Hot Flash Central

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There I was, minding my own business, cooking pepperoni pasta for nineteen people on New Year's Day, when I suddenly morphed into Albert Brooks trying to anchor the weekend news in Broadcast News. I was suddenly drenched with flop sweat and wished I were on a TV set where my minions could powder my face and blow dry my armpits. It was hot flash central. Oh, thank you, perimenopause, you cruel mistress.

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