What Does Your Favorite Color Say About You?

I was cleaning out my closet when I discovered this…


Don’t bother counting. There are 8. Plus this one makes 9.


Then I started looking around my house and made a few other discoveries like this unnecessary amount of Earl Grey tea …


and these swatches of grey paint I was considering for my walls.


I also noticed that my favorite medical drama was playing on TV.


And that’s not all—my first professional writing job was at Grey Advertising, my favorite HBO film is Grey Gardens and I’m fascinated with great white sharks, which should just be called great grey sharks.

The whole thing stressed me out and when I went to pour myself a drink I realized all we had was Grey Goose vodka.

What the fuck is wrong with me?! So I Google’d it (because Google is my therapist) and the first thing that popped up was an article about color psychology that says I’m an indecisive, boring, commitment phobe… and so is my baby.


Seems like a harsh accusation coming from someone who uses four colors in a six-letter name.


That’s when I decided to come up with my own color psychology using nothing but twisted narcissistic insight and a complete lack of scientific truth—just call me L. Ron Hubbard.

So do you want to know what The Spew says your favorite color says about you? Of course you do because, like me, you rely on inane Internet quizzes to validate your existence.

Awesome! Here we go…

You’re a slut. And you probably love red wine. So you’re a drunk slut. But that’s a good thing because who doesn’t love a drunk slut? Plus, if you’re willing to put out you’ll get really far in life.

You’re so boring even the drunk slut won’t sleep with you. You should also consider a career in childcare because who wouldn’t pay someone a six figure salary to bore their toddler to sleep every night.

You love camping! What the hell is wrong with you? Society has come way too far for any of us to have to endure the horrors of sleeping in the woods (or vaginal childbirth). So just get a hotel room (and a c-section) and let the serial killers and spiders live peacefully in their natural habitat—like God intended.

You’re a big gay dinosaur from the 90s who helped create a whole generation of highly annoying 20-somethings who think they know everything and that Friends is retro TV. Everyone hates you. Everyone.

Seriously? Nobody wears pink except 2 year olds and poodles.

You and that stupid purple dinosaur should get together and come up with ways to annoy people with your sickeningly optimistic views on life. And then you should call that jerk that loves green and let the serial killers and the spiders murder you in the woods.

Black is literally every color in the world combined and while Google accuses people who love grey of being indecisive you should really take a long hard look at your obvious inability to choose a favorite color.

Despite what Google (and your husband) say, people love you! You’re beautiful, charming and witty. You have a magnetic personality, an amazing sense of humor and you’re devastatingly beautiful. But most importantly, you have awesome taste in sweat attire. So knock back that glass of Grey Goose and celebrate you, you sexy bitch!

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Marriage and Kids. Sometimes it’s not so bad.

This is more of a status update than a blog post but I need more than the 140 characters Twitter allows to truly give justice to this tender moment I shared with my husband and my two year old last night.

Ok, ready for this?

I was watching Sisters, that movie where Tina Fey plays an emotionally retarded, middle-aged trainwreck and my baby pointed to her and said, “Mommy!”

Then when I declared that from now on I will only wear backwards leopard print dresses, Tom said he was going to trade me in for a new model.


Holy shit! My daughter thinks I’m Tina Fey and my husband thinks I’m a model. I’m so fucking blessed.

Don’t forget to check out SpewTube where we’ll be posting lots more things than just videos of my kid swearing. I swear.  

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Do two year olds go through murder phases?

I’ll let her off the hook for Elmo because I’m sure even he couldn’t stand the sound of his own voice.


But I’m pinning this stuffed animal massacre on her. She claims “they sleeping,” but I’ve seen this episode of Killer Kids. When she stabs me in my sleep they better get someone hot to play my part in the reenactment!


Don’t forget to check out SpewTube where we’ll be posting lots more things than just videos of my kid swearing. I swear.  

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Raw Pork. It’s what’s for dinner.

Lately I’ve been playing Chopped in my kitchen. It’s that show on the Food Network where they give the contestants a basket full of random shit like kumquats, cotton candy and a hundred year old egg (it’s a real thing) and challenge them to turn it into a four star meal in 40 minutes.

