if I can't have you

On Sunday, my wife and I took our son to one of his favorite stores - H Mart. We actually live equidistant from two H Marts, but he chose to go to the larger one. (Just as a side note, the smaller H Mart is the actual one that is referenced in Michelle Zauner's best-selling memoir Crying in H Mart.) Okay, maybe the larger H Mart is a bit further from our house than the one that traumatized the lead singer of Japanese Breakfast, but, nevertheless, we obliged my son and his shopping list and drove the extra mile.

This particular H Mart is at the end of a large, L-shaped shopping center. Closer to where we parked in the very busy, very congested parking lot is a Family Dollar store. When we got out of our car, my son made a beeline towards H Mart, while my wife announced that she was going to check out the Family Dollar store and we would meet up with him shortly. I had never been in a Family Dollar store, despite their having over 8000 locations nationwide. As a matter of fact, before their 2015 acquisition by rival Dollar Tree, Family Dollar was the second largest retailer — of its kind — in the country.... and neither Mrs. P nor I had ever been inside one. Well, that was about to change. As they say, you're never too old to do new things... although I suppose the proverbial "they" were referring to skydiving or learning a foreign language.

Excitedly, we breached the door of Family Dollar and — let me tell you — this place was a shithole of the highest level. I mean it put other shitholes to shame! If they gave awards for shitholes.... well, you get it. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I should have been expecting the same strange amalgamation of mismatched, out-of-fashion, discontinued, brand name knock-off crap that I have seen in other dollar stores. Family Dollar was no different. Its aisles were alternately jammed and empty. Some were stocked with big bottles of laundry detergent whose alternative brand labels were faintly reminiscent of Tide or Cheer. Adjacent aisles sported empty shelves with just one or two items — a pair of generic sneakers and a few cookbooks by a TV chef whose show has not presented new episodes in years — and all sorts of other merchandise littering the floor. The toy department displayed boxes of things that looked like Lego alongside packaged superhero figures from a movie that made its big premiere in theaters for the lucrative Christmas season... the Christmas season of 2019.

Mrs. P, with her keen eye, spotted a small counter display box with PVC figures of characters from the film The Nightmare Before Christmas. These, she thought preemptively, could serve as small gifts for children (neighbors that Mrs. P undeservingly fawns over) or could eventually make it out to one of our world-famous (or neighborhood famous, at least) yard sales — if they were cheap enough. There was a small sticker on each figures' backing card that showed the price as $1.25. Mrs. P grabbed all of them (about eight or nine) and handed me the box to carry as we scouted the store for more "treasures." In the very next aisle, there were hooks of various hair accessories. "Ooh!," my wife said, "I should grab a couple of hair ties for my mom." Mrs. P — as we have already established — is the nicest person in world. She regularly checks in and tends to her parents who are of an advanced age and are not nearly as mobile as they once were. Especially, my mother-in-law. On a regular basis, Mrs. P washes and combs her mother's hair, often tying it back to keep it neat and out of the way. Being the nice person she is, my wife thought some new hair ties would be a sweet surprise for her mom. She selected two different styles and tossed them in the box with the Nightmare figures.

We made our way through the narrow aisles until we decided we had seen enough. (Actually, I had seen enough as soon as I walked through the doorway.) Anyway, we took our small purchases up to the checkout counter and laid them out. We were greeted by a friendly young man who picked up the first figure and waved it across the electric eye of the price scanner. It beeped and the LED readout on the cash register showed ".01." The cashier scrunched up his face at the price and turned to another young man who was by the doors straightening the small shopping carts. The other man craned his neck to see the lighted display. He explained to the cashier, "If something comes up 'just a penny,' that means you can't sell it. It's old merchandise and you just gotta throw it away."

I have been shopping in stores for many, many, many years. I have even worked in my share of retail stores, some on the large chain level and others of the "Mom & Pop" variety. Never — and I do mean never — have I ever been instructed to throw away a perfectly saleable item — in full view of a customer — because a "secret code" price popped up. But this guy stood firm. He was adamant about not letting the cashier sell these figures to us at any price. He stood by as the cashier gathered up the nine or so figures, walked them over to a nearby trash receptacle behind the counter and deposited them with an audible clunk. He returned sheepishly from carrying out his duty as a loyal and abiding employee of  Family Dollar and asked if we still wanted the hair ties. The man who was straightening the shopping carts stood defiantly with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face, silently exuding pride in his flagrant toeing of the corporate line.

