I've dreamed someone saying that they're ugly or stupid or any of those things. Ask me how many times I've gone to a Facebook group to complain about a stranger. The answer is fucking zero. You know why? Because I don't give a fuck this. I'm hoes in this house.
Hos. Is it whores or hoes?
How come when I sing it, I sound like a substitute teacher for the second grade with popsicle sticks that I keep it readily available in my purse? I don't know. It sounds weird when I sing it.
Whoa, wop woop, woop, woop. Let me tell you, when I heard the uncensored version of Woop, I felt so uncomfortable.
Like I feel uncomfortable. I don't even want to talk about it. I'm going to read some of the lyrics, actually.
Click bait. If your children are in the car, I highly suggest you skip forward this part or just drive yourself to Child Protective Services because your children probably shouldn't be listening to this. Here's a verse that really spoke to me, pussy, a one just like his credit. He got a beard. Well, I'm trying to sweat it. I let him taste it. Now he's diabetic. I don't want to spit. I want to gulp. I want to gag.
I want to choke. I want you to touch that little dangly thing that's swaying in the back of my throat. My head game is fire, Hunanese, Dasani. It's going in dry and it's coming out soggy. I right on that thing like the cops is behind me. I spit on his mic and now he's trying to sign me. Same same. Let me tell you something. I don't want you to touch the little dangly thing in the back of my throat.
I can barely do the full cap of mouthwash because when my mouth gets to fall, just the thought of excess liquid in my mouth. I also am a seasonal allergy sufferers. So I have a post nasal drip that I think makes my trachea a little tight. So the idea of the dangly, I just wow. I love Cardi B, I actually think that she's an amazing lyricist and I'm not being facetious. I'm being dead serious. I, I this song makes me have a sexual vibe, so it makes me so uncomfortable.
I don't know what to do with my hands. I want to just like put I just want to wear like a fucking like a sheet over my head and a brass chastity belt.
I just I'm so uncomfortable. I'm sweating sharp left. I want to talk to you guys about my new sponsor, Towel Clean. Everybody knows that I am a freak about my skin care, about keeping my face clean. I don't trust to bitch that sleeps with crusty makeup. You're disgusting. So as you know, there are about eighty five thousand different facial brushes out there and they all promise like a deep, clean exfoliation, eradication of dirt, diminishing pesky breakouts, blah, blah, blah.
But A, they cost a fortune and B, they build up bacteria, which then goes back into our skin once we use it again. So I don't understand. I mean, the endless cycle, like, doesn't really sound that sanitary to me. That is until I found Tiao clean. So the difference is with the towel clean, you rinse the brush head off and then it has this powerful UVic ray that kills ninety nine point nine percent of bacteria.
So it's a super unique design of the charging base paired with the UV rays. It helps dry the brush head so it's ready to go for the next use and sanitize it. This is the cleanest, most effective facial brush you'll find. It's getting a ton of buzz. It was just featured on the Today show. So if you have problematic skin acne breakouts, large pores, or you just want that fucking glow, the corona glow up, you need to get the towel, clean facial brush, you're going to see a difference.
The results are instant. They'll transform your face. You'll feel like you're just getting that deep clean that you could get at a facial rest at home. Towel Clean is offering my listeners sixty two percent of their orbital facial brush. Normally it retails for one hundred and forty nine dollars. So this is a deal you definitely do not want to miss and. Elusive only for my listeners, this discount also applies towards any product statewide, so load up your motherfucking cart.
All you have to do is go to town, clean dotcom slash Bible to take advantage of this incredible deal. That is t a o, c, l, e, a and dot com slash Bible to get sixty two percent off the facial brush and site wide. You're going to love it. This is how you know you're fucking with the right kind of bitches. On the tail end of my birthday extravaganza, my girlfriends decided that it only made sense on a Sunday at midnight after winetasting all day for me to do a nude mother son photo shoot in my hotel bathtub with candles and, you know, vodka and art direction.
And it was ridiculous and it was stunning. And if you'd like to see the aftermath, you can go on my Instagram. It was seductive. I mean, my girlfriends, my talented, successful women of the world, they're arranging bubbles around my areolas so that I don't have a nip slip. They are art directing. Terry Richardson is shaking and Liebowitz could never they're making sure that the dog's paw is resting right on my nipple, that my vagina is not hanging out.
