will the circle be unbroken

Mrs Pincus and I spent the first couple of years of our marriage living in a small townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. We had accumulated a small savings in the bank with regular deposits of our meager paychecks. One day, Mrs. P, who maintained and monitored our finances (because we certainly didn't want me taking on that responsibility, seeing as I have difficulty with any equation whose answer is more than double digits), brought up the possibly of purchasing a house. I was puzzled by the idea at first. After all, I was just 24 years old and buying a house was something that adults did. Even though we were married, I still viewed us as two crazy kids. For goodness sake, we still frequented Chuck E. Cheese, despite not having any children of our own. We attended performances of Disney on Ice. We even went to the circus in full clown make-up. Are these the kind of people who buy a house? Well... we would soon find out.

We did things in the proper order. We looked at a number of houses in Elkins Park, the suburban community where Mrs Pincus grew up. Elkins Park is a lovely little area known for its classic architecture, close proximity to public transportation and ridiculously high property taxes. After seeing a few potential homes, we chose one and made an offer... which was promptly accepted. Our next step was to gather all of the required forms and receipts and paycheck stubs and tax returns to prove to a financial institution that these two youngsters could be responsible for a mortgage. We submitted everything that was asked and we waited. Eventually, we were approved for a mortgage and we had to go to a big, sterile looking office to sign the final paperwork.

A young woman — a secretary — led Mrs. P and I to a room and we were offered seats at a large table. The secretary returned with a comically huge stack of paper, which she plopped down on the table's surface. She then informed us that the mortgage officer would be joining us momentarily. True to her word, the doorway was soon breached by an expressionless man in a very conservative business suit. (If I recall correctly, he resembled actor Joseph Maher, who portrayed a drunk airplane passenger in a Season Three episode of Seinfeld.) The man introduced himself as "Mr. Cassidy" and he extended his hand for the the obligatory shake. As Mrs. P shook Mr. Cassidy's hand, she smiled and proudly stated that we have a cat named Cassidy. (Our "beloved" pet was just one in a long line of cats that we would own whose names were inspired by the titles of Grateful Dead songs. Cassidy was a beautiful tabby cat with very distinct striped patterns on her sides. She had the disposition of someone with a perpetual toothache and she liked to sit on high shelves and push knick-knacks off to watch them shatter on the floor.) Our assigned mortgage officer — in his starched white collar and equally starched demeanor —was less than thrilled to hear about his feline namesake. With the exception of an ever-so-slight grimace, Mr. Cassidy did not acknowledge my wife's comment. Instead, he removed the top sheet of paper from the stack and pushed it in our direction, pointing our where we were to sign. This procedure was repeated over and over for the next 90 minutes until the stack of paper was reassembled in reverse order, now boasting the Pincus signatures on the majority of its pages. Mr. Cassidy thanked us, begrudgingly congratulated us and left the room. We were now officially members of that exclusive club and heretofore would be known as "homeowners."

Flash forward to today — forty years after two crazy kids signed on to become homeowners. Today, we were just approved for a home equity line of credit. This procedure differed greatly from the very tactile experience of gathering hard-copy documents to present to an actual face-to-face person at a desk in a brick-and-mortar bank. This time around in the age of the internet, electronic documents were uploaded to a secure website with instructions from faceless people working from various locations across several states. We were assigned a specific online portal with passwords and two-step verifications and several other security measures that weren't even dreamed of when we applied for our mortgage. During this application process, Mrs. Pincus received an actual phone call from an actual human being. In this rare case, she needed to clarify some minute piece of information that was previously submitted. The woman on the phone identified herself as "Cassidy" before proceeding to explain the reason for her call. Mrs. P laughed and interrupted. The woman asked what was funny.

Mrs P told her about our mortgage application. She told about the staunch gentleman who presided over the mass signature process on the day of closure. She told the woman on the phone — Cassidy — that the man's name was "Mr. Cassidy." Mrs. P explained that — at the time we had a cat named "Cassidy" and the little anecdote about name similarity did not amuse Mr. Cassidy in the least. The "Cassidy" currently on the phone, however, giggled. She said she thought the story was sweet. She even momentarily dispensed with any sort of financial conversation to find out more about the origins of the "Cassidy" name. Mrs. P was only too happy to expound on the Grateful Dead connection. She mentioned that the song "Cassidy" is a beautiful acoustic ballad that was rarely performed by the band (339 times as opposed to "Playing in the Band" which was performed nearly 700 times. This is for your benefit. These facts did not make it into the Mrs. Pincus/Cassidy phone exchange.) Cassidy thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. She also said that she would seek out the song on YouTube during her lunch break. Quickly, the conversation switched back to the request of clarification of some financial document. Before the call ended, Mrs. P noted to Cassidy that our experience as homeowners had come full circle — beginning and concluding with a "Cassidy."