"Yes, please," replied Mrs. Pincus and the cashier continued to ring up our remaining item, in this case, just the hair ties. A woman, in some managerial capacity, stood behind the cashier and slowly shook her head in soundless disagreement. Once the now-abbreviated transaction was completed, we left the store. Mrs. P politely held the door for someone who followed us out. It was the manager woman, whose shift for the day had just ended. We all walked out to the parking lot together. The manager woman was still shaking her head, adding a few "tsk tsks" under her breath. Mrs. P chuckled. The woman smiled and said, "I would have sold them to you or just given them to you... if he wasn't there." The "he" was obviously the shopping cart straightener whose job — it appeared — also included loss prevention, inventory control, corporate policy and telling the teacher it was five minutes before three o'clock and homework had not yet been assigned.

We took our purchases — our two purchases — to our car and tossed them in the back among a collection of shopping bags, a few empty boxes and  assorted other items that have accumulated in Mrs. P's vehicle. We went to meet our son in H Mart.

A few days later, Mrs. P asked if the hair ties she bought for her mother ever made it into our house. I said I didn't bring them in and I wasn't sure where they were. She called our son to see if he inadvertently picked them up along with the stuff he bought at H Mart. He had not. Mrs. P looked in the back seat of her car. She looked in the surplus bags. She looked in the boxes. She even checked with her mother's belongings to see if she brought them in to her parents' house and simply forgot. Nope. Nothing.

I am never going to Family Dollar again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

special delivery

Mrs. P has been selling stuff on eBay for years. (For the last time, NO! - she will not sell your stuff for you!) Over the years, she has dealt with unusual customers and unusual requests. One item — a vintage children's rocking horse on a metal frame — was clearly marked on the list page as "LOCAL PICKUP ONLY." After the auction ended, the high bidder inquired about shipping, identifying himself as residing in Ohio. I realize that Ohio is closer to Pennsylvania that say Zimbabwe, but that does not qualify for "local pickup," even in the most relative of senses. After some fevered emailing, the high bidder consented to driving to our home in suburban Philadelphia to pick up their purchase.

Another buyer bought an item — this time it was a wicker baby carriage from the early 20th century — and inquired about shipping. Once again, they interpreted "local pickup" to their own needs. This buyer lived in the area of the Chesapeake Bay. After some email back-and-forth, my wife (the nicest person in the world, as we have previously established) made the offer to deliver the item herself, if the buyer could wait a week when my wife would be visiting family in Northern Virginia. 

I guess, by now, you understand that Mrs. P sells items that fall into the "nonessential" category. Although, based on some of the desperately needy buyers, you'd think she operates a blood bank or a vital organ repository. Poor Mrs. P has been harangued by over-eager buyers negotiating quick delivery for a 30-year-old coloring book as though it were a pint of AB negative blood.

This past week, a potential buyer ("potential" at this point in the story) contacted Mrs. P regarding a particular item in her eBay stock.

TUESDAY 1:20 PM

Mrs. Pincus was contacted by a fellow who is interested in purchasing a pair of wooden crutches. He explained in his email that he needs — needs — these crutches for the weekend. (Let me point out that nobody needs a pair of wooden crutches. The Red Cross does not accept donations of wooden crutches, as they are difficult to disinfect. Lightweight aluminum crutches are the standard now and have been for some time.) Mrs. P acknowledged that several options for delivery could be made, however, because of the unusual size of the item and the immediate need (there's that word again), the cost could run towards the high side. She did not receive any further correspondence from the potential buyer.

WEDNESDAY 11:18 AM

Mrs. Pincus takes it upon herself to contact the potential buyer, offering another option for delivery. The potential buyer lives in New Jersey. North Central New Jersey to be more specific. She offered to meet in a convenient location, as she would be going to an appointment in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, which is actually no where near this guy's location... but, Mrs. P is nice and likes to be as accommodating as possible to make a sale. She received no response.