It was so fucking ridiculous and so fucking funny. We also at dinner decided that we all had to go around the table and say things that we love about me. And then, you know, when the entrees come, everyone went around the table and gave me areas of improvement, both aesthetically, internally. And that's my love language.
Everyone's like, well, you know, she could be a little bit more tactful in social settings. I was like, oh, I love this, love this game.
It's a really fun birthday game, a real, true testament to the longevity of your friendships. If you're able to sit at a table with your nearest and dearest and listen to them tell you things that they don't like about you, that is my love language and probably the highlight of my entire birthday.
Very funny. Here's some fun news. If you're working on that bikini body for the end of summer, it's a heat wave here in California. In 1977, Vogue published a diet for women to lose five pounds instantly. It's called the Egg and Wine Diet. Here it is as follows. This is how you lose five pounds in three days. Kind of sounds similar to my birthday weekend diet. So for breakfast, you're going to have one egg, hard boiled and one glass of white wine, very dry, preferably a shibly and one cup of black coffee for lunch.
You're going to have two eggs.
Hard boiled is best, but poached if needed variety. You're going to have two glasses of white wine of your choice and a cup of black coffee for dinner. You're going to have five ounces of steak grilled only with black pepper. You can have the remainder of the white wine, one bottle allowed per day and black coffee.
And then you're going to shit your brains out and you'll be five pounds thinner.
I mean, we have to talk about the Brandy Denise saga on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
It's all anybody is talking about. I mean, I'm spoon feeding it like an Activia yogurt. Just call me Jamie Lee motherfucking Curtis. If you think I didn't have a probiotic yogurt this morning, you're dead wrong. She did. She's 30. She's handling her gastrointestinal problems. New Year, New me, everybody. Just kidding. So we are in this saga. Brandy and Denise were at Boca de Pepo. I never thought I would ever use the word boogied to Beppo in Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
But it's twenty twenty. It's a shitstorm. Buckle up and enjoy the fucking ride. So Teddy is having her baby shower at Bukha motherfucking de Beppo.
That it? I am not touching that one with its nine foot or six foot pole.
So there at the baby shower, Brandi shows up with, you know, like a delist derate pony, you know, when you can see the bottom half kind of sticking out, God bless her. But you know what? Maybe just leave the wigs to Erika and Derate and just let's just, you know, get a get a rough blow dry, get a glam squad, figure it out. She just happened to be in the neighborhood as one is.
You know, you just happened to be down the street from a bucket of Epper. That's never happened in the history of Los Angeles. Geographe Period. If I needed to find myself even six miles from a bucket of Beppo, which could take me an hour in L.A. traffic, I got to get my maps out, like, what's Bukit it Beppo? What's their sodium intake? Is it going to give me a. Leakage, is it like an Olive Garden situation, because I went to the Olive Garden a few years ago and I thought that I was being mindful of just the breadsticks salad soup combo.
And when I tell you that I had the Niagara Falls coming out of all of my orifices for a week and a half, I ate lion. So Brandy just happens to find herself in full glam with a clip in Jessica Simpson hairdo, Ponytail and Mozi her way into the baby shower.
She then shows some very non incriminating text messages. I mean there was nothing from those text messages. I will say this till I bleed out and die. I believe Brandy, but I ultimately stand with Denise, historically speaking, Brandi Glanville. She just she has this kind of this desperation for camera time and people places things. Everyone is a pawn in her, you know, game of trying to get that fucking diamond. I find it to be hard to.
Leo, stop barking at Sheryl. She's been through enough.
Oh, my God. You know what happened to Cheryl? She got fucking stuck in her in her husband's wood chipper, obviously. Like, what the fuck could he be making? Do you hear that? Banks and what the fuck could he be making at 730 a.m. on a goddamn Thursday? A stepping stool? I don't understand. Anyways, what was I saying?
This is my life.
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Brandi Snakey. Brandi is lo. Brandi is down and dirty, just so diabolical. And you know what? Pick a fucking lane. Are you the victim? Are you the villain? Because nothing pisses this bitch off more than a villain trying to victimize themselves like sit the fuck down. You do not have the cerebral capacity to dance both dances. You got to pick one.
