Happy 2017! 

As you try to remember where you left your bra last night and start trying to redeem yourself by writing resolutions, remember that there’s nothing greater than the feeling of accomplishment.

So aim low. Really, really low and 2017 will be your best year yet.

If you need some inspiration, here’s a few of mine:

  • Stop dieting and start wearing jeans that are two sizes too big. Someone’s bound to say, “Did you lose weight? Your pants look huge.”
  • Stop buying wrinkle cream. Instead, look younger by hanging out with really, really old people.
  • Don’t smoke. (If you’re like me and you don’t smoke, this is a no-brainer.)
  • Don’t eat swiss cheese, meatloaf, truffles or anything else I hate.
  • Don’t watch, play or participate in any type of sport whatsoever.
  • Continually forget to fill the gas tank.
  • Complain incessantly.
  • Stay awake all night with two babies who refuse to sleep. 
  • And back on this list….Don’t get pregnant. 

Get the gist? Great! Now get started. I’ll even give you your first one: Read and share The Spew as much as possible so that in 2017 it can reach 1,000,000 followers. (Don’t worry there’s only like 999,359 to go!)



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What’s wrong with my kids?

I’ve heard rumors that babies are in the best mood when they first wake up in the morning. And that upon hearing a soft, sweet cooing coming from the nursery, the parents of these babies walk in and are greeted with big gummy smiles that say, Good morning adoring Parents!

Not my babies.

My babies open their eyes and let out an ear piercing screech as if they suddenly realized that they’re chained to a pipe in a dark bathroom and the only hope for freedom is to saw off their own foot.

What’s worse is that the older one screams for my mother the second she sees my face. I get it. The stress and exhaustion of having two babies less than two years apart has given me a sort of Lord of the Rings, Gollum-like glow. And it probably doesn’t help that I usually try to comfort her by stroking her hair and saying, “Don’t cry my precious little baby.”

But still, I’m starting to get a complex. So to make myself feel better I’ve composed this list of reasons my kids might be starting their day in such horror (other than the grim reality that I’m their biological mother).

  • It’s Tom. He’s responsible for everything including rain on the weekends and when the guy at the deli doesn’t put enough cream cheese on my bagel.
  • They discovered that there are people who work at delis that don’t understand that bagels only exist because it’s socially unacceptable to eat cream cheese with a spoon.
  • They have to endure another 18 to 20 more sober holiday seasons before the government says it’s OK for them carry a flask in their bra.
  • Based on genetics, they discovered they’ll probably never wear a bra big enough to successfully hide a flask.
  • Their grandmother and Connie are the only people who read The Spew.
  • Open-mouth chewers exist.
  • So do people who put their feet on my coffee table (if I had one).
  • We can’t afford a coffee table (because the state says babies need to eat food, not drink coffee at a really awesome Restoration Hardware coffee table…even if it’s on sale.)
  • People who constantly say, “No worries,” even when their is a clear reason to worry like there’s a huge tarantula in my car and I still have another 5 miles to drive.
  • If you Google “Tarantino” horrifying images of giant tarantulas will populate until you get to the “ino,” in his name.
  • Their father sometimes ends sentences with prepositions (like “What do you have to be so afraid of spiders for?”)
  • Grammar snobs that pick on their husbands.
  • Ivy League snobs that pick on grammar snobs.
  • Dumb people who think they’re smart
  • Smart people who think they’re dumb
  • People at Costco who stand in line for 20 minutes for a piece of cheese on a toothpick.

Wow! I think I hit the nail on the head. How about you? Oh, I also hate people who use cliches when they speak. (But this is about what my kids think…not me, right?)


I guess there’s also a slight chance that they’re waking up in such horror because I constantly write about them on the Internet and sometimes use them as an excuse to make a long list of my pet peeves. But that’s just a guess, I don’t want to start any rumors…


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It took me like 30+ years, four years of marriage and two babies but I finally did it! I made Christmas cards. 

How exciting. 

So what do you think it will take for me to actually send them? 

Ok, that’s not entirely true. I did send them to half of the people on my list. The other half is sitting at the bottom of my work bag (along with a beautiful Father’s Day card I bought for Tom when I was pregnant with our first child). 

