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

rescue me

This may surprise you, but I go to work to work. Over the years and over many, many jobs, I have pretty much kept to myself. I like to think that I am a diligent, focused worker and my prime concern when I am at work is to work — to do the job that I am being paid to do. I have had a few jobs where I became friendly with my co-workers and — to be honest — that took a bit of adjustment time. I never looked at work as a social situation. I never considered my "co-workers" to be my "friends." They certainly weren't my enemies (except for the few that actually were). I maintained a cordial, business relationship with my co-workers and the majority of my discussions with co-workers were business-related. I didn't socialize with my co-workers. As a matter of fact, I never even considered socializing with my co-workers. I will admit that, in the few rare instances when I let my guard down, I have maintained some friendships that carried on long past the time I spent at the particular job during which I first made them. (I just attended a birthday party for a close friend that started out as just a co-worker at I job I had five jobs ago.)

In my defense, one of the reasons I had not attempted to cultivate friendships with my co-workers is the nature of my chosen profession. I have been working in and out of the commercial printing industry with the better part of forty years. For those of you unfamiliar with the commercial printing industry, I can tell you that it employs the absolute scum of the earth and lowest of the low that society has to offer. The commercial printing industry is chockful of dopes, idiots and morons... and that's being kind. Those of you who either work in or have dealings with commercial printers know what I am talking about. If you disagree with me, well, you are the person I just described.

At my current job, I rarely (if ever) speak to my co-workers. I will only talk to any of then if it pertains to print dates or the design of an ad. Otherwise, I have work to do. I don't have time for mindless chit-chat with a bunch of people who — despite three years of employment — I don't know their last names. Conversely, my co-workers know nothing about me. They know I live in Pennsylvania. (I work in New Jersey.) If they are observant, they have seen a wedding ring on my left hand, so, if they have a brain in their heads, they can assume I am married. But, I don't think any of them know my wife's first name or if I have any children... and that's just fine with me.

The commercial printer I work for produces full color advertisements for supermarkets of all sizes. Personally, I am responsible for the layout and production of the ads for two markets — an on-going assignment that keeps me busy week in and week out. Recently, the company acquired the account of a chain of markets in the New York area whose ads they would like me to produce. In order for me to do this, they hired a new graphic artist whom I was tasked to train to take over one of my more needy, more cumbersome clients. (That's a story for another blog.) The new artist is a very quiet young lady. On her first day on the job, she sat attentively by my side while I offered a detailed "play-by-play" narration of how to layout the ad that would eventually be passed on to her. I talked and talked and explained and illuminated while she furiously scribbled notes in a notebook. Every so often, she would politely interrupt my barrage of instruction to ask for clarification, but overall, I talked and she listened. This method proved very successful. I the subsequent weeks, Kathy (the new artist) had taken over the ad like a pro. Her questions came few and far between and her work output was fast, efficient, accurate and professional. My watchful eye became relaxed as I realized that she no longer required regular supervision. A few times, she would ask for specific layout advice, but, overall, she was working independently and that was the goal.

A few days ago, I was obligated (I think) to attend a holiday get-together for my immediate co-workers  — the ones in my department. When this little soiree was first proposed, I thought that I would rather have root canal sans anesthesia, than sit in a restaurant with a bunch of people I didn't really know and didn't want to really know. But, I went.

Midway through dinner, I glanced around the table and noticed that a few co-workers were missing. Theresa, who organized this thing, was sitting next to me. Theresa is a particularly loud co-worker who was probably on the property when construction began on my employer's building, so they just built around her. I turned to Theresa and — against my better judgement — initiated a conversation.

"I noticed," I began to Theresa as I gestured towards my co-workers at the long table, most of whom are close to my own age., "that some of the kids aren't here." By "kids," of course, I was referring to several new hires who appear to still be a few years from their thirtieth birthday, Theresa frowned and with a throaty, nicotine-tinged voice, said, "Yeah, none of them wanted to come." Then, she said with an accusatory tone, "What's up with that Kathy girl?" Theresa seethed a bit when she pronounced Kathy's name. 

"What do you mean?" I asked. I couldn't believe I was furthering the conversation.

Theresa leaned right in. "There's definitely something wrong with her." 

"She is shy.," I replied.

"Oh no!," Theresa barked, "She's more that just shy! She's socially awkward. I looked right at her and she won't even say 'hello!' She's weird."

