theferrett: (Meazel)

For Gini’s birthday, we went out to one of the nicest restaurants in town – Pier W, an elegant restaurant that juts out over the lake.  It was raining, but that gave us a beautiful view of Cleveland’s choppy waters, looking big as an ocean, admiring the slate-gray sky and the way water fell into water.

I could tell we were getting better because we began to tell stories.

The thing few people tell you is that after the heart attack, there’s trauma to be unknotted. I almost died; Gini waited for me to die.  The weeks afterwards had a weird, plastic feel, as though I was living in a bubble.  The pain went away, but this strange uncertainty didn’t waver, this sense that something had changed and we could not quite name it.  We were afraid to trust the future.

And horrific fights resulted, because when you’ve had a heart attack, you must have lifestyle changes, and every bite becomes a matter of literal life and death.  Gini and I had the most vicious battle we’ve had in almost seven years over, of all things, seven bites of a chocolate ganache.  But she’s traumatized and terrified, and I’m frustrated and furious at this narrower, healthier world, and so the adjustments were inevitable.

And after we found what seemed like a new fit, we retreated. We’ve been cuddling a lot, going on dates just by ourselves, not feeling like socializing. Gini’s 55th birthday should have been cause for a raucous party, but all we wanted to do was spend time with each other – not even with our daughter Erin, just relishing this slow time in each other’s arms.

Over heart-healthy tuna and scallops, we began to tell stories of the surgery, smiling.

She told me the absurdity of waiting around for me to heal, of rushing home to try to be with me in time for the catheter, what the mood was when I was out of the operating room and everyone went out for Mexican.  I told her how strange it was, waiting in the ER, feeling perfectly fine and yet being told I could pop off at any moment.

Slowly, lovingly, we began to probe those experiences for the silliest and scariest bits, transforming raw terror into anecdote.

It’s how we heal, here at La Casa McJuddMetz; we take our lowest moments and refuse to let them define us.  Instead, we haul the boogeyman out from under the bed and dress him in jester’s clothing, turning this too-human fear into a way of entertaining people at parties.  And why not?  Our fears are, in many ways, what defines as humans, these terribly silly moments where we were mortified but might have been amusing with time or another angle.  Comedy is pain, pain is comedy, spinning one effortlessly into the other.

Over wine by a very beautiful landscape, we began to laugh. To place the events that unmanned us into as something firmly in the past, an experience that was once now but is currently over, a thing that so affrighted us back then but is not all that relevant to today.  To give these moments their respect, but not to allow them to drive us any more.

We drank wine, and felt the normality seeping back in, and watched the sea.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

In wishing my wife a happy birthday yesterday, I said this:

“If you think I’m wise, witty, or at all interesting, she’s probably about 50% of that.”

Now, what I meant to say was, “If you think I’m wise, witty, or at all interesting, she’s probably responsible for about 50% of that.”  Instead of complimenting her, I made it sound like I thought my wife was half as interesting as I was.

However, I did prove my point.  Gini did not approve that birthday wish at all before it went live.  If she had, she would have said, “Uh… is that what you meant to say?” and I would have corrected it.

This is the function Gini serves in my life: stopping me from rampant stupidity.  Give her a hand, folks.  She’ll be here all week.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

It is my delightful wife Gini’s birthday today.  If you think I’m wise, witty, or at all interesting, she’s probably about 50% of that.  So go wish her a happy birthday!

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

As someone who works at home, and likes stuff on in the background, I watch a lot of television – usually Netflix streaming.  And slowly but surely, if the show is good, my wife takes over.

Because she’s not as picky as I am; left to her own devices, she works in silence.  So I put on a show, and if it’s good I start grinding my way through it, episode after episode.  And if it’s really good, then Gini will start making comments – “Oh, that was a nice moment,” or “That was a spectacularly well-written scene.”

This has been happening with Justice League, which is fascinating to watch, as Gini has zero familiarity with this mythology.  I mean, she knows who Superman and Batman are, but has no clue where Wonder Woman came from or who this “Clayface” guy is.  And for a so-called “kid’s” show, Justice League has some really solid plotting – it’s simple, yes, but it’s that much harder to pull off a simple plot.  You can’t compensate with elaborate set design or complex characterization.