Now if I send them it will just be weird because they won’t get them until after Christmas and maybe even New Year’s and nobody wants a Christmas card (or a Father’s Day card) while they’re packing away their Elf on a Shelf. Plus, it will call attention to my Christmas-card incompetence. 

I wonder what those people whose addresses I asked for are thinking now that they didn’t get anything from me. 

I hope they weren’t waiting for gingerbread cookies or a mistletoe scented Yankee candle. That would have been really nice of me. Way nicer than what they were really going to get–a Target-made collage of my kids with Merry Christmas written in a very uninteresting font. And it would have been even more disappointing for the handful of Jewish people I had on my list.


I wonder what it will take for me to bake Christmas cookies? Probably, like my dead body, or something. Wait, that’s gross and doesn’t make any sense. Nobody wants cookies made from my dead body. Though, imagine how nice it would be if I came back from the dead to bake them! 

God, I’m so fucking sweet. 

For now you’ll have to settle for this cell phone picture of a Christmas card I didn’t send you. 

Merry Christmas!

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A Pubic Service Announcement 

I Windex’d my magnifying mirror this morning. From now on I will only interact with cataracts and glaucoma patients. 

I’m also putting back the layer of dust I removed and adding an extra layer to all of my mirrors. Then I’m overloading the electrical system in my house with high- powered electronics because imagine how hot I’d look if the lights were in a perpetual state of brownout? And if the house burns down, who cares! I look even better in fire light. 

If you’re in your 30s and have two babies who refuse to let you sleep or wash your face or drink a hot cup of coffee and occasionally force-feed you stale goldfish they find in the couch, and if you work full time in an industry filled with 20-somethings, I recommend that you do the same thing. 

And maybe even strap a fog machine to your back–it’s your best chance at achieving that fuzzy, soft glow Cybil Shepard always had in Moonlighting

All the twenty-somethings just said, “What’s a Cybil Shepard? Is that an app for dogs?” 

No, my young, fresh-faced friend, it’s not. And, I hate you.


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The Girls

I have two daughters— a 2-year-old and a 5-month-old and although their names are Alexandra (Alex) and Charlotte (Charley) everyone insists on referring to them as “the girls.”

While it’s a totally reasonable (and very accurate) description of them, no matter who says it (my mom, my boss, my husband, the guy who works the deli counter at the Acme) as soon as I hear it, I immediately think that they are talking about my boobs.


To illustrate this point, here’s a list of things people have said to me recently about the girls. (I mean my daughters. Not my boobs. See how confusing it can get?)

Anyway, as you read each quote, just replace “the girls” with “your boobs” and you’ll start to understand the gravity of the situation.

“Wow! The girls are getting so big.”
“Saw a picture of the girls on Facebook. They’re almost the same size!”
“The girls are the spitting image of your husband.”
“I miss the girls so much. I just want to squeeze them!”
“The girls were amazing last night—they’re so well behaved!”
“You should feed the girls before we leave. They look hungry.”
“Let’s Facetime! I haven’t seen the girls in forever.”
“We should give the girls a bath tonight. We don’t want them to look sloppy for their Christmas photos.”
“Have you introduced the girls to Santa yet?”
“My parents can’t wait to play with the girls.”
“The girls are so snuggly.”
“You look exhausted. Let me handle the girls while you sleep.”

And, I wasn’t kidding about the deli worker at the Acme who knows my two-year old has an affinity for processed meat and said, “Where are the girls today? The salami is waiting!”

Yeah, like I said, awkward.

I’m just glad I’m not the father of two boys.

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This morning I looked down at my coffee and it was like, “You haven’t written a useless shit list in how long!? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa?”

So here it is…#249. If you hate it, blame Tim Horton. (Great coffee, by the way.)

The Walking Dead was so boring this week that I had to reduce my commentary to a bullet point in this list:.

First, did I sleep through the scene where Negan ripped off Rick’s balls and put them on a shelf in next to the Governor’s decapitated head collection?

Negan took his guns, his mattresses and most of his medicine. And what did Rick do? He thanked him!

“Carl, where’s my balls?”


“I think they’re gone, Dad.”


Second, maybe it’s what’s happening in the world right now but when Rick said to the townspeople, “I’m not in charge anymore…” Am I the only one who thought he was going to follow that up with, “Trump is?”

Third, at the end of this episode, Rick told us that Judith is not his baby.