"Show me an artist that isn't socially awkward!" I began with a little levity, but I felt I couldn't let Theresa get away with her loudmouth, unwarranted condemnation of someone who I felt was doing a pretty good job — and wasn't there to defend herself. "Kathy happens to be doing a very good job on the ad she took over. She knows what she's doing and she needs no supervision anymore. Sure, she's quiet, but she's there to do a job and she is doing that job." I concluded my defense of Kathy by adding, "Besides, Theresa... I don't say 'hello' to you either."

Theresa laughed nervously and promptly changed the subject.

The next day at work, my boss was making the bi-weekly rounds of distributing paystubs. He stopped at my desk and thanked me for sticking up for Kathy's work practices. He also expressed his displeasure, deeming Theresa's comments as "out of line," considering she has absolutely no work-related interaction with Kathy. 

I smiled and went back to work... because I had work to do.

Footnote to this story: Kathy tendered her resignation after two months of employment. I hope Theresa is happy.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

psychedelic shack, that's where it's at

Although I am the progeny of two Jewish parents and come from a long, Jewish lineage, my family was hardly what you would call "observant." Actually, we were hardly what you'd call "Jews." I was effectually aware of the popular Jewish holidays — Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and the lesser, though way more fun, Chanukah. As far as I was concerned, these were justified days off from school. Evidently, my people's struggle under a sadistic and malevolent Pharaoh earned me a couple of skipped sessions of third grade. There were other holidays, too — Simchat Torah, Shemini Atzeret (and maybe Ramadan... maybe not). If it meant a day at home watching cartoons and Let's Make a Deal, then I was all for it. 

I rarely attended synagogue. We had a single box of matzo on Passover, but the ubiquitous loaf of bread still maintained its rightful place on our kitchen table. We exchanged Chanukah gifts on December 25. But, we knew we were Jews, and not just because it was regularly pointed out by some of our anti-Semitic neighbors.

When Mrs. Pincus stepped into my life thirty-one years ago, I was introduced to the deep-rooted customs of traditional Judaism. I'm talking two sets of dishes and silverware, no pork chops, shrimp or cheeseburgers, Friday night candle-lighting followed by Ha Motzi (blessing) over wine and challah and you didn't turn the TV on during yom tov (holidays). My new in-laws weren't fucking around, either. They followed some pretty hardcore rules! It was a bit intimidating — coming from my background. My father-in-law went to synagogue any chance he could, without even being told! And not just on holidays! And he enjoyed it! And, he knew all the proper litany and accompanying gestures without the aid of a prayer book. Holy crap (no pun intended), what was I in for? But, as the years went on, I became more accustomed to the practices, even intrigued and fascinated by the history and origins connected to the rituals. I learned far more than I ever did from a yearly viewing of The Ten Commandments on television.

In the fall, as the weather moved from warm to cool and Rosh Hashanah was a memory, preparations are made for the observance of Sukkot, The Feast of Tabernacles. The seven-day festival (eight, if you live outside of Israel — out amongst the English), commencing on the fifteenth day of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, celebrates (according to the Book of Exodus) "the end of the year when you gather in your labors out of the field." It's essentially a week-long harvest party. The celebration includes eating your meals in a sukkah or "booth". Contemporary Jews erect a temporary structure that mimics the fragile dwellings inhabited by the Jews as they traipsed across the desert as freed slaves. My in-laws annually build a sukkah on a tract of land adjacent to their house that draws visitors from across several suburban municipalities. Sitting at the top of a sloping lawn and visible from the street, their sukkah evokes comments ranging from "beautiful" and "inspiring" to "ugh, they're putting up that friggin' shed again!"

For over twenty-five years, I actively and dutifully participated in the construction of the sukkah. My father-in-law fashioned an ingenious "sukkah kit" out of stockade fence sections, metal mending plates and several dozen carriage bolts. The fence-piece walls are fastened together with the mending plates and bolts until they formed an oblong enclosure reminiscent of a frontier U.S. Cavalry fort (like the one on F Troop, but smaller). With a construction crew that has changed and evolved over the years (brothers-in-law, children, cousins and the occasional neighbor), the sukkah goes up in just under ninety minutes, sometimes slowed by a misplaced wrench, a power-drained cordless drill or in-fighting among the help. 

Once the structure is shored-up with sturdy two-by-fours, the real work begins. Mrs. Pincus works her magic and transforms that eight foot by twelve foot overgrown dog run into a breathtaking collage of fruits, leaves, flowers, lights and an array of decorations acquired over a span of many years. She does this almost single-handedly and the result is a labor of love that is truly evident and truly spectacular.