Yet somehow, Justice League boils these iconic heroes down to the raw elements of character, making purposeful tweaks to make them more interesting.  Superman’s got a very angry streak, sometimes tempted more to murder than we’d be comfortable with.  Batman’s secretive hubris causes conflict.  The Martian Manhunter’s “my planet is dead” angst is occasionally a plot driver.  It’s not enough to sap their heroism, but it definitely makes them interestingly flawed.

And so Gini is watching with me, and all of this is new to her.  For me, Mongul is old hand, the Warworld is just another tweak.  But to her, she’s never seen anything like this, so Mongul becomes an interesting villain in his own right.  She has zero idea whether Doctor Fate is a villain or a good guy.  She doesn’t remember Aquaman as anything but the prickly monarch of the underwater world.  And she’s kind of excited to be getting this window into my world, hearing my commentary on what “classic” Green Lantern is usually like, but happy to finally see what Childhood Ferrett liked in a way that Grown-Up Gini can love.

But last night came the inevitable point of no return; we sat down and watched two episodes together when we weren’t working, just watching the show on its own merits.  And I knew that Gini had claimed this show as her fiefdom, and I could no longer watch it without her lest I cheat on her in my heart of media-hearts.  This had migrated from a “Ferrett can do solo” to “A couple activity,” which means that I get to watch far less of it.  Gini leaves the house two or three times a day to meet with clients, defend people at courthouses, drop off paperwork.  That’s cutting into valuable Justice League time.

It’s a loss, and a gain.  My next few weeks will be a little draggier at work, because as I won’t have DC entertaining me while I’m refactoring this tangle of spaghetti code.  But Gini and I will be able to share our reflections on the show, and when we’re walking outside and holding hands we’ll be discussing how we didn’t see that Superman being banished to the future would involve such a kick-ass moment with Vandal Savage.

It’s a loss, but the gain is so worth it.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

Coda

Jan. 28th, 2013 01:44 pm
theferrett: (Meazel)

“Be careful,” I gasp, settling down onto the bed.  “My chest hasn’t stretched this far – it’s hard to breathe…”

“I’m careful,” Gini tells me.  She moves slowly, tentatively, sliding in next to me, looking to me for reassurance that she isn’t causing me pain.  My sternum was snipped open when they operated on my heart, breaking all my ribs, and as such any weight on my chest is like having them broken all over again.  She rests her head lightly on my shoulder, and I sigh.

“Not on – my belly – “I tell her, the pain in the hollow of my throat, moving her arm away from its usual resting place.  “Down here.  On my thigh.  Take my hand.”

She does.  “Does it hurt?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her.  “A little.  But it’s worth it.”

Click.

For the first time in two weeks, we are snuggled together.

It’s been hard to be together since the surgery – a held hand, her massaging my feet, an awkward pained hug in the kitchen.  We’re a physical couple.

“I can’t believe how sleepy I am,” she says.  I stroke her hair, feeling the muscles in her body untense, because her body finally understands what her mind has been trying to tell it: Ferrett is back.  “I’m sorry, I know you’re not tired….”

“Sleep, my love,” I tell her.  She curls up against me, relaxed in a way she hasn’t been since that first awful text I sent her two-plus weeks ago, pressing up against me, needing me in the way that I have always needed her, and as she starts to snore it is like the pound of sea on the surf, the righteous tide which we are owed, this rhythm of our bodies together again.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Where was I at 12:12:12 today?

Curled up in my wife’s arms.  Just the way we’d been on December 31st, 1999, 11:59:59, watching the numbers change. No cell phone, no Internet, just ensured that we were together for this transition, as we’ll be together for all transitions.

It’s a tiny, foolish thing.  But our lives are knitted together by tiny, foolish things.  We embrace them, just as we embrace each other when the last-of-a-lifetime event slips by so noisily.

Love you, sweetie.  More than meatballs.

 

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Every year, on this day, I am filled with quiet amazement. Thirteen years.