I imagine that the inspiration for this show came from someone like me whose husband came home from work one day and asked, “Hey, what’s for dinner?” And she was like, “Um, I think we have some stale pretzels and a furry hotdog in the fridge.”

I hate food shopping. No matter how focused I am, somewhere between the bread and milk aisles I turn into a pregnant pothead and find myself wandering around like, Wait, why am I here again? Oh right! Three cheese tortellini and hot fudge. Yes, I’m sure that’s all I need.

Thankfully, Tom doesn’t demand that I make him dinner. In fact, most nights he cooks for me, but not because he’s trying to be sweet. It’s more because he doesn’t want salmonella poisoning. Some of our biggest fights have started over raw pork. It’s always the same scenario. I’ll declare that the pork chops I just made are done to perfection. He’ll take my word for it and scarf them down like he’s been living on a deserted island for three years surviving off of fire ants and coconut milk. Then I’ll take a better look at the pork and declare that it needs to go back in the oven immediately. He’ll yell, “Why do you tell me it’s done if it’s not!” To which I’ll reply, “I can’t believe you just ate two raw pork chops in under a minute. You should consider competitive eating.” He never thinks it’s funny. Instead he checks his pulse all night while I call him a hypochondriac and secretly script what I’ll say to the police when they find him face down on the lawn.

So what’s in my Chopped basket tonight? A hundred year old avocado, 1lb of questionable chicken that I’m pretty sure moved with us twice, an economy-sized box of Cheeze-Its (the pregnant pothead must’ve went to Costco), two bottles of House of Tsang sesame seed oil left over from the Asian-inspired raw pork dish I made last week, and a half empty bottle of wine that I’ll polish off while I’m cooking this shit so I can forever say, “Oh that meal? I was totally wasted when I made that!”

I’ll let you know how it turns out. If Tom survives he’s doing the dishes. And he better not dry them with a washcloth because when we’re not arguing about raw pork we’re arguing about his blatant misuse of towels. Like one time I asked him to get me a burp cloth and he handed me a beach towel. When I called him out on it he was like, “What’s the difference?” I said, “Well, a beach towel is something a grown man uses to dry the seaweed off of his ass after he emerges from the sea like Godzilla, while a burp cloth is a small piece of fabric used to wipe dibble from a newborn’s tender lips.” He didn’t agree so I made him pork that night.

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I just discovered Snapchat…

…so now all of my baby’s pictures will look like this.

Is there such a thing as postpartum hysteria because I can’t stop laughing.


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I should have done this when I was 16

I used to watch 16 and Pregnant and be all judge-y like, “Oh my god! Those girls are so dumb. I’m so much smarter than them.” Then I was 39 and pregnant and suddenly I was like, “Oh my god! I really should have done this shit when I was 16.”

Sure I’ve seen Juno, Mom at Sixteen and the Maury Show. And I’ve heard all of Dr. Phil’s ramblings about how teenage pregnancy ruins lives and babies shouldn’t have babies and blah, blah, blah…

But I bet Dr. Phil never schlepped his pregnant 30-something ass to work in New York City every day with crippling sciatica pain only to get pummeled on the way home by a bunch of perky twenty-somethings raving about their awesome new jobs. Shit! If I did this when I was 16, my kids might actually be those twenty-somethings and I could slap them for calling me “Ma’am” and for being so nauseatingly full of hope.

After two pregnancies, my 16-year-old body would have definitely bounced back and the dream of one day posing for the cover of Vanity Fair would still be alive. At 39, I’m more likely to land a topless centerfold in National Geographic’s Nursing Mothers of the Amazon edition.

When I was 16 I actually enjoyed staying up all night. The bags under my eyes were a badge of honor that screamed, “I defy authority by driving around all night and sharing a pack of Capri cigarettes with my friends.” Now they just scream, “Bitch, call a doctor!”

They say teen moms put the burden on their own moms to help raise the baby. Awesome! So do I. Except if I were 16 she wouldn’t have to travel an hour each way to do it because I’d already be living in her basement. It would also be totally acceptable for me to dump them on her and go out partying every weekend because, duh, I’m 16. I’m expected to be irresponsible. Now when I do it, I’m just that lady at the bar that makes the 21 year olds look at each other and say, “Ew, if I’m still hanging out here when I’m her age with two kids shoot me.”