The first few years of putting up the sukkah were novel for me. I had never seen one before, let alone participated in its assembly. Once completed, and Mrs. P's astonishing metamorphosis finalized, I was proud to flaunt photos to my then-boss and co-workers. At the time, I worked at a small graphics studio that was owned and operated by a very nice woman who, had she not gone into the printing production business, would have — no doubt — become a nun. I often referred to her as "Sister Mary Graphics." One October morning in the early 1990s, I arrived at work with a stack of glossy photographs of the newly-built and decorated sukkah with which to educate and even show off. Sister Mary and an equally-Gentile co-worker examined the snapshots with wide eyes as I described the scene. Had the pictures not displayed a colorful burst of autumn foliage and produce subtly illuminated by carefully placed spotlights, you'd have thought they were viewing an autopsy.

"You eat your meals in this... this... room?," began Sister Mary, her head cocked to one side, her sensibly-short blond hair tousling about as she shook it from side to side. "And you decorate it with fruit and vegetables hanging on the walls?" Her face twisted into a dismissive scowl, as though I had just vomited on her shoes.

I countered, forcing a mock-puzzled look across my face. "You mean to tell me that every December, you drag a tree into your living room and put lights all over it and presents underneath it? Hey, at least we Jews have the sense to leave our trees out in the backyard where they belong!"

She failed to see the humor.

Over the years, my once-resolute feelings towards organized religion have waned. I no longer attend (and actually scorn) synagogue or services of any kind. I question the validity of so-called miraculous occurrences and the authenticity of Biblical parables that I can't discern from children's fairy tales. My faith and beliefs have given way to the cynicism brought on by habitual mistrust and the lack of consideration I see exhibited by my fellow human.

I will say, however, that Mrs. P has outdone herself on this year's sukkah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

take the skinheads bowling

"Let's see... who haven't I offended yet? Hmmm... I've covered old people, dog owners, plumbers, commuters, students, residents of Las Vegas, people with tattoos, Dick Van Dyke's wife, followers of religion and even members of my extended family. How about if I offend bowlers now? Yeah, that's a good idea." — JPiC

I hate bowling. It's a stupid sport, if it can even be called a sport. I don't understand how professional bowlers (y'know, those crew-cut sporting guys you see on Saturday afternoon TV with that big leather apparatus strapped to their wrists) don't get a strike every time they bowl. They are professionals, after all. It's not like baseball or football, where there are other players on the field trying to stop you from scoring. It's not like weather conditions are a concerning factor. The alleys are all the same length and width. The pins are all the same size and the same distance from the foul line and they are always set up in the same configuration. It's not like billiards, where you have no control over the break or how your opponent breaks. Each bowler plays each frame by himself. Plus, every pro bowler has his own ball. HIS OWN BALL! It's a clear 60-foot shot from one end of the alley down to the pins. No obstacles. No rough. No traps. No goalie. No defensive linemen trying to deflect your shot or cross-checking you. If you're a professional, you should be knocking those pins down with your eyes closed every single time, thus making bowling an even more boring activity than it already is.

Years ago, when my son was little and I was still on speaking terms with my sister-in-law, we were all making plans for New Years Eve. My sister-in-law told my wife that her family tradition always included a full evening of bowling to welcome the new year.

"That sounds like fun!," my wife said, smiling cheerfully.

I interrupted. "Perhaps you didn't hear the same thing I heard. None of that sounds remotely 'like fun'"

Last week, a super secret special outing was announced as a social experience for the members of my department at work. In the few days prior to the actual event, there was much speculation as to what it would be. On the morning of "the big day," it was revealed that we, as a group, would be going bowling.

"Oh great!," I said before a packed conference room after our weekly department meeting, "Two things I can't stand: bowling and my co-workers." "Not you guys, of course.," I quickly added.

So, that afternoon, I found myself in a dimly-lit bowling alley surrounded by my jovial co-workers - forced to participate in the futility of toppling pear-shaped blocks of maple with a 13-pound urethane sphere. Luckily, there was pizza.

My first attempt ended in the gutter. So did my second. And my third. In the fourth frame, I managed to wing the 7 pin before my ball disappeared into the mysterious reaches of "whatever goes on beyond the pins." So, with a score of "1" at the midway point, I took my game into the home stretch. In frame eight, I miraculously eked out a strike while simultaneously fucking up the third finger on my right hand. I released the ball and my finger slipped from the drilled hole at an unnatural angle. Perhaps it was some stray pizza cheese or excess grease from the french fries (which were also pretty good). Whatever the cause, my finger began to swell like an inflated balloon. I gripped an ice-filled glass and bitched a little out loud, but I was a good sport and I continued to play two more complete games.

