my wife

I remember my first job in the corporate world. After years of working for small, "mom & pop" businesses, I started working in the production department of a large legal publisher. Initially, it was great. It was very structured and very regimented. There were procedures to follow and meetings to attend and a corporate hierarchy to adhere to. Within my department, it was more relaxed. But outside the doors of our small office, there was a specific, though unwritten, protocol that dictated behavior. I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

A few jobs after that, I worked in the main office of a large retailer. I sat in a cubicle in a room filled with a dozen other graphic artists. On a daily basis, we cranked out newspaper advertisements like machines. Here, too, there were meetings and procedures and protocol. Again, I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

After that job, I dove headfirst into the real corporate world. In 2007, I was hired to join the marketing department of a large law firm with offices up and down the East coast. I was the sole graphic designer in a department that consisted of fifteen colleagues. There were tech people and copywriters and event planners and a bunch of people who had the title of "manager" but had no actual staff. I was never quite sure who or what exactly they managed. Over the course of my dozen years at that job, there was a revolving door of perky young ladies who shared one brain among them. They smiled and carried little leatherette portfolios and had meetings with attorneys. I was not sure what they discussed at their meetings. I suppose it was some sort of marketing plan. When any one of them breached my office doorway to explain the sort of informational marketing piece I would need to produce as a result of a meeting, their explanation and instruction was offered to me with all of the articulation of Mushmouth. I could only imagine when these young ladies went out with their friends or attended a family gathering, when asked what they did for a living, they say "I work at a law firm." When further pressed for the nature of their actual job, they'd reply: "Y'know.... work with the lawyers."

There was a guy in my department who also was bestowed with the title of "manager." He may have even been a "senior manager." I wasn't exactly sure what he did either. He butted into everyone else's business. That is, when he wasn't in a meeting. And he was always in a meeting. He had meetings scheduled to cover his entire day. When one would end, he'd hurry down the hall to attend another meeting. Sometimes, he'd have to leave a meeting early so he could be on time for the next meeting on another floor. He had breakfast meetings and lunch meetings. He was always rushing down a hallway with his laptop in one hand and a half-eaten danish or sandwich (depending on the time of day) in the other.

On a monthly basis, our Marketing Department would have its own meeting. These hour-plus affairs were tedious. The standard procedure was to go around the big meeting table and, one-by-one, explain what we are currently working on. There was so much indecipherable corporate jargon tossed about, one would have thought it was an English as a Second Language class. Most of the time, I had absolutely no clue what was being discussed. The metaphors and symbolism where confusing. Phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical advertising" were bandied about like they were included in everyday conversation. One guy — the meeting guy — would even mix metaphors to make things even more obscure. He'd say things like "herding ducks" and "getting our cats in a row." And then he'd rush off to another meeting before what he said could sink in.

But even with all the corporate policies and structure and protocol, there was one thing I absolutely hated — hated! — about the corporate world.

The one and only.

I got married in 1984. This summer, my wife and I will celebrate our forty-first wedding anniversary. I love my wife. She is my companion. She is my best friend. She is the one person I can always count on for anything. We have been together for so long, one of us sometimes speaks what the other one is thinking. Like Anna and Hans (before he was revealed to be a jerk), we finish each others sandwiches. We're like Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Like Rufus T. Firefly and Mrs. Teasdale. Like Catherine and Heathcliff (if they end up together at the end of that book. I actually never read it.) We're like Calvin Coolidge. Put together! We have so much in common. I'll say it again, she is my wife. My only wife.

There is a term within the corporate world that angers me. It infuriates me. It makes be cringe. I don't find it funny or cute or endearing. As a matter of fact, I find it stupid and demeaning and insulting. The term I am referring to is "work wife." Eeechhh! Just typing it makes my blood both boil and run cold. I don't know who coined that disgusting phrase, but I curse them! 

Over the course of several jobs in the corporate world, I have had a few female colleagues to whom the term "work wife" was applied. These were women with whom I had a close working relationship. There were a couple with whom I could commiserate over a lame decision made by a superior or some dumb new corporate policy. Others were fellow artists who could help with a new perspective on a difficult task or offer a different way to tackle a problem. I would sometimes go out for lunch with these female co-workers and think nothing of it. It would be no different than going out for a bite with a male co-worker. But, there are folks within the corporate world who can't keep their fucking mouths shut and who feel the need to stir the fucking pot, creating "controversy" where none exists. 