When I was 16 I didn’t have a mortgage, car payments, grocery bills, property taxes or a six-cup a day coffee habit to support. Dinner was made for me every night, my laundry was folded, I always had two shaved legs and I was home by 3 every day. I could have easily raised a baby under those conditions. And so what if my Algebra grades suffered. They were at death’s door anyway.

Sure teenage pregnancy is an epidemic that is ruining our youth but when you’re almost 40 with a human squatting in your uterus and you can’t drink wine or use high-powered wrinkle cream for nine months, the benefits really begin to shine. Besides, babies should have babies. Let’s see how they like it.

Of course, this is great advice for everyone except my two daughters, Charley and Alex.

Teenage pregnancy is a really terrible idea, just ask Dr. Phil. Plus, by the time you are 16, I’ll be way too old to raise anymore babies and I plan on using my golden years to shave my other leg, finally get past the first six minutes of Stranger Things, and maybe even get a chance to sleep like a baby. (Or more like an old drunk guy or a dog because babies don’t sleep.)

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Brownies make terrible nursing pads

I sent my husband, Tom, to the store for nursing pads and he came home with brownies instead.

If you don’t know what nursing pads are because you’ve never milked yourself after birthing a baby, or you’re my husband, they’re absorbent pads that women stuff into their bra to keep their lactating breasts from squirting passersby in the eye—kinda like maxi pads for boobs. That’s why, when I ran out, I chopped a panty liner in half and stuffed it in my bra. It was brilliant. Until I realized, Ew…there’s a maxi pad stuck to my boob.

So I sent Tom to the store for nursing pads. It was the least he could do given that I had just spent nine months creating life—like god. Yes, god! Tom isn’t god. Not unless god created man, three tons of dirty drawers and a pile of beard trimmings in my sink.

The whole thing made me wonder how “nursing pads” could have possibly translated to “brownies.” Maybe…

  1. The label on the brownie box said “Goes great with milk.”
  2. In his mind, “Get nursing pads,” was code for, “You know what really gets me hot? Stuffing my nursing bra with a dozen store made brownies.”
  3. It was a simple miscommunication because “Get nursing pads” clearly sounds like “I could really go for some double chocolate fudge brownies.”
  4. “Nursing pad,” reminded him of his bachelor pad where I imagine he spent countless hours eating brownies and watching Wings reruns while he waited for me to walk into his life.
  5. He’s fat.

A few days later I sent him to the store for diapers and he came home with hot fudge sundaes instead. And suddenly, I had my answer. He was indirectly calling me fat! Holy shit! (I can say that now because, you know, I’m god.) So I told him it wasn’t cool to call god fat and that’s when he called me irrational.

Can you believe it? All I did was ask for nursing pads and he called me a crazy, fat bitch. What a dick!

He’s lucky those brownies were so delicious. And the sundaes weren’t bad either. (Though they could have used some peanut butter sauce.)

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Chapter 2: And That Was The First Time My Mother Stuffed My Bra With Socks

If you have no idea what this is, read these chapters first: 

Introduction: I’m Writing A Blook. (But You Probably Think I’m Off To A Bad Start Since I Don’t Even Know How To Spell Book.) 

Chapter 1: My Childhood Summed Up Through a Bunch of Weird and Somewhat Offensive Shit I Was Told Before I was 12


Everyone handles divorce differently. Some kids blame themselves, some kids blame the world, but I’m almost positive that no kids fantasize about working in corporate America and blackmailing their chauvinistic boss to keep him from calling the police after accidentally trying to kill him. And if they do, most kids probably aren’t six when they do it.

In case you don’t know (because you were born in the 90s or you’re a straight man), I just described the plot to the 1980 women-empowerment movie, 9 to 5, starring Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda. By the time I was 8, I had watched this movie over 100,000 times. I knew every single word and was fairly certain that one day I would have boobs as big as Dolly Parton’s.