Our "Cassidy" — gone over thirty years — would be happy. She'd knock something expensive off a shelf in celebration. Then, she'd bite me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i'm beginning to see the light

We moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. That's nearly forty years ago. In that time, I have changed a lot of light bulbs in our house. 

Every so often, when I am in the main bathroom in our house — or even when I just walk by the open doorway to the bathroom, I glance up at the odd ceiling fixture and I think: "I don't think I have ever changed that light bulb." Sometimes, I find myself staring at it for way too long, wondering..

1. How a light bulb can last so long. That bulb had to have been originally screwed in to its socket by the previous owners, the couple we bought our house from

2. If I do have to ever change that light bulb, how on earth will I get my hand up into the long glass shade to get the bulb out

3. Why am I pondering this light bulb non-dilemma when have to get to work?

... then, I just go about my business, often putting a little speed into my step because I wasted so much time unnecessarily contemplating a light bulb.

Just the other day,  I was in the bathroom getting ready to go to work. I was leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth, when the lights dimmed — ever so slightly — above my head. I stopped mid-brush and looked up. The lights seemed fine. I returned my attention to my dental hygiene, and, once again, the lights flickered. And then they flickered more. And then, with the sun outside not yet up at 5:20 AM, I was plunged into total darkness. I stopped what I was doing. I spit out the foamy toothpaste in my mouth and dropped my toothbrush in the sink... and I let out a long, exasperated sigh to myself.

Before heading to the basement to check on the Pincus utility closet's lightbulb inventory, I hopped up on the edge of the bathtub to determine if the light bulb really needed to be changed... like l'm some kind of licensed electrician. I leaned over precariously, keeping a firm grip on the shower rod to prevent Mrs. P's discovery of a nasty scene when she awakens a few hours from now. I carefully fitted my hand up into the glass shade protruding vertically from the bathroom ceiling. The opening was just big enough for me to get my hand inside, but it was difficult to employ the digital dexterity required to extract this light bulb from its socket. Determined, I slowly rotated the bulb with the tips of my fingers pressed against its smooth glass surface. It was a slow and tedious process, but I finally was able to turn it enough times so as to release its threaded base from the receptacle. The bulb dropped into my hand. After all, there was little space for it to drop any place else. I examined the bulb. The glass nearest the metal base was darkened, most likely from the burnt filament that had once proudly illuminated our bathroom for so many years. The spent bulb was marked 60 watts. I noted the size as I started for the basement.

Downstairs, I rifled through the shelves of extension cords and cleaning products until I located our stock of light bulbs. We had a full box of 100 watt bulbs, a partial box of 100 watt bulbs and a box where the size had been torn off, yet was identified as "40 watts" in black marker in my handwriting, something I must have done years ago but could not recall exactly when as I stood shirtless and barefooted in my pajama bottoms holding a burned-out light bulb at five-thirty in the morning.

Disappointed with the selection at hand, I chose a 40 watt bulb. I climbed the stairs back up to the bathroom. This time, I brought a chair from the living room to stand on, as I no longer trusted myself on the edge of the bathtub where I would be working like one of the Flying Wallendas without a net. With the same patience I used to remove the old bulb, I inserted the new bulb in a display of skill that was slightly trickier in reverse. The words of Ginger Rogers commenting on the extra effort she was forced to utilize when dancing with Fred Astaire suddenly came to mind. The task finally completed, I flicked the light switch and the room was once again bathed in light — 20 watts less than previous, but bathed just the same.

When I got home from work, I went upstairs to our third-floor office where my wife was busily listing items  in her eBay store (no, she won't sell your stuff for you). I related the tale of changing the light bulb to Mrs. P, asking if she thought the bathroom light seemed dimmer. Before she answered, she produced a 60 watt bulb from a nearby desk, where it had been sitting in reserve, just waiting for the bulb in one of our desk lamps to blow. I frowned, but took the bulb downstairs to install it in the bathroom fixture. I repeated the steps — slow turns and all — until the bathroom once more glowed in 60 watt luminescence.

Forty years went by without a change of light bulb in our upstairs bathroom. Today, I changed it twice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

and we'll all float on okay

This story was written prior to the global COVID-19 pandemic, when going to a store and interacting with other humans at close range was a normal occurrence. — JPiC

I am — by no means — handy. Anything outside of changing a light bulb leaves me baffled. Sometimes even that simple task is a bit overwhelming.  If something in my house needs repair, I am very quick to call and pay someone to fix it. Someone who isn't me. 

Three years ago, I changed the flapper ball at the bottom of the toilet tank in my thrid-floor bathroom. This was quite an undertaking. Really. First, I had to figure out how to turn off the water supply to the toilet tank. Then I had to empty the tank and remove the old, broken flapper ball. I took the spent piece to Home Depot to compare it to the shiny new ones on display, making certain I was buying an exact duplicate that would fit snugly (and correctly) in the hole at the bottom of the tank. I checked and rechecked, holding the gummy, black hunk of rubber up against the pristine packaged specimens. When I got home, the actual replacing was surprisingly simple. The whole job took just a minute or two and the toilet was back flushing the way it was the day before. I was quite proud of myself and I secretly hoped that I would never have to attempt another repair in my house again.