THURSDAY 9:02 AM

Mr. "I Need Wooden Crutches" sent an email, reiterating his intent to purchase. Although he had not made the actual purchase yet, he listed a number of delivery options including overnight express via the US Postal Service and hiring an Uber driver to pick the crutches up. (This is a service I was not aware Uber offered. To be honest, I have never availed myself of any of Uber's services.) Once again, Mrs. P suggested the "meeting halfway" option, to which he — once again — did not acknowledge,

THURSDAY 12:22 PM

Still no purchase.

THURSDAY 2:10 PM

Still no purchase.

THURSDAY 5:30 PM

The first word in over seven hours arrived. The potential buyer had decided to use the services of Uber to deliver his not-yet-purchased crutches to his location. He requested our address, which Mrs. P wisely will not reveal until a purchase had been made and confirmed.

THURSDAY 8:03 PM

Success! The crutches were purchased! Mrs. P sent our home address to the buyer and he confirmed that an Uber drive will be at our house at approximately 10:30 PM. Some of us (namely me) have to go to work the next day. Usually by 9 o'clock at night, Mrs. Pincus is waking me up on the sofa to go to bed. At this time, Mrs. P began readying the crutches for pick-up. She removed the rubber tips and put them in a small plastic bag. Then, she put the crutches themselves into a large trash bag as far as they would go, tying the bag securely. Then we waited.

THURSDAY 10:24 PM

As I sat dozing on the living room sofa, Mrs. Pincus checked a message on her phone. An automated text message informed her that the Uber driver was just minutes away.

THURSDAY 10:31 PM

A car pulled up in front of our house. Mrs. P woke me up and I ran out to the vehicle, gripping the knotted trash bag with the crutches in one hand. The driver of the car lowered her window and I asked if I should just put the bag in the back seat. The driver smiled and nodded, answering, "Sure" before the driver's window went back up. I opened the back door of the car and was immediately hit with the heavy overpowering aroma of cigarette smoke. I held back a cough, placed the bundled crutches on the seat and slammed the door shut. The car drove off into the darkness of our street.

"I wonder where the crutches are headed now," Mrs. Pincus asked aloud. "I wonder if they are going right to the buyer or if he is picking them up at another location."

"You got paid, right?," I asked.

"Yes.," my wife replied.

"My wondering has ended."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's the story, morning glory?

Would you ask this guy a question? Does this guy look like he wants to answer your questions? Does this guy look like he wants to engage in nonsensical chit-chat with someone he does not know? Does this guy appear to be in any mood to listen to your inane inquiry about something he is purchasing that is none of your goddamn business? Know your audience, my friends. Read the room.

My wife, who has been in the retail business for many years, has this uncanny ability to spot an item that she knows she can turn into quick cash. From a mile away, her senses will draw her to something that, with a little examination and quick calculations, she knows is a good item to sell. Aside from her regular suppliers, Mrs. P often seeks out after-holiday sales, clearance events, as well as the random going-out-of-business sale to buy items that others couldn't sell. She will also do the "leg work" and track down rare and hard-to-get items (limited editions and regional issue stuff) as sort of a service for her loyal customers. And when she buys, she buys big, sometimes filling up several shopping carts with merchandise. Stores are happy to get rid of the stuff, to make room for more stuff that they will price too high and start the cycle all over again. Other customers, who don't buy nearly in the quantities that Mrs. Pincus does, are fascinated to watch someone stock up in the clearance aisle. And, even though it is none of their goddamn business, feel it is perfectly within their rights to ask my wife what she intends to do with all this stuff. Mrs. Pincus — who I maintain is the nicest person on the planet — answers these questions cheerfully, happily and with such utter bullshit that her fellow shoppers are satisfied. They will smile, shake their heads, click their tongues and move on — totally forgetting what they were just told because... honestly.... how is their life affected by what my wife — or anyone else, for that matter — is buying.