The term "work wife" is supposed to be cute and and little dangerous in a playful sort of way. I find it dangerous in a dangerous sort of way. I am not one of those people who hides things from my wife. I don't sneak anything behind my wife's back. I don't say things like: "Oh don't tell my wife!" or "I hope my wife doesn't find out." My marriage is not a sit-com. I am not Ralph Kramden trying to keep another hare-brained scheme from Alice. But there are certain people in the corporate world who think that scenario is funny. But, it is only funny on TV. They like to hint at more than just a friendship... which, of course, was ludicrous (as well as nobody's goddamn business anyway). But, that's how the rumor mill grinds in the corporate world.

I have actually had co-workers refer to a female co-worker as my "work wife" right to my face... even after I have expressed my feelings towards the term. To all of my female former co-workers who have been labeled my "work wife," please understand that it was not me doing the labeling. While I enjoyed our friendship and our relationship as working colleagues, I have just one wife. Just one. And she's probably checking this blog post for typos right now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it was just my imagination

I have known Mrs. Pincus for 42 years. We have been married for 40 of those years. I don't mean to brag, but, I have never in my life met a more compatible couple than the two of us. That sounds like a pretty nice compliment, although it could just as well be interpreted as no one else could possibly get along with either one of us for that period of time. Eh... let's just go with the compliment.

Even though we didn't meet each other until we were in our early 20s, we had similar experiences growing up. We had completely different family dynamics. I lived in a working-class neighborhood in the far reaches (although still within the geographical boundaries) of the city limits. She lived in a decidedly more affluent suburb. Her father was gregarious and often anxious to take the family on regular vacations. My father never wanted to go anywhere. Our last vacation taken as a family was when I was seven. After that, I was on my own for travel plans. But, locally, Mrs. Pincus (before she was "Mrs. Pincus") and I (I was still me) went to a lot of the same restaurants, a lot of the same movie theaters, a lot of the same department stores and some of the same local entertainment complexes.

Philadelphia is in close proximity to Hershey Park, home of the world-renowned Hershey candy factory. When I was little, there was a small amusement park near the factory. Back then, visitors were permitted to tour the actual factory and see actual vats of boiling hot chocolate until someone realized that this was not a good idea. A simulated tour was constructed and the small amusement park expanded. My parents took me there. We also went to a tiny amusement park about ten minutes from my house where six-year-old Josh Pincus thrilled to kiddie rides years and years before Walt Disney World was conceived. The future Mrs. P also went to this amusement park as a child. Perhaps we crossed paths and didn't even know it.

The alleged location

Over the years, my wife and I  have had many conversations, reminiscing about the different places we visited as children. Those conversations always — always! — feature a mention of a place called Care City. Care City, according to my wife, was a small amusement park in small town called East Norriton, Pennsylvania — a tiny municipality in Montgomery County that I didn't know existed until I moved into Montgomery County when I got married. Care City, as Mrs. P recalls, was comprised of mostly kiddie rides, including kiddie swings that were pulled by a pony. Mrs. Pincus gets misty-eyed when she talks about Care City, staring off into the distance, visualizing childhood memories of tiny merry-go-rounds and small boats that went in circles in a real pool of water and, of course, those swings. The conversation usually winds up somewhere else. Mainly because, I kind of steer it someplace else. You see, before I met my wife, I never heard of Care City. No one I knew ever heard of Care City. A simple "Google" search yields no evidence online about Care City. I started to believe that Care City was not a real place and that it only existed in my wife's memory.

A week or so ago, we were out with my son and his girlfriend on a fairly long car trip. Our conversation bounced around from subject to subject until Care City breached the conversation. My wife started to explain to my son's girlfriend all about the wonderous Care City, until I interjected with a typical "Josh Pincus" curveball. "Alleged Care City," I announced with a palpable tone of skepticism in my voice. Mrs. P frowned, dismissively countering that "Josh doesn't believe Care City existed."

Exhibit A

My wife has been clearing out stuff from her parents' house in a futile effort to get them to move to a dwelling more manageable for folks of their advanced age. Tucked away in a pile of assorted and unrelated papers, Mrs. P discovered a merchandise bag from — you guessed it! — Care City! It was yellowed and, at some point she had written on it and glued some construction paper squares on it, but there were the big. bold letters proclaiming this non-existent locale as well as the specifics of its location and a few highlights of one's visit to the place (like a delicacy known as "French Fried Hot Dogs"). She proudly brought this bag home to show me... and by "show me" I, of course, mean waving it in my face. But that was not the end of the Care City saga. Not by a long shot. Josh Pincus still needed some shuttin' up.

