help me

I maintain that my wife is one of the nicest — if not the nicest — person you will ever meet. I have often talked about and given examples of just how nice she is. She is helpful, kind, thoughtful and considerate of her fellow human — something that is a rarity in today's deteriorating society. In noting just how nice Mrs. Pincus is, I am careful to point out that I, admittedly, am not nice. I am, by comparison, the exact opposite of nice. I have nothing but contempt for my fellow individual. I am aware of how I feel and how wrong it really is, but I just can't help it. I am one of those people who could walk into a room full of strangers and say to myself: "Look at all these assholes," expecting each person to demonstrate nice behavior in an effort to change my mind. Mrs. Pincus, on the other hand, would try to figure out how she could help everyone. I defy you to find someone nicer... and before you answer, may I remind you that Mother Teresa is dead.

We live within very close proximity to several supermarkets, far more than are needed to properly accommodate the needs of the community. For the past six or so years, Mrs. Pincus has been doing regular supermarket runs for her parents. My in-laws are both 90 and their mobility has diminished in recent years. Curiously, their marketing demands have increased at the same rate that their mobility has decreased. It is not unusual for Mrs. Pincus to receive daily phone calls from her parents, asking with faux innocence: "Are you going to the supermarket today?" Of course, she will ask what they need and obligingly go to the supermarket to fulfill their request. Sometimes those requests come two and three times a day. Sometimes, the request includes a specific supermarket at which the particular item or items need to be purchased. (They like the bagels from Giant, but they like the salmon from Aldi.) There are some days where Mrs. P has visited three or more supermarkets to satisfy her parents extremely specific shopping requirements.

A few days ago, Mrs. P found herself in the produce section of a nearby Acme Market. This Acme, while closest in distance to our home, is the least frequented of all the markets in our area. They are expensive. They are poorly stocked. Their staff is less than cheerful and, after several remodeling efforts, the entire store is very difficult to navigate. But, my father-in-law asked for a very specific type of orange or lime or something that is only available at Acme... allegedly. So, his dutiful, obedient and nice daughter went to Acme.

While strolling the vast, labyrinthine aisles of Acme's produce section, Mrs. Pincus located the fruit in question and added it to her shopping handbasket. As she headed towards the check-out area, she passed a woman holding a clear plastic hinged container filled with watermelon, cut up into manageable chunks. Just a split second after they passed each other, Mrs. Pincus casually turned to watch this woman's left foot slide on something, raise up and out from under her and deposit the poor woman square on her ass on the tiled floor. She let out a pained cry as she sat splayed on the floor, surrounded by the wet chunks of watermelon that had escaped the now-opened container. Mrs. Pincus instinctively approached the woman and asked if she was all right, then cautioned her not to move. Mrs. Pincus quickly scanned the produce department and spotted a worker — a slow-moving woman sporting an angry scowl on her face. Before being asked, the Acme employee quickly — and defensively — asserted: "There's no water on the floor!" and she repeated the statement several times. Mrs. Pincus calmly  asked the employee to summon the store manager and also asked for a chair for the woman who fell. As the employee scurried off, still muttering about no water being on the floor, another employee arrived with a scooter shopping cart in place of a chair. Against her better judgement, but wishing to make the customer as comfortable as possible, Mrs. Pincus slowly and carefully helped the woman onto the seat of the scooter, first confirming that she was ready to move and be assisted. 

Firmly gripping the woman by the waistband of her pants, Mrs. Pincus slowly maneuvered her on to the seat where the woman seemed to be more comfortable, but still in visible shock and pain. By this time, the store manager appeared with a clipboard, ready to take a full description of the incident and displaying way more compassion than the "No Water on the Floor" Acme associate. Mrs. Pincus asked the woman if she was shopping alone today. The woman replied, "No." and explained that her daughter was already in the checkout line and she had just come over to pick up a forgotten container of cut-up fruit. Mrs. P asked for her daughter's name so she could find her to bring her over. The woman also began massaging her own shoulder, revealing that she had just been released from rehab, where she was recovering from shoulder surgery.

