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

i know a place

You may not know it, but you are looking at the greatest parking spot on the planet Earth. Gaze upon it. Relish in its glory, Marvel at its very existence. This, by the way, is a very, very rare photo of this parking space without a car parked in it. But, rest assured, it will be occupied as soon as I finish taking this picture. Guaranteed.

Where — you may ask — is this coveted, exalted parking space? Why, it is right in front of my house.

My wife and I moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. My wife regularly parked her car in our driveway. I would take the curbside space that was adjacent to our driveway, directly in front of our house. I began to notice that, on any occasion that I moved my car — to go to work or for just a quick trip to pick up a pizza — someone would immediately pull into the parking space in front of my house once I vacated it. I could be gone for eight hours, a full weekend or just a few minutes. When I returned, there was always — always! — a car occupying the space in front of my house.

For twelve years, I took the train to work, leaving my car parked in front of my house — untouched — for five days. I would rarely drive anywhere on weekends, but if I did — to pick up dry cleaning or to claim a package at the post office — the space would be taken when I got back. I started to take my wife's car on short errands, so as not to give up my parking space.

If correctly spaced, there is room for three cars between my driveway and my next-door neighbor's driveway. If the allotted space is not divvied up correctly, the available space is not big enough to accommodate a car. But, that doesn't seem to matter. On many occasions, in an effort to park in the most wonderful parking space in the world, cars have been carelessly left by their drivers with the rear bumper extending a foot or more into my driveway. I often wondered if the violators assessed their parking skills and have determined that they are fully within their rights to block my driveway. I wonder if they get out of the car, look at how much of their rear bumper of their car is not within the safe, legal confines of  a parking space, and think: "Yes. This is fine. I will leave my car here, because I don't care if the folks who live at this house and own the car parked in the driveway will need to move said car during the time my car is parked here." And then they leave. 

Every so often, I watched from my front door as someone pulls into the space and shimmies back-and forth until they are satisfied with the parking job they have achieved. When they exit their poorly-parked vehicle, I emerge from my house and tell them that they are blocking my driveway. Never — never! — have I ever received an apology, followed by the person sheepishly returning to their car to seek another spot in which to park. No, no, no! I am usually met with an angry reply of "You can get out!" to which I very calmly counter "You are blocking my driveway. If you leave your car there, I will call the police." This retort elicits an exasperated grumble from the driver, a lot of head-shaking and, eventually, a relocation of the offending car by way of gunning the engine and screeching away from the curb. 

I have left notes on the windshield of cars that I didn't catch in the act only to find my handwritten message crumbled up in a ball and laying on my front lawn.

My wife and I have been cursed at by drivers who, wanting so desperately to park in the greatest parking spot in the world, have parked across the apron of our driveway because there was already a car in the space. (Usually it's my car!)

I don't know what it is about this parking space that makes it so desirable. There are other spaces available up and down my street. But there is something about the space in front of my house that attracts cars before all of the other spaces on the block. There are no special services that come with parking there — no blockades, no barriers, no valet. There isn't a free car wash or oil change as though you are leaving your car at the airport. It's just a parking spot.

One day, during the time that I took the train to work and my car would sit for days (or weeks) at a time, I found a note under the windshield wiper. Scrawled on a torn piece of paper was a... a... threat from someone who, in direct violation of the Tenth Commandment, ordered me to "move my car so someone else could park there."

I sometimes think I am unreasonably obsessive (re: nuts) for wanting to park my car in front of my house. I won't even park my car in front of my next-door neighbor's house if that spot is available and the one in front of my house is not. I like to think he would afford me the same courtesy if the situation was reversed. (Surprise! He does not.) I was once asked (actually demanded) to move my car from the space in front of my other next-door neighbor's house. She referred to that space as "her space." (There is not designated parking anywhere on my street.) Ironically, she (or visitors to her house) has blocked my driveway numerous times over the years. But, it seems, I am not nuts. No, not at all. It appears that everyone — everyone! — just wants to park in front of my house.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sisters are doing it for themselves