On Saturday, we had dinner with our friends Consuelo and Cookie. Consuelo grew up right near East Norriton. Mrs. P asked her about Care City, until she realized that Consuelo is 15 years younger than we are and Care City did not exist in her lifetime. (Until recently, I didn't think it existed in anyone's lifetime!) My wife's explanation of Care City was something of an inspiration for Consuelo. After dinner, she immediately posted in an East Norriton Facebook group (well, of course there's one!) asking some of the older members of the group for any information about Care City.

The comments and responses exploded! Evidently, Care City held a special place in the collective memory of many... not just Mrs. P. One person elaborated that it was situated on land owned by the Care family and a different family owned, operated and maintained the rides. At last count, over 40 different people shared their fond memories of beloved Care City with details and anecdotes as clear and concise as though it still occupies the northwest corner of Germantown and Dekalb Pikes. Of course, it doesn't.

But it did. It really did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

glad all over

While watching a DVRed episode of Jeopardy! a few evenings ago, my wife pointed out an ad for Glad® trash bags as I fast-forwarded through the commercial breaks. I stopped and backed the programming up to the beginning of the commercial to watch.

A man is sitting alongside a trash can in, what appears to be, his house. He explains to the viewing audience, in a very serious tone, that his wife has convinced him to become a devout vegetarian. Then a sly smile spreads across his lips and he arches one eyebrow. "Except on Ladies' Night.," he adds. He is then shown dumping the remains of a barbecue dinner into a Glad® "ForceFlex trash bag. There are dozens of long rib bones — browned, cleaned of meat and glistening with bits of red barbecue sauce, followed by several paper plates — greasy and stained with the same sauce. Finally, the last items into the bag are scads of crumpled paper napkins, all smeared with more sauce. It is implied that when this man's wife goes out with her friends on "Ladies' Night," he sneaks in a large mess o' ribs, disposing of the evidence in an opaque trash bag before she discovers his charade. She believes he is maintaining his aforementioned "vegetarian status," and, thanks to the good folks at Glad®, she's none the wiser. The commercial ends with the man dropping the tied-up bag into the outside trash receptacle as his wife pulls up in the car, the headlights illuminating the bag, but the incriminating contents remaining hidden.

While I certainly understand the gist of this ad, I didn't like its "humorous" approach at the expense of faithful husbands and vegetarians everywhere. So, I did what every outraged consumer does in this era of technology, convenience and laziness. I took to Twitter. I whipped out my phone, opened up the Twitter app and punched this message to the Glad® company:

I was careful to note that I was offended by the ad apparently condoning deceptive behavior and lying to one's spouse, as well as the not-so-subtle dig at vegetarians. All that and the fact that Glad® was offering its product as an accessory to the "crime." Of course, my "anger" was exaggerated, but, still, I wanted Glad® to know how misguided I felt their message was.

The next morning, I got this reply from the Glad® Twitter account:

Really? They needed me to send them a link to their own commercial?  I suppose the Twitter account at Glad® is manned by some college intern following detailed instruction in standard, generic customer service procedure. A quick search of YouTube resulted in a truncated version of the thirty second TV spot, but the sentiment was the same. I replied:

Soon, I received this reply to my reply:

What? That's how you handle a customer who has been offended by your company's advertising message? It wasn't over, as far as I was concerned. I shot back with this:

I received no further response from Glad®. I'm still waiting.

I don't really buy Glad® trash bags anyway. I'm just a troublemaker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

honeymoon with B troop

I wrote this story nearly eight years ago and it appeared on my illustration blog. Since I am on vacation with my spouse of thirty-three years, I thought I'd share this tale of our honeymoon. It's one of my favorites.                                                            

Let's get something straight. Men are idiots. They are bumbling awkward misfits who should be eternally grateful that women take enough pity on them to disrupt their own self-fortitude and take them as their husbands. As my 27th wedding anniversary draws near, I am reminded of how my own dear wife ignored all of the idiotic warning signs I displayed on our honeymoon and stuck it out with me for over a quarter of a century.

In the early morning hours of July 15, 1984, while the USFL champion Philadelphia Stars were embarking on their celebratory march down Broad Street, the new Mrs. Pincus and I were readying ourselves for our first trip as husband and wife. We crammed our suitcases into the tiny hatchback of our Datsun 200SX and pulled out of the parking garage of Philadelphia's Hershey Hotel (now a DoubleTree), where we spent our wedding night. Being children at heart (some more than others), our destination was Walt Disney World, the perennial mecca of pretend, just outside of Orlando, Florida.