Last Sunday, I heard the water running in the toilet in our second-floor bathroom. I went in, jiggled the flush handle and waited until the mechanism in the tank properly seated itself and stopped the last few trickles of water. It didn't. I jiggled it again. Still, I heard the annoying sound of running water.

"That sounds like it is coming from upstairs." my wife informed me. I climbed the stairs to the third floor and was greeted by the loud sound of running water. I removed the lid to the toilet tank — the one I so expertly repaired two years ago — and saw, to my horror, that the plastic float ball was bobbing in the nearly-filled tank. It was unnaturally perpendicular to the thin brass rod to which it was attached. The little threaded plastic collar had snapped and was hanging on to the rod by a tiny shred of plastic. Even to the uninitiated, this did not look right. I knew the float ball would have to be replaced. From past experience, I turned off the water supply to the tank and made a mental note to stop at Home Depot on my way home from work. We have three bathrooms in our house, so this would not be too much of an inconvenience.

On my way home from work the next day, I did indeed stop at Home Depot. I don't go to Home Depot too often. Aside from the light bulb aisle and that one time I bought a new flapper ball for my toilet, I don't have much use for a lot of the stuff they sell. I located the "toilet repair" aisle and began my quest for a toilet float ball. Now, I worked in my father-in-law's hardware store for twenty-five years and I just saw a broken one in my toilet tank at home, so I knew what they looked like. I looked up and down the aisle. I saw flush handles and wax rings (for attaching the toilet bowl to the floor) and all sorts of nuts and bolts... but no float balls. I saw an awful lot of packaged toilet fill valves in various configurations.... but no float balls. I saw every possible component that would allow me to construct an entire toilet from scratch.... except there were no float balls. I looked at shelves that I had looked at three and four times half-expecting a huge box of toilet float balls to magically appear.

All during the time I was carefully scanning the shelves, there was a Home Depot employee ignoring me as he opened cartons and placed a few more display trays of toilet fill valves from different manufacturers. I cleared my throat and reluctantly asked where I could find a toilet float ball. I hate to ask employees where things are in their stores. I have come to understand that they don't know where anything is and they don't care if you ever find it. They hate their jobs and just want the evening to end.

The Home Depot employee looked up from his work and replied, "We don't carry them. That's for an old toilet. No one uses them. They use these now." He pointed to the shiny packages of toilet fill valves that took up most of the shelf space in the aisle. He picked up one of the packages and pointed to a small plastic cylinder that was wrapped around a larger plastic cylinder. "This replaces the float ball.," he explained. I frowned as he continued. "They sell them in this kit, but you gotta buy the whole kit." He showed me a sealed plastic bag that contained a few plastic pieces including a toilet float ball. The shelf tag proclaimed a retail price of just over thirteen dollars. I frowned again and announced "I'll pass." I quickly left Home Depot.

When I got home, I did a quick Google search to see if a toilet float ball was still "a thing." The search results told me that it was. Amazon had them. Walmart had them. And, according to their website, Home Depot had them, too... just not one near me. 

My next day's commute home was interrupted by a hopeful stop at Lowes and Walmart, conveniently located next to each other. Lowes' toilet repair aisle was nearly identical to the one at Home Depot, except all of the orange decorative trim was blue. Their shelves sported the same items including a wide assortment of newfangled toilet valve kits which had — allegedly — caused the extinction of the toilet float ball. I left Lowes, not even considering asking any employee for assistance. I went over to Walmart and found their plumbing department even less stocked, but featuring the same goddamned toilet valve kits.

This was getting ridiculous. How could a piece of such simple technology just become wiped clean from existence? Did someone actually build a better mousetrap that replaced a tried-and-true mousetrap so quickly and completely? In addition, I was now three days without an auxiliary toilet in my house.

The next day, I came straight home from work and ordered a toilet float ball from Amazon for four dollars. Two days later, a big padded envelope with a big bulge in it arrived on my front porch. I tore the envelope open on my way up the stairs to my third floor. I lifted the lid of the toilet tank. I removed the old, broken float ball and tossed it in the trash. I worked the new float ball onto the threaded brass rod. Once it was screwed on as far as it could go, I turned the water supply back on. I could hear the rush of water and the new float ball leveled off at the water line in the tank. Then all was silent. I briefly admired my handiwork, as though I just whacked a perfectly pitched fastball over the outfield fence. Finally, I carefully replaced the tank lid.