My wife and I have lived in our house for the past 37 years. We have seen our share of neighbors come and go... I suppose. Honestly, I have never had much to say to our neighbors. Sometimes, I don't even recognize our neighbors. It's not that I am not friendly (well.... maybe it is), it's just I don't feel that just because my house is on the same block as your house, we are automatically friends. I have a — shall we say — cordial relationship with my neighbors. If I recognize a neighbor, I might — might — wave or nod. But, for the most part, I don't do anything. I don't mean to be rude, but I'd rather not engage with someone I know nothing about. For the past few years we have had an annual yard sale. Potential customers come and say "Hello" and I say "Hello" back, just to be polite — having no idea that this person lives a few houses from my house.

Within the first few years of our moving in, I noticed that a woman who lives three or four houses away had twins — two little girls. They were a few years younger than our son and they kind of kept to themselves. As the years went on, I couldn't help but notice the twin girls growing up. I saw them running around on the front lawn of their house. Sometimes, I saw them get out of the car, each carrying a small bag of groceries. Other times, I would see them waiting on the corner for the school bus as I drove past on my way to work. Once in a while, my wife and I would pass them on the sidewalk, My wife would give them a big, friendly, neighborly "Hello." I would say nothing, deciding that my wife's greeting should be taken for the both of us. The twin girls would lower their glance in shyness and mutter something unintelligible  or — more often — say nothing.

Just a couple of years ago, as I pulled into my driveway, I saw one of the twin girls emerging from a car parked in front of their house. The car had a big sign attached to its roof identifying it as a vehicle from a local driving school. I mentioned to Mrs. Pincus, when I came into our house, what I saw, adding "Boy, those twins down the street are really growing up." Mrs. Pincus looked at me funny. "Twins?," she questioned "Who has twins?" I was confused. Surely, she knew to whom I was referring. She must have seen them over the past three decades. I pointed in the direction of the twins' house. "The twin girls who live three or four houses away. The twin girls.," I pressed. Mrs. P narrowed her eyes. "Triplets," she said, "They are triplets. There are three of them."

I thought my wife was joking with me. She was not.

"What?," I asked, as though I was just seeing the twist ending of The Usual Suspects for the first time. "There's three of them?" I needed confirmation. Mrs. P assured me that there are indeed three nearly identical young ladies living in the house in question.... and that there always have been. I was dumbfounded. Mrs. P was ready to debate the "founded" part of that.

From that point forward, I don't believe I have ever seen the three girls — these alleged triplets — together. I usually see two of them or one of them, but never three of them. I don't know if the two I have seen together are the same two each time. I also don't know if, when I see one of them, it's always the same one.

Last night, my wife and I took the train into center city Philadelphia to meet our son and his girlfriend for dinner. I noticed on our return trip to the suburbs, that two of the alleged triplets were in our train car. As the train slowed and came to a halt at our station, the two-thirds of the alleged triplets exited the train from a door at the other end of the car. My wife and I began walking to our house (the train station is at the end of our block). The two girls were creeping up behind us, chatting quietly to each other. We moved aside on the sidewalk to let them pass. They said nothing to us.

I concluded that if there are indeed three sisters, only two of them get along. The third one (if there really is a third one) prefers to keep to herself. She has a different group of friends and has a totally different set of interests. These two stick together as though they were twins, sharing friends, interests and maybe even a secret "twins" language. They shun and maybe even ignore the third sister. Perhaps the third sister is just fine with that.

That is.... if there really is a third sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

clean up woman

I will be the first to admit that what you are about to read — if you do, indeed, stick around long enough to read it — smacks of what the internet has deemed a "first world problem." Wikipedia — the invaluable, if not totally reliable online resource — defines "first world problem" as: "a trivial annoyance experienced by people in relatively affluent or privileged circumstances especially as contrasted with problems of greater social significance facing people in poor and underdeveloped parts." Yep! That's what this particular blog post in going to be about. So, sit back in your upholstered imported leather recliner, grab a nine-dollar cup of Starbucks coffee, have Alexa turn down the volume on your 65" flat-screen TV and commiserate with me as I voice my dismay over securing someone to clean my house.