As we ate up the distance on our 990-mile journey, our conversation bounced about from our wedding the previous night to the plans for our vacation-at-hand. Playing the part of navigator, I deciphered the TripTik as my "better-half" helmed our automobile — music blasting out of the rolled-down windows. We made several stops along the way to quench my new bride's thirst for new shopping experiences. I believe we patronized every Stuckey's and Cracker Barrel between Philadelphia and North Carolina, checking out the tchotchkes  and souvenirs and stocking up on pecan log rolls and locally-distributed soft drinks along the way. Convinced we were making excellent time, we called it a day at a Quality Inn in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, just south of the Virginia border. We were given a room that faced the parking lot and offered an inviting view of an Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, which — based on the remoteness of our accommodations — would, no doubt, be our dining choice for the evening. We hurriedly stashed our luggage in our room. Our short walk across the gravel parking lot was quickly interrupted by a tiny kitten who was wandering around the walkway in front of our car. My wife, a sucker for a cute, pink-nosed, whiskered face — and cats, — immediately envisioned the feline as our traveling companion for the remainder of our trip. I explained how that idea was not a great one considering — well, considering everything — the drive, our reservations in Florida — everything!  A brief discussion yielded an amicable compromise. We decided to bring some small containers of coffee creamer to give to the cat when we returned after dinner.

Several stacks of pancakes later, we took the return stroll across the crushed-stone lot to our hotel. My wife remembered to grab a handful of pre-portioned cream containers, but as we approached the lighted area around our door, there was no sign of the little cat. I pulled back the foil lid on one of the small plastic cups and set it on the ground, allowing easy access to its pseudo-dairy contents. We patiently waited, craning our necks and scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of the cat. Our futile search lasted several more minutes until we finally retired to the confines of our evening's lodging.

An hour or so later, my wife became curious about our feline friend. She asked me to glance outside to see if the puss had come to investigate the processed cow juice we had left for him. Obediently, I parted the curtain and leaned toward the window. As I did, a face leaned in toward me, its head cocked at the same inquisitive angle as mine. Startled, I jumped and hastily threw the curtains back to their concealing position. My wife, shaken, asked what the matter was. I whipped around and said, "Someone was looking in our room at the same time I was looking out." I trailed off, realizing what had just transpired. Mrs. Pincus started blankly at me, her arms folded across her chest and that look  I would soon become very well-acquainted with across her face. Once my initial panic subsided, I realized that the guy I saw peering into our room had a certain familiarity to him. He wore the same glasses and the same shirt as me. He also had the same hair, though parted on the other side. It was at that moment the entire episode crystallized. The combination of the brightly-lit room and the darkness outside coupled with the opaque barrier created by the enshrouding curtains caused the window to take on the characteristics of a mirror. I sunk in the embarrassing affirmation that I had just been frightened by my own reflection. In front of my wife of thirty-six hours, no less.

The next morning, the incident was not subject to further discussion or analysis. I loaded our bags back into the car and we silently restarted our southbound course. However, within minutes, we were, once again, laughing and talking on the open road. Soon, we reached the sun-drenched expanses of central Florida. We plunged into a week's worth of fun and excitement, leaving my display of bonehead behavior a distant (but not forgotten) memory.

Our time in Disney World wound to a close and we began the long trek back to Philadelphia and to the new world of domestic marital bliss. Our trusty map from Triple A directed us to a more scenic homeward route. Veering off of I-95 just north of the Georgia border, we traveled through towns that could have doubled for the ramshackle settings of Erskine Caldwell's Tobacco Road.  At one point, we stopped for gas and, as I dispensed the fuel from the tall, glass-globe topped pump, Mrs. Pincus went to pay in the dilapidated shack that served as an office. She came out chuckling and told of two men playing checkers on a barrel top and how payment was accepted by a Jed Clampett look-alike who was leaning on huge jar proudly labeled "pickled pig's knuckles."