Had you polled my friends back when I was twenty-five, I don’t think you would have found a one of them who would have thought I’d get married… and if I did, they’d probably have thought that any marriage I was involved with would have shredded itself in bouts of psychodrama.  I was infamous for having slept with over eighty women back then, which seemed impressive to some, but the truth was closer to “Charming enough for eighty women to let him into their bed, enough of a neurotic mess that none of them wanted to stick around.”

Yet here I am, a husband of thirteen years.  And I am still amazingly, dazzlingly, in love with my wife.

It’s been said about writing that a good novel is so big, the writer has to grow to meet the challenge of writing it.  Gini is a woman so wonderful that I’ve had to grow considerably just to stay married to her.  Because she deserves the best from me.  We fit.  She’s witty, and she deals admirably with my many depressions and setbacks, and she’s competent, and she’s genuinely compassionate in her work as a bankruptcy lawyer.

I love the scent of our bedroom when Gini’s been sleeping in it, the pillows suffused with her.  I love the way we look up from the Internet to trade bad jokes and news.  I love the way we both get so psyched when the right movie comes on television.  I love the way we turn into douches at dinner, discussing taste profiles and declaring who won the meal my getting the better dish.  I love the way we still hold hands freely, lovingly, wantingly.

Yesterday, I was talking with my therapist about a bump we’d had on Friday, where she’d hurt her ankle while I was out on a date, and Gini wound up feeling abandoned.  And I told him how I was mad at myself because I should have seen it from Gini’s perspective, and been better to her, and my therapist noted how unusual it was that I was angry for not being compassionate enough to my spouse.

But why wouldn’t I be?  She’s been compassionate to me.  If I ever appear wise in my writings, it’s because Gini is there to guide me.  If I appear to grow over the years, it’s probably because Gini needs me to be a better person. She’s such a part of my world view that it’s hard to imagine what I’d be like without her.

In the past, when I dated women, I changed grudgingly and with cost – sure, maybe I’d try to act differently, but you owed me.  My Star Wars-loving wife, however, is different.  I know how much she wants me to be me, so growing into a better human for her is effortless.  If you’d told me thirteen years could pass this pleasantly, and politely, and with such fucking hot sex, well, I wouldn’t have believed you. As you can see from my essay on the day of our wedding, I was cynical – but Gini made me believe in love.

Thirteen years is the longest time I’ve been with anyone.  I hope it’s thirteen more.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

My conservative friend Brad Torgersen wrote this note on Facebook:

My wife informs me that the marriage of a close family friend is breaking up. Infidelity. I see it as a cautionary tale. No matter how strong your relationship with your spouse may be, it only takes being weak once to screw the whole thing up. In my 10 years in the military I’ve seen a lot of people play around on TDY. I always try to make a point of wearing my marriage on my sleeve when I am away from home. It’s a reminder to me that I am not looking for a fling, and it’s a reminder to others that I am not looking for a fling. And yes, I know some women adore a happily married man. And that this may make me a bigger target. The choice is still mine, however. Nobody makes me cheat. I have to want to first. I refuse. I refuse to disrespect and dishonor my best friend & eternal companion like that. I would rather divorce her honestly, than cheat behind her back. Our friend is now in an agony of shame, anger, humiliation, and confusion. It’s such a needless waste.

Now, I doubt Brad is much down with kinky polyamory, given that previously he’s posted links to the only safe sex being “get married and be faithful,” stating “we in modern society have invented 101 excuses for ourselves as to why this isn’t practical, or even necessary.”  But the fascinating thing is how much overlap there is between healthy monogamy and healthy polyamory.

Because even with multiple partners, if you don’t have fidelity, you don’t have a relationship.

In polyamory, the relationship is no longer defined by exclusive sex – but it’s doubtlessly defined by some expectations.  Many of those are sexual, such as “You’ll always use safe sex” or “You’ll always let me know who you’re with so I can make an informed decision.”  But when sex ceases to be the defining factor of your relationship, then the other expectations become that much more critical – “You’ll always be there for me when I need you,” or “Friday night is our special movie night,” or “This restaurant is our special romantic rendezvous, for no others.”