Mrs. Pincus and I moved into our suburban Philadelphia home on Labor Day weekend in 1986. Our house is a three-story twin with — technically — six bedrooms, although only three of those rooms (one an always-at-the-ready guest room) are actually used as bedrooms. But there are six of 'em, just the same. The first floor boasts a large living room that leads into a large dining room and of course, a kitchen. After ten or so years, we hired a contractor to turn our dark dirt-wall basement into another, usable room. Taking way too long on the task, we now had another room, as well as another bathroom to add to the two we already had.

Even if you know nothing about home construction or architecture, you probably figured that every room in our house has walls and floors — much like your own house. And if you are any kind of civilized human being, you know that these surfaces need to be cleaned on some sort of regular basis. (Except, of course, if you are my brother-in-law, to whom the word "clean" has about as much meaning as the word "potrzebie.")

When we first moved into our house, my wife and I took care of the cleaning process ourselves. Once a week (approximately), I would run a vacuum cleaner over everything in our house that would be considered a floor. My wife would dust and wipe and straighten and practice other cleaning actions that, to be honest, were well out of my realm. My mom wasn't the best housekeeper that ever lived, so I learned from what I saw. My wife, thankfully, schooled me on how to clean properly and I tried to live up to her expectations....but, I was never a good student, so I just did my best. Sometimes, I would catch Mrs. P re-cleaning something that I thought I had completed to satisfaction. I wasn't insulted. I understood that my standards weren't the actual Pincus household standards.

When I got better jobs and the Pincus income increased, Mrs. P decided it was time to pay someone to clean our house. I was only too happy to agree. While my wife is a decidedly better and more thorough cleaner that I am, she actually dislikes the activity more than I do. So, she set out to hire someone to clean, sending out "feelers" among friends, neighbors and relatives who have had experience. Perhaps, she could even get someone who worked for a friend or neighbor, thus vouching for their reliability and trustworthiness, as well as their cleaning ability. This really had very little to do with me — except I was all for anything that would end my weekend vacuuming duties.

I would assume that if you decide to go into the housecleaning business, you would have no problem cleaning houses. After all, "house" and "cleaning" are right in the name. Perhaps I am being too presumptuous, but what do I know. Well. over the 30+ years we have lived here, we have had many, many folks who we paid to clean our house. A lot of them left after one or two visits. I'm not sure of the reasons, though. It wasn't as though Mrs. P is demanding. No! As a matter of fact, she rarely, if ever, criticized or pointed out shortcomings in the finished product. She would wait until the cleaner was paid and had left before tackling key areas that she felt could have been cleaned better. When the cleaner would return, she would politely point out areas of our home that needed closer attention... then she'd still pay them whether or not they did a satisfactory job.

There were a number of people who cleaned our house that I never even met, as the activity occurred while I was at work. Every once in a while, they would come on one of my rare, weekday days off. I'd say "hello" and then leave the house, going anywhere, just so I didn't have to be home. 

One of the longest-tenured cleaners we had was a young woman and her parents. This family were natives of Poland and mom and dad did not speak a word of English. The daughter would have to speak as an interpreter both ways — translating for my wife and then relaying messages from her parents. I met this crew a few times, as they worked for us for several years... until May 2020. That's when I lost my job due to the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic. One of the first casualties of our loss of income and "tightening our belts," was the elimination of paid housecleaners. My wife broke the unfortunate news to the daughter via a phone call, delivering it thorough heartfelt sobs. She promised to call and "rehire" as soon as we were back on our financial feet, but, with such dark, unknown days ahead, there was no way to know when that would be.

It was a year. A full year.