Our drive up Route 17 was long and tedious and, aside from several enormous tobacco fields, far from scenic. My watch ticked past midnight and the hotel offerings were separated by more and more emptiness. Finally, an ethereally-lit Ramada Inn shone like a beacon in the otherwise sleepy hamlet of New Bern, North Carolina. My wife navigated our vehicle just under the carport by the lobby entrance and I hopped out to check the availability of a room for the night. I pulled on the door and, despite obvious activity in the illuminated lobby, it was locked. I could see a burly man jogging from behind the reception desk and heading toward the door. Several other people inside glanced in my direction without changing their positions. As the man drew nearer, the gun jammed in his shoulder holster came into view. "Holy shit!," I thought, "I'm interrupting a robbery!" Frozen in my shoes, I quickly turned to Mrs. Pincus still seated behind the wheel of our idling car. I was about to mouth "Help!" to her, when the man unlocked the door and identified himself as a security officer, explaining that they keep the door locked at such a late hour. I inquired about a place to crash for the night and was informed that a lone room was available. I paid and was handed the keys (actual keys — this was 1984). I ran out to grab our suitcase. A minute later, Mrs. Pincus and I boarded the elevator.

Exiting at the proper floor, we located the room number corresponding to the oversized plastic fob to which the key was attached. I turned the key in the knob, reached inside the slightly opened door and flicked on a light switch. I swung the door fully open and, ahead of me, the television flickered with life. The bed was blocked from view by a wall, but I know an "on" TV when I see one. And an "on" TV usually means someone is watching it. I slowly closed the door and whispered to my wife, "I think there is someone in the room!  The TV  is on!"  Could the front desk have made an error? Did they lose track and book us into an occupied room? I opened the door again and called out "Hello?" No reply. I called again. "Is anyone here?" Again, there was no reply. I instructed my wife to wait in the hall. I entered the room. The TV blared. The bed was made and undisturbed. I cautiously swept my extended arm across the heavy, drawn curtains — in case a possible intruder had learned their lesson in camouflage from a 1940s detective movie. Satisfied that the curtains were not disguising any thugs, I dropped to my knees and checked under the bed. Coming up empty, I bounded into the small bathroom and gave the shower curtain a good shake. Echoing the words of Zelda Rubenstein in Poltergeist,  I announced to my spouse, "This room is clean" and welcomed her in. We were both exhausted but, although I had given the room a thorough once-over, we slept uneasily until morning.

I woke early. My wife awakened as I was dressing. I sat on the edge of the bed and while I pulled a sock onto my foot, the TV suddenly switched on. Then, it switched off. Then, on again. Rattled, I turned around to Mrs. Pincus and asked, "What's going on?" She answered, "I wanted to see what this controlled,"and pointed to an odd-looking light switch on the wall next to the bed. It differed from the other switches in the room, in that it was surrounded by a tarnished metal back plate and not the standard, cream-colored plastic. She flicked the switch several more times and the television screen brightened and darkened in the same sequence."Hey," I began my revelation, "there's a switch just like that next to the door." — I trailed off just like I did in another hotel room a little over a week ago. Again, my foolishness came to the forefront, as I slowly comprehended that I  had turned the TV on the previous night when I opened the door and reached for a light switch. Now, I was facing the big mirror over the dresser. I didn't need to turn around. Mrs. Pincus's reflection was giving me the look.

We silently finished our packing and headed to our car.

July 2011 marks 27 years of a marriage that has overcome the demonstrations of stupidity that book-ended our honeymoon. I know I am not alone in my struggle for consistent intelligent thinking. But, I am  in the minority of those who will admit to it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the ties that bind

I had a very lengthy blog post all set and ready to publish this morning. But I will not. I will publish this one instead.

My original story was long, detailed and pretty pointed in its references. However, last night, I read it to my wife in its pre-publication form. Aside from the numerous typos and grammatical errors (that I have yet to correct) and one totally cringe-worthy reference to Buchenwald, she felt the subject matter may be detrimental to an already fragile relationship with some of the parties of whom I referenced. "Poking the bear" were her actual words. I thought about it and thought about it some more. I decided not to publish my original post out of respect and love. I was not at all concerned about offending anyone that I alluded to in my story. No, I decided to leave the post in my "Drafts" folder purely and solely out of respect and love for my wife.

My wife has a very close relationship with her family. She always has. It was something that, when I met her, was foreign to me. Sure, I loved my parents and my brother growing up, but the level of togetherness and interaction displayed by my wife for her family was something that I never, ever witnessed before. I still haven't. Even through good times and bad times, happy and sad, my wife has remained loyal and loving and devoted to her family.

So, based on Mrs. P's feelings and my feelings for Mrs. P, you are just going to have to wait until I die and my unpublished blogs are published. 

Oh, and there's a really good one I wrote in 2014 about an awful experience I had at a Ruby Tuesday's. But, that one will have to wait as well.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com