And, as of right now, Pincus Plumbing Repair is officially out of business.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

over under sideways down

Just the other day, a question popped into my head. I don't know what prompted it, but sometimes my mind works in mysterious ways. I brought the query up to my wife and a short discussion ensued, because that's how things go in the Pincus house. The question concerned the orientation of the toilet paper roll in our home's three bathrooms.

In my house, growing up, the unspoken rule was that the roll of toilet paper be placed with the available length coming over the top of the roll, cascading like a waterfall. This was determined by — gosh, I would assume — my mother, since my mother determined how pretty much everything was done in our house. She did the grocery shopping, despite the fact that my father was the manager of a single location of a local supermarket chain. That's right, my dad worked all day in a supermarket and never — and I mean never ever — did he bring anything home from his store. My mother did the shopping at a different location from the one he worked or sometimes even at a rival market. She never got a discount and never questioned that situation. She selected which brands of everything were purchased, so I can only assume that, once she got everything home, she determined which way the rolls of toilet paper were placed in the holder. When I went to friends' homes, I thought it was odd if I discovered that their family placed the toilet paper the other way in the roll.

When I got married, I soon found out that my bride came from a home that positioned their toilet paper in the "come from underneath" orientation. Not wishing to make trouble in our new marriage, I said nothing. After a while, I got used to it, although I was probably corrected  a few times, followed by silent reorientation if I happened to have been caught backsliding into my old ways. Soon, placing the toilet paper in the correct direction became second nature.

When our son was born (and eventual toilet training achieved), he, of course, was schooled on the proper way in which to install a new roll of toilet paper, as he had now joined the ranks of those responsible for refilling a depleted roll.

A few years ago, my son, now thirty, moved into his own home with his girlfriend. Their house — a narrow, two story home in South Philadelphia — is a cute and cozy little dwelling and they have made it a true home for the two of them. But, as I mentioned at the beginning, the question of toilet paper placement popped into my head and I needed my boy's take on the situation. We went to a concert recently and, over dinner, I asked him the burning question. 

"You came from a house that puts the toilet paper in the holder so it unrolls from the bottom." I began my opening statement. He nodded and cocked his head to one side in anticipation of where I was going with this.  

"Yes?," he listened suspiciously.

"So how do you put the toilet paper in the holder, now that you have your own house?," I continued my query, "and how does it jibe with Pandora's (his girlfriend) habits and upbringing?" I don't remember his answer. It was either "over the top" or "from underneath." I forget.

In reality, the important thing is that someone refills the roll. That's the polite thing to do and it's something we can all agree on.

Now, on to more important issues.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

this is the house we used to live in

We've been what you call "suburbanites" for over thirty years. That means we make our home just outside of a big city. In our case, the city in question is Philadelphia, the "City of Brotherly Love" and the fifth largest city in the United States. Recently, my wife had an errand to run that took her into Northeast Philadelphia.

For those not from the area, Philadelphia encompasses 142 square miles and is comprised of a bunch of neighborhoods with clear boundaries delineated by streets or natural framing like rivers (and Philadelphia's got two big ones running right through it). Some of Philadelphia's neighborhoods are well-known outside of the city. Places like Society Hill, Italian Market and Old City have gotten exposure in movies and television. But there are smaller areas with colorful and somewhat puzzling names (like Graduate Hospital*, Strawberry Mansion and Fishtown) that are only a few blocks in diameter, but whose inhabitants fiercely defend the borders with pride.

The area known as Northeast Philadelphia, or "The Northeast" to locals, is situated in the far, far reaches of the Philadelphia city limits. It's a fairly large section, devoid of personality but overflowing with cookie-cutter housing developments and faceless shopping centers. Among a smattering of boast-worthy facts, Northeast Philadelphia is the birthplace of yours truly. I grew up there. Went to school there and, when I got married, got the fuck outta there as quickly as my legs could carry me. When my father passed away in 1993, I sold his house and, from that point forward, did my very best to avoid The Northeast as much as possible. As executor of his estate (Ha! "Estate," as though my father was John Rockefeller! He died in debt and left the house in which I grew up a shambles!), I was required to sit alongside my attorney at the settlement after we took the first offer on the house. I sat silently across a large table from the gentleman who was purchasing my childhood home. During the proceedings, I was asked about the origins of a lien on the property that was filed in 1977. I smiled, cleared my throat and explained that, at sixteen years-old, my parents were not in the habit of discussing their financial obligations with me. Then, the imminent buyer expressed his dismay at the current structural state of the house. "It's in worse shape than we originally thought.," he lamented. I shrugged my shoulders as I signed the last legal document. "Oh well," I smirked.

In the years since my father died, I have only ventured back into the old neighborhood a handful of times and those were handfuls too many. A great many of the houses and business have been reconfigured, though most have been boarded up or torn down. The Northeast has become a faded ghost of the charmless region it once was.

When my wife was out on her errand, my cellphone buzzed with the arrival of a photo she sent to me. I tapped the icon on my phone screen and an image popped up that did not look at all familiar.