I was on my way to work this morning when I saw a van with the words “Gum Gang” written in big letters on the door.

Do you think it was supposed to be “Gun Gang” and when the gang leader picked up his van from the detailer he threw his hands in the air and was like, “Great! Who let the guy with the speech impediment call for the logo!?”

I can only imagine that call:
“You mean gun gang?”
“That’s what I said, gum gang!”

I didn’t take a picture of the van because if it really is a Gum Gang, I don’t want to mess with them. There’s nothing worse than trying to peel Hubba Bubba out of your hair.

Tom said to me this morning, “You’d be a lot prettier if I didn’t have to see your stupid face every day.” And again I ask, where’s the ban on straight marriage?

I don’t know what’s more horrifying, the fact that Amazon sells a Chinese soup container filled with 1,500 live ladybugs, or the fact that there are only 2 left in stock.

Screen Shot 2016-11-17 at 4.22.57 PM.png

Somewhere in the world there must be an insect rights group up in arms about this. Actually, they’re probably busy fighting for Donald Trump right now.


Ahhhhhhhhhh fucking politics, right?! Copy and paste the status update below into your preferred social media platform and let’s get back to knowing too much about each other’s lunch choices and foot rashes…

#Spewlove // You’re totally sick of angry political posts, right? Me too. So this is my last ditch effort at getting social media back to annoying pics of babies you’ll never meet, puppies you don’t want and bullshit status updates about how wonderful everybody’s life is.

Copy and paste this into your status, post 3 photos that make you smile (and have nothing to do with the election) and tag 3 of your closet friends that you know will do the same.

P.S. If you do this, don’t tag me. I hate doing this shit. But YOU totally should do it because just like my theory about getting a flu shot–if everyone around me does it, I don’t have to.

Want to be featured on The Spew? Like me on Facebook and/or follow me on Twitter (see how I did that?) then I’ll like/follow you back so I can read your awesome posts every day. You can also send nominations to me here. Please note: While this honor doesn’t come with anything of any real value, it does come with a warm and fuzzy feeling knowing that you’re amazing.


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The Walking Dead, Season 7, Episode 3 Review

Here’s this week’s list of things from The Walking Dead that made me want to feed myself to a walker.

Who’s The Boss?!!
This episode started with the opening credits to the 80s sitcom, “Who’s The Boss?

Were the writers using symbolism to tell us that Negan’s the boss? Because, if so, I think we got the point when he bashed Glenn’s head in with a barbed wire bat. Did we really need Tony Micelli and his feather duster to drive home that point?

Or, maybe it was a tribute to Mona. She was walker-ish 30 years ago. By now, she must be dragging her leg around looking for some poor kid to eat for lunch in the backwoods of Atlanta. Right?

Or, maybe they were trying to show us the true horror of the zombie apocalypse because the only thing worse than having to shoot your best friend in face to keep him from eating yours, is living in a world where the only thing to watch are Who’s The Boss? VHS tapes.

That totally awesome 80s montage!
I bet someone from the network called the writer’s room and said, “Sooooo research shows that we may have stayed on Glenn’s mangled eye for just a beat too long. We need to lighten the mood this week. How about turning the opening scene into an 80s montage? We think it will really add some fun to watching a hungry burn victim steal food.”

Darryl’s Spa
Please! He had a private suite with free dog food and music entertainment! In some countries this is a treat. Americans are so whiney. 

If they really wanted to torture him they should have forced him to watch Fuller House on Netflix. Or Season 2 of The Walking Dead (we get it, you’re on a farm!) Or anything produced by Ryan Murphy. 

Dwight’s Wife
I’m so confused. Did Negan steal Dwight’s wife? Or did Dwight trade her for an egg sandwich?

Tom would totally trade me for an egg sandwich—especially in a zombie apocalypse. And I wouldn’t blame him. My idea of roughing is not being able to fast forward through the commercials. I’m sure after a few days of listening to me whine all it would take for him to leave me on The Saviors doorstep would be the promise of some Cheetos and a luke warm beer. And honestly, I’d be fine with that because look at Dwight’s wife. She obviously has access to mascara and smoothing serum for her hair. 