During that time, I once again, found myself cleaning the floors of my house on a regular schedule — something I had not done since I was 25 years old. Somewhere along the line, nearly all of the carpeting in our house had been taken up, revealing beautiful, original hardwood floors. So, the task of making the floors clean required different equipment form the last time I did this — over three decades earlier. Because of the pandemic's uncertainty,  I was not leaving the house. Mrs. P bravely placed herself in harm's way, take over shopping duties for us, as well as her elderly parents. On one of her shopping trips, I requested a complete Swiffer cleaning system, including a telescoping handle and both wet and dry disposable cleaning pads and a Swiffer duster with a box of single-use disposable pads. Once a week in my sequestered state, I would turn off the TV, crank up the radio and "swiff" every walkable surface in my house. I had no problem doing this. I hoped I was making myself useful, as well as keeping my mind off my miserable employment situation. I was also helping Mrs. P as best I could. However, I would much rather have a job in my chosen profession and relinquish my floor cleaning assignment to someone more qualified.

In May 2021, with my unemployment insurance having run its course, I re-entered the working world when a nearby commercial printing company took a chance on a 60 year-old graphic designer. With regular paychecks once again coming in, it was time to get back to the good old days of someone besides a Pincus cleaning the Pincus house. True to her word, Mrs. P called our most recent housecleaners — the daughter-parents team. The coldness in the daughter's tone was palpable. She questioned the notion that nobody was cleaning our home for over a year. My wife explained that we were without substantial income. The daughter sounded very skeptical, telling that her other customers continued to pay her, despite not having the crew come and clean. Mrs. P said that we were in no position to do that, but were now ready to welcome them back... providing that she and her parents were fully (or at least partially) vaccinated for COVID-19. The daughter laughed. Audibly laughed! "No!," she proudly announced, "We are not vaccinated." It was as though she was asked if she had grown a tail.

Well, here we were in a position in which we had not been in a quite some time. Mrs. P asked around and, after some time, arranged for a woman to come and offer an estimate on cleaning our house. Simple enough, right? Well, on the morning of the appointed, she called to make it a different day, citing some person issue. The morning of the alternate appointment, she called to make it a different day, blaming a different personal issue. This went on for several reschedulings until on the sixth attempt, she actually showed up. When a price was agreed upon, getting her to come and actually do the cleaning part was similar to getting her to come over in the first place. First, she was sick. Then she was still sick. Then her mother was sick. Then, there were transportation issues. She was beginning to sound like Epstein from Welcome Back, Kotter, offering excuses for his absences signed by "Epstein's mother." She finally came. She did an adequate job. Not stellar. Not great. Adequate. But, as long as Mrs. P and I were relieved of house cleaning obligations, everything was good. However, every subsequent appointment was pre-empted by a run of "I can't be there today" messages on the morning of. All totaled, she came to our house three times. Mrs. P even purchased a specific style of mop and bucket at this woman's request. But, Mrs. P had had enough. We needed someone else.

On a friend's recommendation, we contracted a cleaning service. A real, live professional cleaning service with written contracts and post-cleaning walk-throughs — you know, like a real business. The woman with the excuses was told that her services were no longer required Finally! Our housecleaning worries were over. The new service was reliable, efficient, most of all, they did a good job.

Until, we got a call.

As of this week, the service was switching to commercial properties only. No more residential customers. They came for one more visit, cleaned... and that was it. Back to "Square One." Out of nowhere, like beacon from house cleaning heaven, my wife's cousin came through with her cleaner — a responsible, reliable woman who was only too happy to take on new business. With mop in hand, she is coming next week.

I'll let you know if it results in another blog post.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

in this house that I call home

After two years of marriage and two years of paying rent in an apartment, Mrs. Pincus and I bought a house in the small Philadelphia suburb of Elkins Park. The house, a three-story, six-bedroom twin, was just a few blocks from Mrs. P's parents' house, the sprawling residence where Mr.s P grew up. 

Ripped from the headlines

My mother-in-law had been scanning local newspapers ever since my wife casually expressed an interest in purchasing a house. She spotted a small ad in the Classified Real Estate section of the Montgomery County Times-Chronicle offering a "Spacious stone Twin. Elegantly refurbished. 1 block to train, shopping, school." There was a phone number, but no address. My mother-in-law (with, obviously, a lot of free time), scanned each and every page of the modest Elkins Park phone book until she located an address to match the published phone number. My wife covertly drove past the house-in-question like a former girlfriend stalking the cause of a bad break-up. She eyed the place up and concluded that it was a good fit for us... at  least from the outside.