At the conclusion of our little jaunt - as much as I hate to admit it - I actually had fun. We joked and laughed and mock-insulted each other. And, we blew off working for three hours. I didn't even give much consideration to the thousands and thousands of people who wore those rented shoes before I did.

I still don't see myself bowling anytime soon. Unless, of course, my boss requires it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

chain chain chain... chain of fools

LinkedIn.com has confused me ever since my friend (and one-time supervisor) Diane introduced me to it several years ago. I'm not sure what it wants to be. Does it want to be a networking tool for professionals? Does it want to muscle in on the social aspects of Facebook? Who knows? I don't think even LinkedIn is sure. What I do know is: when I asked my 25 year-old son if he has joined LinkedIn, now that he has officially entered the working world with his first real-live, full-time job, he said, "LinkedIn? LinkedIn is for old people." Out of the mouths of babes.

This past Thursday, as it turns out, was deemed "Josh Pincus LinkedIn Day." I had sent a message to one of my "connections" (as LinkedIn likes to have members call other members, much the same way that Disney insists on calling paying customers "guests") hoping to meet him for lunch. Based on his LinkedIn profile, I was under the impression that he worked not too far from where I worked. I found out that he does not, in fact, work near me, but would like to meet for lunch just the same. Thursday afternoon (actually into the evening) was spent in a rabid email frenzy, finally achieving success in our plans around 11 pm.

My Thursday correspondences for luncheon plans were interspersed with a few endorsements from another LinkedIn "connection" (if you were paying attention, you already know what a "connection" is in LinkedIn lingo). In its early days, LinkedIn allowed members to write recommendations for their connections. A member could sing the praises of a current or former business colleague in a few brief sentences. Now, it seems, that writing takes too much thought and time for the typical LinkedIn user. So, LinkedIn has introduced a system of easily clickable recommendations that take the place of that cumbersome, time-sucking, thought-powered writing! Want to tell the world about a connection's skills in... in.... shit! who knows what they are capable of?!? And what difference does it make anyway? Just click on areas of expertise as they pop up (it's sort of like a business shooting gallery!), whether your connection is qualified or not. No prospective employer is reading this crap anyway. My endorsement was in the area of "concept development," and it came from a guy I worked with for about six months at a job I had seven years ago. He was a real nice guy and we even attended the same art school, although I graduated when he was four years old. I sent him an email to express my appreciation for the kind endorsement:

I don't know what the fuck "Concept Development" is, but if you think I'm an expert in it, that's good enough for me.

JP

He replied with:

Nice to hear from you too ass hole. Ok maybe concept development was a stretch, but there was no button to endorse you for "crazy off the wall sketchbook art".

I informed him that "asshole" was one word.

The highlight of my LinkedIn interactions came first thing on Thursday morning. I received a message through their system from Joe, an art school classmate of mine. Aside from an informal reunion six years ago, I haven't seen this guy in nearly 30 years. Despite being in a very small class, I wasn't very friendly with this guy. I knew him, but I wouldn't say we were close friends. Joe was an excellent caricature artist whose style was reminiscent of the great Mort Drucker of Mad Magazine fame. However, Joe's typography skills were another story. When I was in art school in the early 1980s (before computers), there was a thing called "prestype." Prestype was a system of lettering used to achieve a professional look in the creation of ad mock-ups (Ask an artist. I'm sure you know one). Prestype came on a translucent plastic sheet and, by means of vigorous rubbing*, the letters were transferred to your piece of art (like those PrestoMagix we had when we were kids... well, if you were a kid in the 70s and 80s). Prestype was an artist's dream, except Joe never had that dream. Everything that he did with type used his own shitty handwriting. He didn't even try to hide it or make it better. He would do a layout for advertising class and merely scrawl the headline across his page in the same black marker with which he sketched the image.

So, at 7 in the morning, Joe sends me this message:

hows bizzz?? hope all is good....if ya need an illustrator, let me know!

best

joe

Bizzz with three "z"s? That was Joe. I replied to Joe, reminding him that I, too, am an illustrator and that we know each other from art school.

I guess my son was right. LinkedIn is for old people. Maybe one day, they'll even figure that out.

*sounds dirty, huh?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com