But before I could reply with a question, she quickly sent me this photo:

Along with the caption: "This lady lives at your house now."

Wow! This was a picture of my parents' house. My childhood dwelling. The first Pincus homestead. I didn't recognize it. The last time I saw it, it was painted a faded avocado green, the result of my brother's handy work in his teen years. It didn't have those bay big windows or that fancy front door. That little patio is also a new addition... just like the cement "lady" on the lawn.

I tried to conjure memories from my childhood and that house. I remembered the many times I pushed a lawn mover across that grass, while the smell of freshly-baked cookies from the nearby Nabisco factory enveloped the neighborhood. That was pleasant. But then, I remembered riding my bike to a neighborhood sandwich shop to get lunch for my mom and me. While I was inside, some older kids stole my bike and the ones who didn't participate in the theft stuck around to spit anti-Semitic slurs at me. I remember getting pummeled with snowballs on my way home from the school bus stop. I remembered the time Dougie Piller shot me in the back of the head with a BB gun.

I quickly tried to think of fonder memories. And suddenly I realized that those memories all happened at my current house. The house I share with my wife and, until recently, my son. All of my really great memories — my happiest memories — were created over the past thirty years. Not that my childhood was unhappy. It was just.... eh. Average. Uneventful. My adult life just overshadowed my childhood one-hundred fold. That's not bad. That's good.

My elementary school seems to have made improvements, as well.

It's funny, because when I was a student there, hate felt right at home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* the name sticks although the actual hospital closed ten years ago.

dirty water

I am not much of a handy man. My collection of tools with which I tend to the needed repairs around my house consists of three hammers, five screwdrivers — three straight, two Phillips — a set of Allen wrenches* and a lightweight pair of pliers. I also have a small container of short brass nails that I use to hang the many framed, autographed photos I have accumulated from the many collector shows I have attended. Aside from the occasional self-extracted nail in a floor plank that needs to be taught a good pounding lesson or a loose chair screw in need of tightening, I rarely have the opportunity to ply my limited home-repair skills. And that's good, because anything more challenging than changing a light bulb or... or.... changing a light bulb, well, then I'm in over my head.

I will tell you that I have advanced slightly above the level of my father's fix-it prowess. I remember a long-ago family project involving painting the bedroom I shared with my brother. My mother picked out and purchased paint and the event was planned for an upcoming weekend. Bright and early on Saturday morning, my mother (not my father) moved all of the furniture out of the way and covered everything with dropcloths and old sheets. She laid out brushes and rollers and turpentine and disposable trays filled with paint. She instructed my brother and me to dress in old clothes and then, when we were suitably outfitted, she offered additional direction on painting procedure. In the meantime, my father dressed up in what had come to be known as his "handyman costume." He'd put on a pair of white canvas pants speckled with assorted sizes of multi-colored paint splotches, a shapeless denim shirt decorated with a similar amount of paint and — as the crowning glory — a white painters hat that he scored for free when he paid for the paint. He smiled proudly as he paraded around the prepared bedroom, modeling his outfit for the family. He picked up a dry brush and mock-painted the faces of my brother and me, We laughed and he did this many more times until it was no longer funny. Finally, he dunked a roller into the tray of paint and made a couple of sloppy drags across the wall. Then, he plopped the roller back in the tray and announced that he was going downstairs for a cigarette. That was the last we saw of him until my mom, my brother and I finished the job ourselves. At least I now have the sense enough to hire a painter,

My father's constructive efforts left a lot to be desired. There were broken windows in forgotten rooms on the second floor of our house. There were frayed electrical cords and broken lamps throughout our house. I'm not sure my father even knew how to replace a light bulb. I was sure, however, that he knew nothing about plumbing. That did not stop him from hiring a plumber (who happened to be my uncle) and berate the poor guy as he banged around under our failing hot-water heater.

I know I am not handy and I don't pretend I am. I can tackle easy jobs, but even those can end with less-than-stellar results. (May I direct your attention to a door in our house that doesn't quite close all the way since I "fixed" a loose hinge.)

I have been noticing, for a few months now, that the toilet in our third-floor bathroom has been taking a particularly long time to fill after flushing. I have lifted the lid and stared into the tank for inordinate amounts of time, expecting to see — I don't know — a big, flashing arrow pointing to exactly what needs fixing/adjusting/replacing. So, I... y'know.... kept an eye on it. Surprisingly, it did not fix itself. It actually got worse, making high-pitched whistles and strange gurgling noises as the tank slowly refilled. A few days ago, after a flush, the water in the tank just ran and ran and ran. Again, I extracted the lid and I saw the flapper ball at the bottom of the tank was flopping at an awkward angle, nowhere near the hole at the base of the flush valve it's supposed to cover. (See? I learned something from working weekends in my father-in-law's hardware store for 25 years!) Quickly, I shut off the main water supply to the tank and stared helplessly into the porcelain abyss. After a day, I decided to take a trip to Home Depot to buy a new flapper ball and tackle this repair myself, goddammit! As I perused the many flapper balls on the shelves, I was very pleased to see that each and every package was labeled "universal." Good thing, because I took no measurements. I bought a lovely brick-red number with a sturdy-looking chain and a five dollar price tag and headed home to begin and end my little project before dinner.