So the tears and the I'm the cheater and I was cheating. You know what? I'm sorry. I am a thirty year old woman and I don't do victim mentality anymore. Life's tough. Get a helmet, get a frothy martini, put a sparkly top on, shut the fuck up and make the best of it. Sink or fuckin swim sluts. Its tumultuous waters out there. Get a noodle. Anyways, here's what we can all learn from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
It's incredible because transparency is the only way to live. It's the only thing that has a shelf life in this world. I've said it a million times.
If you can be the all caps version of yourself, good, bad, indifferent, and you're being honest and authentic, nobody can fucking touch you. Denise Richards, I say this on my hands and knees pleading. Just own your shit. Be honest, stop deflecting, stop backpedaling. Be like, you know what? This is what happened. I don't like that she put this shit on camera. Take your power back, own it.
As Lisa Rinna said, it's the only thing you can do on camera, off camera, in any situation. If you tackle shit head on, no qualms, you're always going to win because then nobody can touch you. I need her in front of that purple applet wall with her crimped hair to look dead in the camera, in her confessional and say, you know what, we scissored till sunrise. Sue me, Brandy, then it's done. Nip it in the proverbial bud.
Don't make it a whole storyline like the overarching storyline of the entire franchise. You have to just take it. People say you don't learn anything from The Real Housewives. I beg to fucking differ. I've learned lots from the housewives to housewives. Rule number one, if you get caught in a fucking pickle, take it up the butt, bend over and take it up the butt. Everyone's going to know you're gonna have millions of people judging you and it's only going to fuel fires and launch a retied investigation if you deny it.
So just nip it in the bud. Denise, I stand with you. I support you. But you had control of the situation. If you just were honest, this is allegedly we don't know, but I like kind of know wink, wink, I don't know.
But like, I feel like I know some of these housewives sure are thirsty, but you know who never is this bitch because of liquid ivy killer transition Simmel. I am obsessed with liquid ivy. I drink it constantly.
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The B b.
Let's answer some listener questions because I'm nothing if not interactive vulnerable in an open book. Connection is the essence of my being the fiber of our lives.
OK, let's just dive right in. What did you get yourself for your birthday this year? I was supposed to be in Paris alone. That is my new yearly tradition. I did it last year. It was single handedly the most therapeutic and in like indulgent, not even fiscally. I don't mean fiscally. That's so tacky and disgusting, but I mean just like an investment in my soul to travel alone and and celebrate myself alone. And it was very eat, pray, love, but more like eat Lashof.
You like that?
Because I was just like shoving people. I twisted my ankle because I got drunk and then I went on a scooter.
I was like, I like Lizzie McGuire going through the cobblestone streets, birdwing at midnight alone in Paris, twisted my ankle. Cool.
This year, really the only gift to myself was taking all of my best friends winetasting, beautiful lunch and a gorgeous dinner, cocktails, wine, and be able to take care of it was the best feeling because, you know, you really are the sum of the people that you spend the most time with. And my people are so fucking fantastic, just like superior, superior Homo sapiens. So that was my gift to myself.
And maybe I also bought myself a black, bedazzled Balenciaga supermarket. My car was repo seven years ago. My car was repo. I don't even know if I've said that on this podcast because maybe I was embarrassed. My car was repo. So just, you know, give a bitch a break. Andrew goes, where the fuck are you going to wear like a rhinestone encrusted black suit?
I'm like, Andrew, a funeral, a bar mitzvah, a wedding. The grocery store zankou chicken to get a covid test. Who fucking knows? Oh, my God. I forgot to mention that I was also gifted for my birthday. A pink bee catcher's suit. What is it, a bee suit? Oh, it's a beekeeping suit. So it's got triple layers. It has kind of maybe a medal. It has like a frame around my my head, like an astronaut could.
And what's amazing about it is that it's structured. So as many of you know, my wild bird phobia, deep seeded OCD, that's what the psychiatrist told me is child lack of control, feathers in the ears, very scary. So with this kind of orbit around my head, a structured orbit, the birds could not come close to my ears, which is my biggest fear. I know it's weird. I'm not afraid that they're going to peck me.