Mrs. Pincus swiftly made her way to the checkout area and located the woman's daughter by loudly announcing her name. She accompanied my wife back to the scene in the produce department, elaborating on her mother's recent shoulder surgery. The store manager had begun writing down the woman's account, asking what she thought may have caused her to fall. The manager, the woman's daughter, the "No Water on the Floor" employee and my wife all began searching the immediate area until Mrs. Pincus spotted a clear piece of plastic that had almost completely slipped under a display counter of oranges. Apparently, it was the covering of a price sign and had fallen on the floor. Its shiny finish provided the "perfect storm" of slick surface on top and bottom — sliding on the waxed floor as well as sliding under someone's foot. The store manager sheepishly examined the errant plastic square and frowned. Then he asked the woman if she would like an ambulance. Before she could answer, Mrs. Pincus whispered to her daughter that it would be wise to accept the offer. An ambulance was called. Mrs. Pincus was also asked for a statement and she offered her corroborating version of the episode. She also volunteered her contact information to the woman's daughter. Then she moved on to finish her parents' shopping order.

Later in the day, Mrs. Pincus received a text from the woman's daughter She said that her mother was taken to the hospital for x-rays. X-rays that confirmed her mother's shoulder was broken. Mrs. P offered a sympathetic reply and added that she'd be available for any further required information.

My wife asked me if I would have helped the woman who fell and if I would have stuck around and done any of things that she did.

I answered, "No, of course not."

Mrs. Pincus is nice. Josh Pincus is not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try a little kindness

Contrary to popular belief, I am a nice guy. Sure there are some people who will disagree with that statement, but, they are wrong. I am a nice guy. And I'll prove it.

On a recent Friday night, Mrs. Pincus and I, along with our son and his girlfriend, went to a Phillies game. Recently, our onetime baseball-loving family has embraced the "national pastime" after a few years of waning interest. We went to a few games last year and now we have found ourselves buying tickets and attending more games this season. (Our son's girlfriend hasn't quite adopted the Pincus family's affinity for baseball, but she does admit to liking the "vibe" that the ballpark exudes.) 

This season, the Phillies are off to a bang-up start (I don't know how this will read in August of this year, but we shall see...), so tickets are in high demand. Also, on this particular night, there was a give-away of bobblehead figures depicting Phillies youthful second baseman Bryson Stott. The figure was a pretty good likeness, although I am fairly sure that Stott's head is more in proportion to his body, unlike.... say.... Kyle Schwarber. Making a late decision on attending this game, we had to settle for seats high up in the right field stands where the aisles are steep and narrow and handrails are suspiciously scarce. As a former season ticket holder (for eighteen years), we have been spoiled by having reserved seats just fifteen rows from the field that provided a spectacular view of the action.. Up in section 320, the baseball game is just a rumor. You have to rely on crowd reactions to follow progress of the game. Cheers from the lower levels indicate a run has scored. Boos usually mean the Phillies did something wrong.

We rode a steep escalator to the 300 level and climbed even steeper stairs to our seats. At the top of Citizens Bank Park, the seats are arranged on very steep cement tiers and the cantilever angles place your knees at the back of the head of the person in front of you. Folks walking up the narrow aisles to get to seats in the rows above us utilize empty end-of-the-row seats — or even someone's knees — to steady themselves in lieu of missing handrails. 

Prior to the game start time, anxious and excited fans filed into the the ball park. As per usual, they stopped to load up on food and snacks before making their way to their seats. We were no different, stopping off at the only vegetarian concession stand and grabbling some overpriced meatless hot dogs. We got to our seats and chatted while we waited for the game to begin.