I sprinted upstairs, filled with confidence. I yanked the lid off the tank. I popped open the blister-carded flapper ball and untangled the shiny new flush chain. With a fistful of paper towels, I reached to the bottom of the empty tank and deftly ripped the one remaining attachment of the old flapper from its weakened grip. The old ball, after who knows how many years of waterlogged submersion, had been rendered soft and gummy and tore away from its single mooring easily. With my path clear and my determination high, I fastened the new flapper ball into place, connected the chain to the flush handle with the recommended amount of slack and replaced the tank lid — all in a matter of mere minutes. I restarted the flow of water to the tank and, after a test flush, all was working properly. I was triumphant!

A day or two later, I noticed that the sink in our main bathroom was a little slow in draining completely. My wife had been feeding some organic, biodegradable solution into the drain on a semi-regular basis with minimal success. Drunk with my new-found "master plumber" power, I twisted the pop-up drain plug out of its chrome-rimmed hole. Clinging to the bottom of its four-inch plastic shaft was a wet, gray mass that looked like an animal tail. I pulled the stringy mess off and tossed it in the trash. I replaced the drain plug and ran some water into the basin. It swirled and wooshed down the drain with the force of Colorado River rapids.

So, am I ready to take on more complex home repair projects? A new counter-top for the kitchen, perhaps, or a little rewiring in the basement? No sir. I am not. I will stick to hanging pictures and changing light bulbs. I will leave the big stuff to someone who needs a big metal box to carry their tools.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* I'm not sure why I own Allen wrenches. I don't know anyone named "Allen."

hi, neighbor! hi, neighbor!

Mister Rogers would have sung a different tune about how beautiful the days are in his neighborhood had he lived next to the lunatics that occupy the house next to mine. We live in, what is known in our area, as a "twin home." In some other parts of the country, this sort of structure is called a "duplex" or "semi-detached." It's basically a single building comprised of two single-family dwellings sharing a common wall at the center. The individual floor plans of each home are usually mirror images of each other. (A "duplex," in the Philadelphia area, is the same idea, but the individual homes are stacked on top of each other instead of side-by-side. That concludes the architecture lesson of this blog.)

There always seemed to be something weird going on in the house next door since the day we moved in to our house in 1986. Not necessarily "Amityville Horror weird", but weird nevertheless. Our neighbors were a female couple who mostly kept to themselves. I was fine with that. I know I am not the most warm and friendly guy that ever lived. A cordial nod or wave (or maybe even an infrequent "good morning") is just about the extent of any neighborly relationship I've ever had. Sometimes, I didn't even get that from those two women next door. One day, just after our son was born, I was in his room checking on some sounds I heard from the electronic baby monitor. He was enjoying a sound afternoon nap in his darkened room. I heard something outside, so I parted a couple of the Venetian blind slats that covered the window overlooking our, and subsequently our neighbor's, backyard. Through that tiny horizontal opening, I spied my neighbors relaxing in their newly-installed hot tub on their newly-installed wooden deck and they were sans clothing of any kind. I quickly snapped the blinds to their original position and thought about what sort of environment my son would be exposed to.... no pun intended. But, luckily, those ladies moved away long before my boy's curiosity expanded beyond the likes of The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.

The house was soon purchased by a young man in his 20s with a great job, a lot of money and very little life experience. Within his first week as our new neighbor, he approached my wife and me with a proposal for new rain gutters for our houses. He went on to suggest copper gutters, elaborating on their classic elegance and aesthetically-pleasing appearance or some such flowery bullshit. We didn't need new gutters. I didn't want new gutters, but, somehow, I was talked into getting new gutters and expensive copper ones to boot. Our new neighbor had already received a price from a contractor, which he shared with us. I questioned the unusually low price, as covering the entire building or was that the price for each of our homes. He assured me it was one price that we would split down the middle. "Okay." I figured, "This kid works as an accountant for KMPG, an international financial audit and consulting firm. I guess he understands how to read a work estimate." We agreed to have new copper gutters installed.

Turns out, this guy didn't have the vaguest understanding of how to read an invoice. As I had originally suspected, the price was for each of our homes and the total would be doubled, not split. I was furious and I let him know it. I paid our share and never spoke a word to that guy for the remaining two years he was our neighbor. 

Two years after the rain gutter incident, he was transferred to Southern California. Unable to sell his house (for which he grossly overpaid), he offered it for lease and became a bi-coastal landlord. (As a footnote to his move, he took his girlfriend with him to the Golden State, where she promptly left him after he was fired from the job that transferred him. Five jobs later, he still remains in California and is still unable to sell the house connected to ours.)