I'm not afraid that they're going to claw me with their little fucking talons. I'm not afraid that they're going to shit on me. Brenda, please. We've got bigger problems than that. The sound of the wing flap and the feather to the ear is my biggest fear of life. So with this beekeeper suit, I've got three layers of protection between me and the rack. The sky, so couple of weeks ago, me and my girlfriends went to dinner al fresco in Malibu, and I hadn't been back to this club for a while because it was closed.
And honestly, when I go there, I like to sit indoors.
There's a lot of really aggressive birds. It's not my journey. I tried to think of all the different ways I could cancel, but I was like, you know what? It's low season. You're going to get your ass to that fucking dinner and not be a flaky cunt.
So I go to the dinner. Sure enough, I start having wild panic attacks. I'm screaming. I'm breaking glasses like it's not even it's like such an episode and so fucking embarrassing. And there's nothing I can do. I can't white knuckle it. I'm terrified. When they fly, I freak the fuck out. If birds could stay on the floor, I'd be a lot less afraid. But something about them flying in the feathers and the sound and the diving like puts me into a downward spiral.
And I have said for years if there was something I could wear that was like a bubble bubble bitch where I knew that they were not going to touch me or come near me, I need to socially distance with the rats of the sky. When I hear a wing flap, when I see a bird, my first guttural reaction is to cover my ears like this is this is some girl interrupted shit. But it's the truth. I need to have my feet covered.
I have safe shoes in Nancy's shoes. If I'm eating outside, I have to be in some type of a boot situation or a sneaker. A lot of you have mentioned that I'm the queen of a high top sneaker. This is true. There's safe shoes. I can't have exposed toes. If I feel a feather on my toe, I will freak the fuck out. Along with that, I need to protect my ears. Here comes the beekeeping suit.
So I wore it in San Ynez. I felt amazing. I feel like I'm going to be able to see so much more of the world. St. Peter's Square. Here she comes. So I am no joke. Going to wear it to dinner this weekend because, you know, with the al fresco dining in the bird situation, my options are quite limited and it's only getting worse with age. Like I said, it's a apparently a byproduct of OCD.
I'm not trying to figure it out because I think it keeps me spicy, keeps me humble. So I am going to give it a go. It's a bubblegum pink, which is my color. It's you know, it's going to give me swamp ass. But I it's so roomy I could probably fit a fucking fan. I could just shove an ice cube up my vagina and call it a day goup. Could never with your eggs watch me bitch ice cubes.
So for my fellow bird phobics I will report back on the efficiency of a beekeeping suit in public. Stay tuned for that. Best part of your 20s. Oh, my God. She's nothing if not reflective.
Best part of my 20s was. Hmm. Probably struggling and not even realizing I was struggling. Listen, I weathered quite a few storms in my 20s professionally. Like, I don't even know that I could say that I had a profession or I had direction or career. I was just fucking living on a prayer that something was going to work out struggling. You know, I lost my mom and that made me more vulnerable and changed me. And I also got to eliminate and kind of cut the fat out of my life from that.
Like, I don't fuck with people I don't like. I don't do things I don't want to do. I don't listen to people I don't trust.
I don't work with people that I think are full of shit. I don't associate with people that are full of shit in general.
I don't enter a room if I think I'm going to walk out and people are going to start talking about me. So I have eliminated all of those components of my life and I feel very fresh, free and grateful.
If one more motherfucker asks me when I'm having a baby, I will drive to their house, key their minivan, take a machete to their wood planks that say gather, shred up all of their sad, dismal Christmas cards until I have enough confetti to put in a cannonball and launch myself with the shrivels of your holiday cards and my body in the fetal position through your front window with my Brillo pad hair on fire till your house burns down. It is nobody's fucking business.
When I'm pregnant, I'll let you know my ovaries, my choice. People like. Well, you're thirty. Well, you know what? I've got shit to do.
Go make some banana bread, come down, take a bath, take a load off, pour yourself a frothy zinfandel and then reorganize your Tupperware cupboard. OK, get on Pinterest, light of the Nilla Candle and convince yourself that you're the. Happiest woman in the Western Hemisphere and anybody else that might be delaying the start of their family is so jealous.
Brenda, on that note, thank you all so much for listening to this extremely manic podcast episode. I will be back regular programming next week on Tuesday. Make sure you give us five stars on iTunes. Much appreciated.
Follow me at Jacki Schimel for more, you know, psychological warfare.
And I will talk to you guys next week. Love ya.