Ten or so minutes before the first pitch, a man and a woman emerged from the concourse access just below our seats to look for their seats. The man, decked out in full Phillies regalia, was carrying a cardboard tray laden with an abundance of typical ballpark fare. There were hot dogs, beer, chips and a cup overflowing with Chickie's & Pete's Crab Fries, a local favorite. Popular at the ballpark and throughout the Delaware Valley, Crab Fries are crinkle-cut French fires liberally coated in Old Bay seasoning. The man held the tray of food as level as he could as he slowly navigated the inclined steps with the deftness of a tightrope walker. He wife scooted on ahead, leaving the man to take on full responsibility of delivery of the refreshments. As the steps got steeper, the man's pace got slower and more deliberate. He struggled to climb the steps and keep the tray and its contents in tact. He had his head down and a look of distress crossed his face. Bowing forward, he seemed to peer over the top of his glasses that were perched low on the tip of his nose. As he came up to where I was sitting he stopped and leaned in to me. 

With a quaver in his voice, he said, "Would you be so kind as to push my glasses up further on my nose?" The tone of his request reflected the same helpless plea in his eyes.

I smiled. "Of course!," I replied and I daintily grabbed the corners of his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose and easing them gently into position even with his eyes. When the task was completed, he smiled and thanked me. Then he proceeded on his journey to find his wife and their ticketed seats.

The Phillies won the game that night. Courtesy and kindness won, too.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another nail in my heart

When did this become the car blog?

One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the "button pressing" part. It used to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a 2024 Subaru, I press a button to start my car.

On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.

More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)

So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.

"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — lightly! — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell which tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.

Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing, she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — sure enough! — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. 

This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.

On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — goddamn! — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind more that a few times. The thought of how dumb and stubborn I was being also crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.

A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... sans "low tire pressure" alert,

No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've been searching so long

Many, many years ago, when my son was little, he and I were in a nearby location of a local chain of home improvement and hardware stores. (When I say "many years ago," I am not exaggerating. My son is nearly 35 years old and the chain closed is last remaining store in 1999.) I rarely venture in to these types of stores, as I don't know the first thing about "home renovations" and "DIY" (aside from that song by Peter Gabriel). Anything more complicated than changing a light bulb will have me phoning someone who regularly straps on a toolbelt before leaving the house.

On this particular trip to the home improvement store, I was probably in search of lightbulbs. But, for some reason that I cannot remember, I was also looking for a simple wire fence that I could put around some flower beds in my yard. If I am not mistaken, Mrs. Pincus had seen them earlier in the week and described them in detail so I could find them in the store. The thing is, if they weren't front and center in a huge featured display in the front of the store, I was going to have a difficult time finding them. You see, I have a personal policy when it comes to shopping. I never — and I mean never, ever ever — ask any employee in any store where a particular item is located. My feeling is justified and I listed the following reasons when I imparted this code to my son.

1. Employees in stores have no idea where anything in their store is located.
2. Employees don't care where anything in their store is located.
3. Employees in stores are not interested in what you are looking for and they don't care if you ever find what you are looking for.

However, after not finding the garden fence in question prominently displayed as soon as I walked through the front entrance, I spotted a young man wearing a nametag and a royal blue apron identifying him as an employees of the store. Against my better judgement, I approached him and asked if he could tell me where the garden fence was stocked, particularly and I launched into a detailed description of the fence, separating my hands to approximate the length and width of each fence section and noting that each piece was embellished with small plastic flowers. The nametagged-and-aproned young man stared at me with a lifeless expression, as though my entire dissertation was delivered in a language other than his native tongue. When I finished speaking, I waited — hopefully — for a helpful, informative response. One that would point me in the direction of the store's vast garden fence department. Instead, his slackened jaw opened just wide enough to say: "Uh, we don't carry that."

I looked at him. I decided not to repeat what I had just asked with even more detail, perhaps some more description that he may have missed in my initial explanation. No. I just walked away. My son and I were going to find the garden fence on our own. We wandered towards the back of the store and located a giant directional sign pointing the way to an outdoor garden department. When the automatic doors parted, the first thing we saw — piled to the ceiling — was an enormous display of the garden fence fitting the description of what my wife explained to me... and what I had just explained to the young man with the nametag and apron. My son and I marveled at the display, shaking our heads as we gathered a dozen or so sections of fence. As we headed to the cash register area, we passed the young man with the nametag and apron. 