Our new neighbors, now lessees, were six college students who turned the left half of our twin into National Lampoon's Animal House. For eighteen months, we were subjected to keggers on the deck, loads of trash and boisterous and unruly crowds of "college dudes" all accompanied by the strains of bad rap music. After they finally vacated, the current residents — also renters — moved in.

Once again, our relationship started out cordial. My wife, always friendly, welcomed our new neighbors. At first they, too, were friendly. But soon, they retreated into isolation. They were rarely visible. They pulled their young son from school. We began to hear loud noises through our common wall — banging, screaming, crying — at all hours of the day and night. One day, I saw our neighbors dumping something over their backyard fence. Then I saw them do it again. Soon, we began to smell skunks regularly and a groundhog took up residence in our backyard. There was something eerie and dangerous about their behavior, like the kind of people you see on the receiving end of a government siege on a separatist compound. An event that usual ends with the power being shut off and the launching of some sort of incendiary device. We did our best to steer clear of them.

A month or so ago, during a particularly heavy rain storm, the ceiling of a room on our second floor took on the characteristics of Niagara Falls, Rain water had broken through several ignored cracks and was now soaking the floor and furniture. We threw down some tarps and an inspection, when the weather cleared up, told us we needed a new roof. Mrs. P contacted our West Coast neighbor and he agreed to have his roof replaced as well, hoping for a better price to do the whole building. (Lucky for him, we know how to read an estimate.) We assumed that he, as landlord, would inform his tenants about the upcoming work. It certainly wasn't our responsibility.  Again, his informing skills, like his invoice-reading skills, leave a lot to be desired.

Just before 9 AM on the day the roofing work was to begin, Mrs. Pincus received this text from our renting neighbor. (Note - Mrs. Pincus is, of course, designated by the little Grateful Dead icon.):

(I blocked out the name of their landlord., but it's "Len," if you really must know.)

The roofers were waiting for delivery of a Dumpster that would be left of the street for the duration of the repair project, approximately two days. While they waited, the unloaded building materials and parked their truck in my neighbor's driveway. She was not happy and acted as though it was a complete surprise. She was rude and angry and took her anger out on my wife.

The next day, after she had sufficient time to calm down. Mrs. P received this text:

Ah, what could possibly top a rude comment? Why, a little racism, of course! Nothing like a derogatory reference about cleaning at 7:30 in the morning.

The work was completed late on the second day. The roofers planned to return the next morning to pick up any unused material and leave our property looking as it did when they found it. They also needed to arrange for removal of the full Dumpster. Before I left for work, I secured the parking spaces in front of my house with a couple of trash cans strategically-placed behind the Dumpster. I was satisfied with my positioning of the cans and began to make my way back to my house, my neighbor barged out of her house screaming and pointing.

"When is this thing moving?," she screeched, gesturing towards the Dumpster.

I calmly answered, "I don't know." I honestly didn't, but I assumed it would be gone in an hour or two.

"Well, it's been blocking my driveway all week!," she shrieked, teeth bared, arms waving wildly.

First of all, it was two days, not all week. Second of all, it would most likely be moved before noon. Third of all, I didn't give a shit. Actually, make that first.

"I didn't put it there.," I replied, this time with a little bit of edge in my voice.

She responded with an incoherent stream of shrill squeals, too high pitched for me to recognize any actual words. I silently answered by going into my house and shutting the door — mid-squawk.

A later conversation my wife had with the house's owner revealed that he would be putting the house up for outright sale in the spring and that the current tenant would be moving in May... or sooner if a sale agreement comes first.

I anticipate the Munsters moving in sometime this summer. In comparison, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gotta feel for my automobile

I woke up around 6, pretty much like I do every morning. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, made a cup of coffee and brought them upstairs to watch a little television before getting dressed to go to work. This is how most of my days begin.

As I was forcing my feet into my boots, I glanced out the window. Since I take the train to work — and have for the past eight years — my car is always parked in front of my house. I rarely move it, except for short trips to the supermarket or dry cleaners. Actually, for fear of losing my convenient parking spot, I will often take my wife's car on those quick errands. She parks in our driveway, so I know that the space will still be available when I return. However, if I do move my car, invariably, someone will have parked in my space within the few minutes that I was gone. I don't know what it is about that parking space, but it is a prime and sought-out location on my block. 

Looking out the window, I spotted something under the windshield wiper on the passenger's side of my car. I hurriedly gathered my wallet, train pass and keys. I kissed my still-sleeping wife "goodbye," and hastily went out the door. I lifted up the wiper and grabbed this small sheet of paper before the wind could whisk it away.

Hey, I have as good a sense of humor as the next guy, but what the actual fuck?!?