My mother liked to tell herself that the only reason I liked it was because Bambi and Thumper were in it. But they only appear for five minutes to help Lily Tomlin poison her boss, then catapult him out of a 100-story skyscraper window, so even if that was true, I can’t imagine how that made my mom feel any better.

I think I related to it because, just like Lily, Dolly and Jane, my mother was also struggling to make it in a man’s world. And I watched that struggle every day. Only instead of losing promotions to men and being sexually harassed in the workplace, my mother was trying to raise me alone on a teacher’s salary which to this day is still pretty pathetic considering how important teachers are to society. And if you disagree, just remember that you wouldn’t even be able to read that statement to know that you disagree if a teacher never taught you how to read.

I think my dad was supposed to pay like $40 per week in child support, which by today’s standards would equal like $90 per week. That barely covers my peanut butter and chocolate habit. So I don’t know how any judge thought that was acceptable. Plus, I think he may have missed a lot of payments because I remember my mom writing a lot of letters to the judge. Then again, this was before social media and status updates so maybe she was just writing to see what his dog ate for lunch or how his colonoscopy went.

Whatever the case, my mother needed help so we moved in with my grandparents and stayed there for the next few years. To me, it was the most awesome thing in the world. My grandmother taught me how to play five-card draw poker and to not trust anyone because “people are out for themselves!” My grandfather was a little more open-minded. He taught me to respect other people’s opinions, to always pay my debts and that eating grapes in a grocery store while you’re shopping is definitely stealing—no matter what my grandmother said.

But for my mom, as a recently divorced 30-year-old, being forced to raise her daughter alone and move back in with her slightly overprotective parents who probably expected her to be home before the street lights came on, it was probably exhausting and even a bit degrading. And somehow, watching this struggle made it really easy for me to relate to three overworked, underappreciated women determined to exact revenge on the their sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical boss.

As a second-grader, I could recite the script to 9 to 5 with my eyes closed and I had written at least a dozen letters to Dolly Parton. I’m not exactly sure what I wrote, but I imagine there were a lot of questions about how to naturally increase breast size through proper nutrition. Of course, as a kid, it probably sounded more like “Dear Ms. Parton, How do I make my boobs grow real big like yours?” She never wrote back, which was probably a good thing because I imagine that an 80-pound seven-year- old with Dolly Parton boobs might have scared the other kids, or worse, would have given me some serious sciatica pain.

My mother handled my obsession with the movie and my boobs the best way she knew how. She mailed all of my letters, listened to me quote every scene and on Halloween of 1984, she gave me one of her fullest bras, stuffed each cup with three or four pairs of the thickest gym socks she could find, gave me a blonde wig, a skirt and a pair of cowboy boots and sent me off to parade around the playground as my hero, Dolly Parton. Spiderman and Strawberry Shortcake didn’t know what hit them! Actually, they might have. Those boobs were all over the place.

These days, the Twitterverse would be passing all sorts of grammatically incorrect judgment on my mother. But back then it was just something quirky the parents and other teachers laughed about at PTA meetings. And, ironically, the whole experience gave me my first real insight into a woman’s struggle. I spent the entire day fighting off pre-pubescent second grade boys who wanted to cop a feel of my new rack. So I did what any empowered woman would do. I used my boobs as ammunition. No, seriously. I reached into my bra, pulled out a balled up pair of sweat socks and whipped it at them as hard as I could. Dolly, Jane and Lily would have been so proud.


In case you think I made up this story, here’s me and my boobs in my second grade Halloween parade.

(Check back for Chapter 3, coming sometime this year)

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Seriously, who let us get married?

Every relationship needs a yin and a yang, a salt and a pepper, an apple and an orange, a chocolate bar and a giant jar of peanut butter. It’s imperative that when one person screams, “There’s a murderous, meat-eating troll under our bed!” the other one has the sense to say, “Go the fuck to sleep!”

Sadly, Tom and I are both yangs. Not only does he not tell me to go the fuck to sleep but he also keeps a lead pipe on his side of the bed in case the troll attacks him first. Our family emergency plan includes running shoes and a promise from Tom that if a zombie bites me he’ll immediately shoot me in the head. I’m also pretty sure that the first time one of my daughters has an encounter with a monster in her closet we’ll be sleeping in a motel until I can convince an unsuspecting neighbor to risk his life to see if the coast is clear.