Keeping those agreements is fidelity.  And if you can’t keep those, then you wind up inflicting the same agonies of shame, anger, humiliation, and confusion.

Look, those agreements are who you are as a couple.  And when you suddenly decide to break those bonds, either out of convenience or just out of neglect, then suddenly your partner doesn’t know what you mean to each other.   They’re just as important as the “no sex with anyone but me bond,” and when broken it creates a cascade of terror in that “Well, does s/he still love me?  How could s/he do that to me?  Should we be together?  How could they claim they love me and yet manage to hurt me so deeply?”

Which is not to say that such expectations have to be lasting bonds.  Relationships are dynamic things (hell, Gini and I started off as monogamous, and there’s never a guarantee we won’t switch back if it makes us both more comfortable), and sometimes you want to renegotiate that Friday night movie night, or have unprotected sex, or bring a new lover to that special French cafe.

But too many bad poly relationships broach that by shattering the agreement, and then asking forgiveness.  Forgiveness is often given, because “getting a burger with some other girl at that diner” seems like a small, petty thing to get so wounded over.  Yet it’s not a small thing.  It’s something that defined you, together, and now suddenly it defines someone else, too, leaving one partner to wonder what the moorings of this this particular pair-bond is. You’ve broken fidelity, and that weakens everything else to the point where your partner has to wonder what trust must be accidentally broached next.

And is that really polyamory?  Or just you, doing as you please, regardless of the hurt caused? ‘Cause there’s not much love in that, Jack.

The problem with poly is that quite often, you don’t understand how vital these trusts are until you break them.  Maybe your lover thought your affectionate kiss on the forehead was exclusive to her, and discovering that you do with that anyone you like is going to wound her.  Maybe your partner didn’t understand how emotionally specific those burgers at the diner were to you.  Which is why, in a poly relationship (or in any relationship, really, but the poly ones especially), you have to be up-front about defining your needs and ever watchful of what your partners may think of as special to them.

My wife, who is wise and wonderful, refers to our style of relationship as “polyfidelity.”  I think that’s a wonderful term, and correct.  And one of many wondrous reasons why I go out of my way to keep my agreements with her.

 

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

For months, my shampoo has been mislocated.

Which is to say that we mostly take baths in La Casa McJuddMetz, and the shampoo is on the upper shelf at shower height.  So whenever I want to wash my hair, I have to reach way up to grab it, risking tilting it onto my face.

The conditioner, however, is on the left-hand side at bath level, easily accessible.

This is a little annoyance, but it’s also constant.  Every morning, whoops, reaching up for the shampoo again.  And yet it’s never quite bad enough to bellow, “GINI!  GET IN HERE!  YOU’RE FUCKING UP MY BATH MOJO!”  Nor is it so annoying that I would remember to pull Gini aside an hour later, calling a bathroom meeting to go, “Look.  We need to talk about the shampoo incidents I’ve been having.” But apparently Gini likes it there.

So every morning: damn.  Damn.  Damn.  Damn.  It’s like being a bathtub amnesiac, vexed by the same poor product placement every morning.  It’s like my memory only works when my hair is wet.

So last night, Gini and I were confessing silly annoyances, and she said, “Oh, WAIT!”  Then she ran into the bathroom.

“Can we move the damn shampoo?” she asked.  “Where I don’t have to reach up for it every fucking morning?”

“Seriously?” I asked, clasping her hands in joy.  “I thought you liked it up there!”

“No!” she said, her face suffused with happiness.  “This shit is terrible!  Let’s move the shampoo!”

And together, we switched shampoo and conditioner, never feeling closer in our twelve years of marriage, realizing that yes, we’ve made the right choice and it must have been one of those bastard houseguests who fucked up our bathroom mojo.

Then we cuddled.  And this morning, my bath was awesome.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for Gini and me, what with all of my travelling and Gini’s horrid case of hoof-and-mouth and many other intangibles.  And we haven’t had the time to really connect, just to cuddle in bed and feel that comfort and talk.

Which we did.  And then we got married all over again.

It’s rare.  But in times of stress, Gini and I tend to recite new vows – not often, maybe once every couple of years.  But during a particularly tender time we’ll look each other in the eyes and make new promises and feel all of that old tension shedding away like a snake skin.