I have accompanied my wife on "buying trips" on several occasions. I must physically bite my lip when someone asks (and someone always does): "Oh! So much stuff! What are you going to do with all of this stuff?" And most of the time, each word in this question is dragged out to way more syllables than they normally contain. Mrs. Pincus will reply with a story of a youth group or a kindergarten class or early stocking stuffers (no matter what time of year it is). I, on the other hand, must wander off to another aisle, otherwise I will give a patented Josh Pincus-style smart-ass explanation, resulting in a sneer from the questioner or my wife or (often) both. 

Home of (National League) Champions

Today, Mrs. Pincus was otherwise occupied with a more pressing responsibility and her plans to visit the Team Store at Citizens Bank Park were sidelined. Citizens Bank Park is the home of the 2022 National League Champion Philadelphia Phillies. And, although they didn't win the World Series, an awful lot of merchandise was produced for Major League baseball's beloved Fall Classic. A good portion of these time-sensitive items are taking up precious selling space in the souvenir store and, come spring, anything related to World Series 2022 is as dated as the Revolutionary War. However, not everybody feels that way... and Mrs. Pincus knows it. There are specific items that appeal to specific collectors and those collectors don't always have access to the items they seek. So, not wishing to miss out on a good deal on stuff she can sell, Mrs. P sent me to the ballpark store as her "buying agent." I was instructed as to what merchandise to buy and in what quantities to buy them. I followed the directions I was given, although, left on my own, I would answer any extraneous questions in the manner in which I saw fit. Oh.... there would be questions. There always are.

At the store, I filled up a plastic shopping basket with a large quantity of different designs of baseballs, all emblazoned with the logo of the most recent World Series, as well as the logos of the Phillies and that other team from Houston that actually won the series. My basket was kind of heavy, as it was piled high with a large number of baseballs. A very large number. I made my way to the closest cashier and placed the basket on the countertop. The cashier began counting out the baseballs and ringing up my purchase.

The store only had a few customers. It was two weeks after Christmas on a Saturday afternoon at a ballpark where the next scheduled game was to occur in four months. Not exactly the makings of a big shopping day for baseball memorabilia. One of those customers took her place behind me in line.

And, here it comes...

She was a short, bleached blonde with a curled-lip sneer already plastered across her face. She cleared her throat, and with nicotine-addled vocal cords, croaked out her inquiry regarding my purchase.

"What are you going to doooooo with all those?" 

Approximate location of her house

She pointed a tobacco-yellowed finger in the direction of my now half-empty shopping basket. This woman was typical South Philly. I could picture her setting up two lawn chairs to secure the parking space that her grandson dug out after a recent snowfall. I could imagine her strutting in her living room in front of the television, a four-inch ash hanging off the end of her cigarette, while the Mummers marched across the screen. I could almost hear her defending the New Year's merrymakers for their God-given freedom to wear blackface and make fun of Asians. In my mind, I could see her coming down the front steps of Our Lady of Get the Fuck Off My Front Stoop after attending Christmas Eve services. I may have seen her on the six o'clock news excitedly celebrating when the city was forced by a court order to remove the wooden box that encased the statue of noted enslaver and historical oppressor Christopher Columbus for nearly two years. I'm almost positive that before she got to the store to question me, she had a PBR and a couple of Marlboro Lights for breakfast. And now, she was very concerned about why I was buying 60 baseballs... and my answer better be a good one.

"What are you going to doooooo with all those?"

I turned slightly in her direction and said, "Play baseball."

She sneered more. She wasn't finished. "Are they real baseballs or are they those foam things?" Why are these baseballs of such interest to this woman? 

"I sure hope they are baseballs.," I replied. I looked at her. She was holding a t-shirt on a hanger and a baseball cap, both sporting the familiar Phillies "P" logo.

"What are you going to do with those?" I asked in a monotone as I pointed right back at her.

"Wear 'em!," she answered indignantly. My question, nearly identical to hers, seemed to have insulted her.

She scooted behind me when the other cashier called her over. As she passed behind me, she muttered "Sorry I asked." The three words were dripping in sarcasm.