"Hey!," I said to him, "The fence is back in the garden department." He looked at me as though he had not seen and spoken with me less than five minutes earlier. After looking at me — silently — for as much time as he deemed necessary, he disappeared down an aisle, no doubt in an effort to avoid any more human contact, be it customer or supervisor.

Yesterday, over a quarter of a century later, my wife went to kill some time in Walmart while I got my haircut at a salon across the street. She made a small list of some things that she knew — for a fact — could be purchased at the mighty retail giant because she had purchased those items there before. There was one item on her list that she was not sure if Walmart carried. Wandering around the store, Mrs. P asked a young woman in an identifying Walmart vest if she could help. She asked the young employee if they carried "craft glue." The woman stared blankly at my wife. "I don't know what that is.," she confessed. Now there are items that, I'll admit, are curiously named. A Philips screwdriver for instance. Explaining this to someone who is not familiar with tools could prove difficult. There are some plumbing components that have misleading names like a "j-bend," "p-trap" or the mysteriously named "ballcock." But "craft glue" is fairly self-explanatory if you understand the meaning of those two words separately... like "chocolate milk." My wife asked a more general question. "Does the store have a craft department?" The question was met with a puzzled expression from the employee. "You know," my wife elaborated, "like glitter and sewing stuff?" The young employee perked up, as she knew the answer to this one. "Yes!," she said, "Yes we do!" 

Well if you know there is a craft department and you just heard the word "craft" in the name of the thing I am looking for... oh never mind.

Mrs. P found the craft glue on her own.

My policy stands firm.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

welcome to the grand illusion

I actually wrote this post almost one year ago to the day. I just never got around to publishing it, Coincidentally, the holiday that I reference — and the subsequent annual celebration — just occurred this past weekend. It is interesting to note that the events that I describe were repeated nearly identically as they had a year ago. This leads me to believe that I could just publish this post every year, at this time, and save myself some writing.

My in-laws had an annual gathering at their house. The occasion was the holiday of Sukkot, a celebration that takes some explaining for the uninitiated. Luckily, I have written about Sukkot before, so you can find the explanation of the holiday here. It may not be the most accurate explanation but, after all, isn't that why you are here? To relish my inaccuracies? If wanted accuracy, you could just "Google" stuff. You're welcome.

Hours before the first guests arrived, my wife was busy in the kitchen. She coordinated a precision "assembly line" of trays filled with hors d'oeuvres. As one tray went into the oven another came out. With the indispensable help of my niece, the process of getting the food prepared for a houseful of hungry people became a regimented ballet. Mrs. P's cousin, an invited guest, even pitched in to plate appetizers and bring them to the serving table. Between the three of them, the place looked inviting and the food was stocked to the delight and appreciation of the multitude of freeloaders guests.

Then there was Simone. Simone was her regular self. She took great care in dishing out the few salads the she brought or prepared there. She sort of shuffled some items around on the kitchen counter, giving the illusion that she was actually doing something constructive or helpful. She checked the status of  the hors d'oeuvres baking in the oven exactly once before retreating to join the rest of the guests that she invited... never setting foot back in the kitchen to see if her assistance was needed.

I have my doubts. 

The table looked beautiful and, thanks to Mrs. P and my darling niece, the food offerings were never sparse. There were mini hot dogs in puff pastry, latkes, sweet and sour meatballs and their vegetarian counterparts (or so I was told) and much much more, including an array of baked goods for which my wife is renowned. At the end of the afternoon, as guests thanked my in-laws and said their farewells, Simone disappeared or faked an injury or some such other bullshit. Mrs. P cleared the serving table, with help from her father and even me. My spouse hand-washed the delicate dishes and loaded the dishwasher with the sturdier plates and utensils. I helped to put away what remnants of leftovers were, well, left over. Simone, spooned her salads back into their containers and loaded them into a bag to take to her home, along with a few bottles of wine that were brought by visitors. She barked for her immediate family and, as they say, "got the fuck out of Dodge,"

Mrs. Pincus made sure her parent's kitchen and dining room looked exactly as it did before a horde of of guests filled the house. Satisfied that everything was in order, we headed home. But first, we thanked my in-laws for hosting. I don't recall Simone doing even that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com