Then, my wife called the number. There was no answer. She called again and again at regular intervals, but there was still no answer, no matter what the time of day. Finally, the next day, her eleven billionth phone call was answered. Her inquiry about the house was met with a bit of hesitancy. The man on the phone – the house's owner – informed us that the home would not be officially shown until Saturday. We made sure that we would be the first ones there on Saturday morning. And indeed we were. The house was perfect – filled with charm and character and fortified with apparent solid construction. We offered the asking price and it was accepted. A few nights later, we found ourselves sitting in our future dining room, signing an Agreement of Sale with the current owners. We packed up our little Northeast Philadelphia apartment and moved into our new home on Labor Day weekend 1986.

Over the course of 33 years, my family seemed to have accumulated a load of stuff. And while we do have a spacious home (as the original newspaper offering promised and delivered), we managed to fill it up to near-capacity. As my wife and I approach our 60s, we decided that it is time to purge. We enjoyed our various collections displayed throughout our house. But, as they say: "You can't take it with you." Last year, when I unceremoniously lost my job, the incentive to "clean house," as it were, became more imminent. Plus, I was determined not to leave a houseful of shit for my son to sort through, as my parents so thoughtfully left for me. We have always sold the occasional household item that we no longer needed or that certain collectible that had been replaced by one in better condition. But, in the immediately desperation of not knowing what the uncertain employment future held for a 57-year old artist, we began to seriously concentrate on thinning out our accrual. We started with our massive Disney collection and never looked back. For months and months, my wife and I sat side-by-side and listed the thousands of items that comprised our 30+ year collection in her eBay store. Soon, we were reassessing everything in our house, trying to determine whether or not we really needed it. Things that were deemed "eBay-worthy" went that route. Items that didn't make the cut were stored on our back porch for inclusion in our yearly yard sale... one of which we staged just this past Saturday.

Early on Saturday (and I do mean "early'), we filled our humble front lawn with, what we hoped to be, someone's new treasures. Happily, many folks came and perused the items strewn across our grass, obviously enticed by the 100 or so signs we tacked to utility poles throughout our neighborhood.

Around noon, an older woman ascended the two cement steps that lead from the sidewalk to our front walkway. She was accompanied by a woman about my own age. The older woman approached me, ignoring the plethora of items lining her path. She was focused on me and not interested in any of our household cast-offs. She stood before me, gestured towards my front porch and asked, "Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do." I answered.

She smiled and maybe even choked back a tear as she continued. "I used to live here. I grew up here and I was married right in the living room." She pointed to the younger woman and said, "My niece grew up here, too." She went on to explain that she got excited when she saw our yard sale ad on Craig's List and recognized the address immediately. She continued on, saying that she grew up in my house in the 1940s, eventually getting married in a small ceremony held in my living room. She implied that her husband was no longer in the picture (either a break-up or death – this was not made clear) and when her sister passed away, her sister's young daughter came to live in the house with her aunt and grandmother. They sold the house in 1980 when the niece (the younger woman by her side) graduated from high school. The house was sold to the couple that Mrs. Pincus and I bought it from. The woman cheerfully related many anecdotes about her childhood in my house, punctuating her stories with questions about accouterments and amenities of the house and if we still kept them in tact. I was treated to a lengthy session of reminisces, including a very cool tale of the woman who lived next door in the 1950s – a mother of three – who jumped to her death from a second story window. I noted that a story like that is usually a deterrent to a potential buyer, but for me, that would be a selling point. After a while, I uncharacteristically offered the inevitable. I welcomed the pair into my house as a trip down the Pincus version of "Memory Lane." 