I didn't see this woman monitoring the purchases of anyone else in the store. I saw a man carrying a Phillies jersey. He wasn't questioned. A woman and a young girl were buying a plush figure of the Phillie Phanatic. They weren't asked to explain their future plans for the toy once they got home. Just me. I was interrogated. I was cross-examined. My intentions were probed by the unofficial representative of Major League Baseball Purchases - National League East Division. And what exactly was she going to do with the information gathered from her little third degree? Do I have a detailed file in some cabinet somewhere south of Ritner Street?

When I left the store with my paid-for purchases, I spotted my personal inquisitor getting into a car that was illegally parked.

Now, I have some questions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

just dumb enough to try

My wife has been selling items on eBay for over a quarter of a century and, as I have said many times before, no! she will not sell your stuff for you. She has enough problems with unreasonable, dim-witted customers that she doesn't need to add to those ranks and receive just a percentage of the selling price for her aggravation. Get it? No? Here's some examples of what poor Mrs. Pincus deals with on a daily basis.

While Mrs. P takes great pride in her packing skills, she is still at the mercy of the simian-like handling of packages by the intrepid (or is that "inept?") United States Postal Service. While she goes to great lengths to make sure delicate and fragile items are secure and protected for shipping, things happen, especially when those things fall into the Neanderthal clutches of the unwashed cretins who are employed by the post office. Just a few days ago, a customer emailed Mrs. P explaining that their recent purchase of a ceramic bowl arrived damaged. This has happened on occasion and while it — technically — is up to the customer to pursue filing a claim and getting a refund for damaged items that carry postal insurance, Mrs. Pincus is only too happy to assist in filing such a claim. This particular customer brought up the notion of filing a claim for the broken item, asking if said claim should be filed with the United States Postal Service, the entity responsible for delivery of the item (and whose carelessness caused the breakage) or UPS, a competing delivery company who, in this case, had absolutely nothing to do with the package. Mrs. Pincus remained professional and guided the customer to the USPS claims website to get the ball rolling. It's a good thing that this customer was not dealing with Mr. Pincus, as things would have taken a decidedly different, a decidedly more sarcastic and condescending route.

The very same day, another eBay customer contacted my wife with a question regarding an item that they had just purchased. Again, they already purchased this item, and were seeking some clarification after the fact. The item in question, as you can see from the eBay auction listing, is a vintage postcard from the Jewish Museum of London depicting a synagogue lamp from the late 1600s. As the listing title clearly states, this is a postcard, originally printed in 1980. The accompanying photograph shows the front of the card, a large photo of the ancient sacred object taking up most of its 4" x 6" image space. The second photo is the reverse side of the postcard, showing the descriptive text identifying the item, its age and a few more details including where the item is currently on display. This postcard is one of several of the same vintage from the Jewish Museum of London that Mrs. Pincus acquired and is offering for sale. She has sold a number of them already. I have circled the word "postcard" on a screenshot of the item listing, to note that this is indeed a postcard that is for sale, although it is painfully obvious.

But, apparently, not to everyone.

The person who bought this postcard (for four dollars and ninety-nine cents plus seventy-five cents for shipping) asked this question regarding the purchase...

Yes, my friends, this is a legitimate question from a buyer.... after... AFTER... making the purchase. This person actually would like to know if they just purchased a seventeenth century, museum-quality, religious artifact for just under five dollars (and less than a dollar for shipping) or... OR... merely a postcard showing a photograph of this item. 

I shit you not!

Did this customer actually think they were getting a three hundred twenty-eight year old synagogue lamp from Damascus for five bucks plus six bits to get it to their front door? Mrs. Pincus stared at the inquiry for a few minutes before answering in the most professional, most diplomatic, most unemotional, most undeserving fashion possible. She replied that this was a postcard, as stated in the title and auction description. Additionally, the item was already shipped earlier in the day and would be received shortly. (Mrs. Pincus is also very conscientious when it comes to expediting shipments in a timely manner.) She anxiously awaits the possibility of a unhappy buyer and the claim of "item not as described" complaint registered with eBay.

This is why Mrs. Pincus will not sell your items on eBay. This is also why I do not answer her emails.

Wanna check out Mrs. Pincus's eBay items? Click HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com