It was a generic-looking document, trying its very best to look official and imposing. I'm sure you've seen them before in joke and novelty stores. Someone purchased this for the sole purpose of pissing me off. And it worked. Mission fucking accomplished.

Look, it's fairly obvious that a lot of things piss me off, but this really pissed me off. A lot! I don't talk to a lot (almost none) of my neighbors. Not because I'm not friendly (which I'm not), but because... because... well, I just don't. On one side of my house, I have a woman who is a fucking inconsiderate, selfish asshole. She regularly sorts her recycling at 5 in the morning while singing show tunes at the top of her lungs. She also fights with her son at all hours, also at the top of their collective lungs. Plus, nearly every day, I find — and pick up — trash that has made its way from her overturned trash cans to my lawn and driveway. On the other side of my house, I have a family of renters who scream at their child so loudly that we can hear it right through the common fire wall that separates our individual dwellings. I try to be a good, cooperative neighbor, but I also keep to myself. I shovel my sidewalk when it snows. I take my trash out on the designated day and bring the empty receptacles back within the time period specified by the township ordinances. In the summer, I pay a guy to mow my lawn on a regular basis. I pay my property taxes on time... and in my particular township, those taxes are a bit high, if I may say so. But, I digress.

So, who the fuck feels it is their duty? obligation? right? to tell me where and for how long I can park my fucking car? Who has the fucking nerve to put a note like this on my car — to actually touch my car — and do it anonymously... dare I say, cowardly? Which one of my fucking, self-righteous neighbors is keeping a timer on how long I park my car in front of my own fucking house?

I hope whoever left that little note on my car is reading this. And I hope everyone else is listening carefully.

Gee, did that come off as "angry?" I sure hope so.

Okay... on second thought... I guess it was pretty funny.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she came in through the bathroom window

Monday brought the Philadelphia area another eight inches of snow, adding to the already record-breaking totals of frozen precipitation for the new year. As that storm drew to a close, giddy TV meteorologists eagerly predicted two more wintry strikes for the area — each conveniently spaced two days apart.

I hate winter. I hate everything about winter — the sub-freezing temperatures, the snow, the shoveling of the snow, the boots and heavy clothing — everything! I had had enough of winter way back in December, so the threat of two more storms in the same week wasn't exactly a thrill for me. Luckily, I take the train to work, so driving in the snow has been retired from my winter hate list.

Just as had been predicted, the darkened skies opened up and dropped several inches of ice on the lower part of Montgomery County (where I live), leaving every tree, bush, car, trash can and fence post encased in an otherworldly, shimmering glaze.

Before my alarm went off, I was awakened by the annoying sound of ice crystals ricocheting off my bedroom window. It was still dark outside, but I could see the glistening precipitation in the glow of a nearby streetlight. I showered, shaved, made some coffee and checked my email — my daily "getting ready for work" ritual. One of the emails informed me that my office would be opening late. I smiled, made myself another cup of coffee and settled in front of the television.

Suddenly, from downstairs, I heard a loud creak — followed by a louder crash.

Watch out for that tree!

My wife sprang from our bedroom. "What was that?," she screamed and together we descended the stairs. The living room floor was littered with shards of broken glass. The culprit was the giant, gnarled tree branch lying across the hedge that skirts my driveway, its thick shredded top protruding through the smashed window frame and into my house. We stood and stared in disbelief for several minutes before I went and got a broom and dustpan.

Once I swept up the mess, Mrs. P and I went outside to assess possible further damage. The other end of the offending branch was resting upon the hood of my wife's SUV, along with a twisted network of other branches brought down in its sixty-foot descent to our driveway. Several cable television wires were buried underneath the chaos, stretched, but still attached to the utility pole at the curb and back of my neighbor's house.

All ready for the second little pig.

O., my neighbor across the street, saw us milling around our porch and came over to offer assistance. O. is a general contractor, having built the aforementioned porch, in addition to completing various painting and repair jobs for us. He looked around and made a more professional assessment than I. He sprinted back to his home and returned with a chainsaw and — torrents of icy rain be damned — began reducing the branch to tiny logs and sawdust. When he finished, he measured the window frame for replacement glass and fashioned a makeshift patch out of corrugated plastic board to fill the space left by the shattered window. A friend likened good ol' O. to Jesus — possibly because of his "savior-like" aid in a dire situation, possibly because of his carpentry skills, or possibly because he is Israeli.

While O. was putting the temporary fix in place, he told us that he had been looking out of his window, coincidentally, just as the ice-covered tree branch gave out and plummeted to the ground, taking out our window on the way. He watched as Sam, our next-door neighbor, came out of his house, walked across our lawn to our front porch to observe the fallen limb. Once Sam was satisfied by what he saw, he walked back to his house and shut the door, never stopping to tell us that a giant tree branch had demolished our window and landed on our car. I guess we chose the right neighbor to befriend.

And then our cable went out. Oh, when is the first day of summer?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com