The other night was no different. We both jumped out of bed when we heard some crazy ass killer walking around our house, whistling. Yes whistling! I’ve heard bumps in the night, creaks, knocks and even the occasional groan or two when Tom overstuffs himself on beer and BBQ before he goes to bed. But whistling!? Clearly it was an axe murderer. Of course we had no visual proof of this because it’s impossible to see anything from under the covers, but a simple process of elimination was all we needed.

It wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts knock shit over, speak inaudibly through electronic devices and sometimes lay a nasty ghost fart when you least expect it. And it couldn’t have been a butcher-knife killer. They wait to sneak up on you mid-shampoo in the shower. No way was it a chainsaw killer. We would have heard him coming before he even got up the driveway (they really need a re-brand). It wasn’t a demon either. They’re like teenagers and slam doors and shout obnoxious things like “Get Out!” 


It had to be some happy-go-lucky, I-just-escaped-from-the-mental-institution-and-used-the-guard’s-face-to-break-the-glass-on-the-emergency-fire-system-to-get-this-axe, homicidal lunatic with some seriously badass whistling skills. (Plus, axe murderers always have songs. Just ask Lizzy Borden.) Then, suddenly, something occurred to me.

“The TV is on,” I said.

“Yeah, so? It’s always on,” Tom said. “Otherwise I’d be up all night listening to killers creeping around the house.”

“Right. But I don’t hear the whistling anymore. Maybe we should rewind the DVR a bit.”

He pulled it back about ten minutes, hit play and there it was—our axe-wielding whistling murderer was just some middle-aged dad running through a field, arms open, celebrating the fact that he finally found a yogurt brand that made him shit every day. In case it’s still not clear–it was a yogurt commercial.

Yup. Two yangs.

So if you’re dating someone and thinking of spending the rest of your life together, the next time you wake up in the middle of the night, try screaming, “Holy shit! There’s a murderous face-eating troll in the closet.” If the response isn’t, “Go the fuck to sleep,” or “Shut up,” or anything that makes any sense at all, run. Because the only thing scarier than being stalked by a homicidal maniac is spending eternity with big, ugly, puffy bags under your eyes because you and your life partner are too chicken shit to get a good night’s sleep. (And you’ll be cranky too.)

But if you insist on getting married anyway, be sure to trade the bread-maker and the salad bowl on your registry for a lead pipe and some eye cream. You’ll thank me later.

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Chapter 1: My Childhood Summed Up Through a Bunch of Weird and Somewhat Offensive Shit I Was Told Before I was 12

(If you have no idea what this is, read the previous chapter first: I’m Writing A Blook. (But You Probably Think I’m Off To A Bad Start Since I Don’t Even Know How To Spell Book.))

This list consists mostly of things that my grandmother or my mother told me. But if you ask my mother she will vehemently deny it and if you ask my grandmother, you’re probably a medium and that’s really awesome, but I bet she’ll still deny it. And if she doesn’t, she’s probably not really my grandmother and you should consult a priest as soon as possible because I’m pretty sure an evil entity is about to possess you.

Bleaching your mustache will make it invisible to the human eye.
I’m Italian but I’m like third or fourth generation Italian, which means that really I’m just an American with the ability to grow a freakishly awesome mustache, which wouldn’t be so bad if I owned a turkey farm or, you know, I was a guy.

By the time I was 10 I looked like Tom Selleck. And despite my grandmother’s best efforts, bleaching it did not make it invisible to the human eye. In fact, it made it glisten in the sun.

I’m not sure if she was trying to protect me from the pain of pouring hot wax on my face, or if we simply didn’t spend enough time outside together. Either way, I’d like to believe that she didn’t intentionally let me walk around looking like Magnum P.I. after he dipped his face in Sun-In.

Every time I mentioned waxing it, she’d wave her hand in the air, shoot cigarette smoke out of her nose and say, “It’ll grow in thicker!” Then coincidentally the Quaker Oats commercial would come on and I’d assume it was Wilfred Brimley’s mustache telling me to listen to my grandmother.