You will never know what we promise to each other.  But you will know that we’ll come away as newlyweds again, and starting anew doesn’t mean abandoning everything we’ve done before.  It means that no matter what kind of a patina life loads onto our relationship, the tiniest of scratches and we’re right back on our wedding day, holding hands and feeling that this is the best choice either of us have ever made.

I love you, my bride.  You’re still everything I’d ever hoped for, and more.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So when I discussed how I was unwilling to help Gini clean the house to her spartan standards, I got a fair amount of silence.  The few comments I did get went mostly along the lines of, “…yeah, I think that’s you.”

I think many people’s reactions could be summed up by this comment:

“This whole ‘I don’t support Gini in this because I don’t need to because it’s her hobby that I have no interest in’ strikes me as contradicting a post of yours I really liked from a few years back, where you talked about how both you and Gini sort of adjusted your housekeeping standards around each other and found a sweet spot, where you’d pick up clutter and become more aware of your environment because you knew it’d please her, and vice versa. THAT, to me, is an expression of how awesome your relationship is.”

Here’s the thing, though: This is that exact same essay, told from a slightly different point of view.

In relationships, we’re told all about how giving is love, doing stuff for your partner is love, sacrifice is love.  And that’s what our culture interprets as “romantic” – every rom-com ends with one partner giving up some aspect of his/her life to be a better match with his or her mate.  So when I say, “I’m willing to do this for Gini,” that’s pre-programmed to give you the warm fuzzies.

But while boundary-setting may not be romantic, it’s every bit as valid to a functioning relationship…. And you write that off at your peril.  We’ve all seen the horrid relationships where a guy finds the love of his life, gives up all his hobbies and outside interests and friends for her, and then she leaves because he’s not the man she used to love.

Sacrifice and giving is but one aspect of a healthy relationship.  The other is knowing when to say “Fuck that noise.”

Is it romantic for Gini to have said, “You know what, Ferrett?  I can’t reassure you of my love as often as you’d like.  Either learn to keep it to yourself, or get the fuck out.”  Of course it’s not.  Viewed through our cultural lens, it’s rather cold and clinical.  It’s the speech of the first, bad girlfriend in the movie who throws the noble hero out on his ass before he finds the true love of his life.

But the alternative was her putting up with a behavior that irritated her to the point where she’d either have to leave, or would have to compromise her own self-esteem to the point where she’d be constantly miserable.

The reason we’re together is because Gini was willing to tell me to GTFO.  And God bless her.

This so-called “sweet spot” of house cleaning is actually a constant, low-grade irritation to the both of us.  In an ideal world, Gini would prefer that she lived in a cleaner house; I would prefer to spend less time cleaning.  We tolerate it because we love each other, and that love helps make it go down… but it is a compromise.

And the compromise can only be negotiated because we have upper limits.  Gini is not willing to tolerate me reaching a certain level of sloppiness, because it would stress her out; I am unwilling to do exotic cleaning beyond a certain level, because it would stress me out.

The middle is formed from these extremes.

Is it romantic for me to say, “You know what, Gini?  This level of cleanliness is more than I’m willing to pitch in on; it’d be hours of effort that I’d hate, and the end result would have me living in a house that would be as uncluttered and personality-free as a hotel room, a sterile place that would make me feel uncomfortable in my own house.  So you can do it if you want, but I won’t pitch in.”  Of course it’s not.

But it’s vital, because otherwise I’d be so in love that I’d do anything for my sweetheart, and I’d clean and work and quietly resent the change.  Eventually, my whole personality would warp to become nothing more than an extension of Gini’s desires, because without that ability to say, “This will make me unhappy, and I know it” then I’d be shifted into co-dependency one gentle “Aw, why not?” at a time.

Saying “No” to your loved one is a wondrous power, one that should never be taken for granted.

Yeah, it might be nice if I just schmoopily did everything Gini wanted and never questioned…. But that’s not the real world.  As it is, I’ll clean a lot more than I want to.  Do not think that having boundaries means that I am an unsubtle oaf; I put in a lot of effort to make Gini happy, having adopted hundreds of unnatural habits to make her environment more livable for her.  I work hard at pleasing her.