Does snot smell?
I watched this whole episode while I was horribly congested and I couldn’t stop wondering: Has anyone with a cold ever retained their sense of smell long enough to know if snot has an odor? It’s a logical question, no?


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Here are 5 things that made me want to feed myself to a walker on this week’s The Walking Dead.

It’s mind blowing how the same people who can make a decaying cannibalistic corpse eating someone’s intestines look like a clip from a National Geographic nature film can’t create a tiger that doesn’t look like a cartoon. I was waiting for it to hand Carol a bowl of cereal and say, “They’re grrrrrreat!”

How many times last week did you turn the TV on and hear Rick say in his sexiest voice, “I’m not in charge anymore. Negan is.” That promo had me ready for another vomit inducing, brain-bashing episode.

I wanted to see Rick feed Carl to a horde of walkers. Or Negan feed Carl to a horde of walkers. Or Carl feed himself to a horde of walkers. Instead, all I got was a early 2000 CGI tiger and a pomegranate.

Who the hell wants to eat a pomegranate in the zombie apocalypse? Like a person who’s been living off of beans and Bisquick for six months has the energy to spend four hours digging out those annoying little seeds only to be left with this mess when they’re done. I think I see Glenn’s eye in there. No thanks.



I want Carol to be my realtor. 


Only she has the guts (pun intended) to walk up to some poor guy’s house…


bust in, stab him in the skull, bury him in the backyard…


make a fire…


then eat pomegranates with her new boyfriend.


Which takes us to the most shocking part of the episode…

The whole thing was just a commercial for Old Spice.

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I hate this scarecrow.

I told Tom the stick was supposed to go in the ground. He didn’t listen. Now we have the creepiest scarecrow on the block because he’s a stalker. A stalker with a stick up his ass. The worst kind.


And, it’s even creepier from the inside.


Or maybe he’s not stalking us at all. Maybe he’s just being super judgmental. Like he’s thinking, Wow, this house could really use a paint job… and a new door. I gotta see what it looks like inside…

Ugh. I hate judgemental, stalker scarecrows.

UPDATE: He’s at the doctor’s office now too. Just staring…


If you like this post, you’re probably just like the scarecrow and we should totally hang out and judge all the people we stalk on Facebook. But first you should vote for The Spew by clicking here….

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5 shades of coffee

I take my coffee beige. Not brown or ivory or that awful cadaver gray color you get when you use skim milk. And certainly not black—Jesus, who do I look like, Vin Diesel? I assume he takes his coffee black since his name perfectly describes the way it tastes.

Nope. I take my coffee beige—like if Bambi were a cup of coffee I’d enjoy her with a Krispy Kreme cruller in the morning.

But you might be asking, “Isn’t all coffee beige?”


Well, maybe. But not all coffee is Bambi Beige.

To prove this, I made this chart called 5 Shades of Coffee. It’s like the working mother’s version of that erotic romance novel/movie, 50 Shades of Grey—because, sadly, once you have babies, the most erotic moment in your life is that first sip of hot, steamy joe after pulling an all-nighter with a sleep-confused infant and a toddler who’s afraid of her nightlight.


But the real question is: Can you identify the one that’s Bambi Beige? Here’s a hint: It’s the second one in from the left. More specifically…


Did you guess it? Probably not. Coffee color blindness is the #1 cause of imaginary murder in the United States. I mean, who doesn’t spend all day thinking of ways to kill the pimply teen at Dunkin’ Donuts when he fucks up your coffee?

So, consider this post a PSA.

Below is a perforated version of The Spew’s 5 Shades of Coffee for you to print, laminate and keep in your wallet. Every morning as your buying your coffee, whip out this color chart and see if the coffee they hand you matches your version of the perfect cup. If not, throw your coffee in the face of the person who poured it for you. No, don’t do that. I’m totally kidding. (Kinda.) Instead, use it to point out the person’s mistake in a really obnoxious, condescending way until they pour you a new cup and apologize for almost ruining your day… or until they spit in it (you weren’t going to drink it anyway). Either way, you’ll feel vindicated that you stood up for your coffee preferences.


You’re welcome America. And, you’re welcome pimply teen at Dunkin’ Donuts. I just saved you from getting imaginary killed at least 50 times today.

Oh, and because my husband insists that not everybody always needs to agree with me and that I should open my mind to other people’s opinions, here’s a poll for you:



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