It wasn’t until a boy I liked asked me why my hair wasn’t as blonde as my mustache when I decided to risk it all. I started buying those at-home waxing kits that require a microwave, a popsicle-stick and an old sock. Though I’m pretty sure I didn’t read the directions because I can’t imagine any beauty product that would expect you to hot wax an old sock to your face. But that’s how I did it, every two weeks, until that one time when my mother found my sock and tossed it (probably because it was old and looked like a dead, balding rat). I ended up using a piece of gauze that I found at the bottom of the bathroom drawer. This was a terrible idea because it’s impossible to get gauze out of wax. For hours, hundreds of little three-inch threads clung to my lip and swung back and forth over my mouth. I looked like Confucius. By the time I chipped it all away, an allergic reaction formed under the wax and created a hivestache.

I probably should have listened to Wilfred Brimley’s mustache.

If your boobs itch it means they’re growing.
I swear my mom had me for entertainment purposes only. I can’t really blame her though because watching a tween-ager walk around in July wearing a wool sweater covered in itching powder and swearing that by tomorrow she’ll “definitely be a Double D” must be hours of fun.

Once, when I was eight, I became super obsessed with The Cosby Show and desperately wanted to be part of the family. So rather than disappointing me she assured me that I was really black and my freckles were just spots where the white paint wore off. I was oddly satisfied with that theory.

If pigeons poop on your roof, shoot them.
I think shooting at anything through an open apartment window in a crowded urban area as your five-year old begs you to “save the chickens,” would be considered a federal offense by today’s standards. But it was the 80s and my dad was a homicide detective with a totally legal gun so nobody had a problem with it—except my grandmother and probably the National Pigeon Association (it’s a real thing. Google it.)

I should probably mention that my parents got divorced when I was two so I spent a lot of weekends with my dad in his North Jersey bachelor pad. My grandmother hated it. In his defense, if you’re going to divorce a woman with an Italian mother and then expose her granddaughter to women, guns and dead pigeons you’re bound to spend eternity warding off the evil eye and trying to shake your reputation as the devil.

This must be how Luke Skywalker felt. I wonder if he had an Italian grandmother from Jersey.

People only drink iced tea in the summer.
My grandmother had a lot of crazy theories but this one made even less sense than the one about people with unibrows having some super ability to give people migraines because I imagine that if someone’s eyebrows are so thick that it’s hard to tell where their hairline begins you might stare until your head hurts.

In my house, it didn’t matter when summer actually began or when it ended or if we had a hot day in March. Iced tea was designated for June, July and August and I never questioned it. In fact, the first time I took a sip of iced tea in February I was almost 13! I remember how wrong and awkward it felt—like I was sneaking shots of Jack Daniels before Homeroom. Only it wasn’t Jack Daniels. It was iced tea and not even Long Island Iced Tea, which ironically may have been OK in my grandmother’s eyes and I wouldn’t have felt so guilty about it. Instead I probably would have just felt sick because Long Island Iced Tea is pretty disgusting. Especially when you down four of them before happy hour ends, then puke over a balcony onto some poor guy’s head and ruin your favorite shirt.

If you get your ears pierced on the Seaside Heights boardwalk you’ll get an STD.
Maybe my grandmother thought STD stood for something else like Sleazy Turd Danny because hooking up with a Sleazy Turd named Danny that I met while he pierced my ears on the boardwalk seemed way more likely than contracting a Sexually Transmitted Disease in my ear hole. Or maybe STD was exactly what she meant and they just did things very differently in her day.

Either way, she really did have a way with words. Once she couldn’t wait to see that movie starring Morgan Freeman and Jessica Tandy, Taking Miss Daisy for a Ride, which the rest of us know as Driving Miss Daisy.

When I was sick she’d take me to a walk-in clinic she called, “Doctors In Duty” which was really ironic because it seemed like there was a much greater risk of contracting an STD from a bunch of doctors with a penchant for sitting in doodie all day than by getting my ears pierced on the Seaside Heights Boardwalk.



Here’s my grandmother, Jean, warding off the evil and drinking a mimosa.

(* Watch out for Chapter 2 coming in the next day… or month… or year or so.)

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