But the fact that I love her does not remove my ability to have limits.  And exercising those limits is not wrong.

Boundary-patrolling is wondrously hot, and vital. If all you get out of our relationship is, “We do wonderful things for each other,” then you’re failing at the lessons we’re trying to teach. Part of the reason our relationship is so wonderful is that both of us know when to say, “Okay, no, that’s more than I’m willing to give, and so I’m not doing that. Let’s discuss alternatives.”

Romance springs from this loving climate.  This boundary between “This is what I am willing to give, and this is what I am not.”  That’s where the real power grows.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

It’s interesting: Here’s a take on why I’m not polyamorous, written five years ago, which both sums up why I am polyamorous and why Gini is the best thing in my entire life.  I’m re-reading it to quote it at someone else, but still…. every note of this resonates true, except the fact that Gini sometimes lets me build that chapel.

I don’t think I’ve ever written anything that explains my love for Gini better. Or the way I experience lovemaking.

If I had to quote just one entry of mine, I honestly think that would be it.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Last week, Gini and I gave a talk to a classroom on polyamory.  And there, as here, people wondered how we made polyamory work.

And though every poly is different, for us there’s one trick that makes it easy for us to date other people: We want to spend all of our time with each other.

It’s pathetic, really.  We work at home, a situation that’s driven some couples insane, and yet Gini can’t work in her back office for more than a couple of hours before getting lonely for me and joining me on the couch.  After a week spent at home working side-by-side and watching Deep Space Nine, I needed a date day with Gini where we could window-show at the mall and hold hands and make snarky comments about the awful overpriced items we somehow still desire.

And then we snuggle in the bed and talk some more.

I dunno.  Maybe other polyamorous primaries have issues because getting time with their spouses involves fighting off Skyrim and the need for isolation and the hobbies they want to get done and the guys’ night out.  But with us, our need for each other is as clear as our need for water, and if there’s any chance we can be together, we will.

So when Gini wanders off for a weekend with S, or I go off with a weekend with J, I don’t think we get too many of the “Do they really want me?” willies.  Because I know when Gini returns, she’s going to get out of that car smiling and she’s going to fling her arms around me and then we’re going to go inside and cuddle the heck out of each other.

In my darker dumber hours, I doubt she loves me.  I never doubt she likes me.

That makes it easy.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Just as an FYI, I planned to post a clarification/retraction of some of my statements in my Gay In YA post this morning – but a) I was up until 5:30 last night importing the new Magic set (stupid double-faced cards), and b) when I make an error in terms of how I present an issue so that the essay doesn’t truly reflect where I stand, I’m doubly cautious when it comes to clarifying.  So that’ll be later in the week when I recover.

Also, if I’m going to make one post today, it’s going to be referencing the fact that it’s International Talk Like A Pirate Day – which, to those paying attention, means that it’s my anniversary!  I never really thought I’d be married at all, so to be married for a dozen years is somewhat amazing.

When you’re married and get divorced, you get differing reactions from people based on how long it took you to separate.  If you get divorced in the first year, well, you just didn’t think it through.  Two to five years, and you were too fundamentally incompatible on some level to make it work in the long run – but you gave it a rum go.  Five to ten years, and people chalk it up to the usual combinations of neglect and differing goals.

At twelve years, it amuses me to note that I’m now approaching the stage of marriage where if Gini and I separated – which we’re in zero danger of – the public reaction would be that something had to have happened.  An affair.  An untreated psychosis.  Meteorites. Something.  We’ve been together for long enough that we’ve become an institution, and nothing can derail us but for an external force.

I often refer to Gini as “The best decision I ever made.” She’s the smartest, funniest, and sexiest woman I know.  If I ever give the illusion that I have any wisdom, grace, or charm, understand that a significant portion of that is my wife, quietly bolstering me up behind the scenes.  She’s amazing, she’s led me to a much happier place in life, she bears with me when that black dog depression comes biting, and I literally could not ask for a better partner.

I love you, sweetie. Twelve more YARRRS.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

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