Leaving my wife to tend to customers on her own (which, with my meager level of help, was a fairly simple task), I took the two women on a tour of their childhood in the current guise of Chez Pincus. Curiously, as we entered my house, the older woman mentioned that she was glad to see that we had not changed anything in the dining room. Puzzled, I ask how she knew that. She sheepishly admitted to reviewing my wife's Facebook photos, using the yard sale post as her entrance. She saw pictures from the phenomenal spread my wife puts out at our annual Thanksgiving Dessert Party. 

The two women grew huge smiles as they looked around my living room, examining the fireplace mantel, the locks on the windows, the original cast-iron radiators. If I didn't know otherwise, I would have thought they were casing the place for a planned burglary. As we moved into the dining room, they caressed the tiny crystal pulls on the louver-doors to our built-in china closet and gazed misty-eyed out the windows that reveal our backyard. In the kitchen, they marveled at the rearranged appliances. The couple from whom we purchased had done extensive remodeling in the six short years they occupied the house. The older woman pointed out that the small attached extension behind the kitchen was referred to, by her family, as "the outside kitchen." We just call it "the back porch." The basement was the biggest shocker to the two women. In the early 1990s, we remodeled our basement as an alternative to moving, transforming a cement-floored, purely utilitarian storage space into a close approximation to a 50s-era diner, complete with a vintage Formica table, black & white checkered floor, vinyl booth seating and a working pinball machine and Q-Bert video cabinet. They remembered a confusing (and somewhat spooky) series of doors and closets making up the dark basement, the younger woman confessing her fright at the thought of going down there alone. It was in stark contrast to the now brightly-lit space, the faux-tiled walls decorated with numerous autographed and framed photos of various levels of celebrities. In the laundry room, I was told that the closet where we currently keep detergent and the small collection of basic household tools we own, was used by the older woman's family as a food pantry.

Floored!

We headed back upstairs so my charges could see the second and third floors. The older woman stopped to examine a small crevice alongside the banister where she hid small objects as a child. I assured her that nothing would be there anymore, as the mother-daughter team who clean our house probably made off with any trinkets they discovered – that weren't long-forgotten cat toys. Once on the second floor, my guests jogged their collective memories as they scrutinized the moldings at the base of the walls, the fixtures in the bathroom and the unique push-button and turn-knob light switches. They waved off my apologies of not having the made the bed or the state of disarray in the room that previously housed our Disney collection. They were excited to see that we had preserved the beautiful linoleum floor. I told them that we loved that floor, inlaid with muted color nursery rhyme scenes and game boards, from the moment we saw it on our initial tour of the house. Also, it would be impossible to move and would probably crumble if the attempt was made. Moving into the top-floor bathroom, our claw-foot bathtub brought smiles to their faces as did the red-velvet upholstered chair perched under the window (my own addition to the retro "theming" in our house), a prize rescued piece from my grandparents' Philadelphia antique store by way of my parents' living room. And against my better judgement (with Mrs. P's mortified voice in my head), I even opened the door to a walk-in closet that's filled with a jumbled assortment of eBay items, our luggage, a surplus of all-occasion wrapping paper and stuff for the next yard sale.

Roll up!

Our tour completed, we made our way back downstairs and outside to join the yard sale festivities once again. The two women were grateful and appreciative of my hospitality. I was actually surprised that I was so accommodating. It was so unlike me. The older woman told me that she enticed her niece, who was visiting from her current New York City home, with the promise of a mystery trip to a mystery location. I never imagined or even considered that my home would feature in someone's fond memories – other than those with the last name of Pincus, of course.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the next voice you hear

At the end of the summer, my wife's trusty Toyota 4Runner finally gave out. After sixteen years of reliable, nearly maintenance-free service, it just couldn't proceed anymore. With over 160 thousand miles tallied on its odometer, accumulated on countless journeys, it was the final few miles of a return trip from Slaughter Beach, Delaware that finally did the dependable vehicle in. The non-specific "check engine" light glowed ominously until our mechanic revealed the old workhorse was in need of a new transmission, a costly repair for a car that was pushing two decades on the road. Totally taken off-guard, we made the reluctant decision to purchase a new car. 

Jane! Stop this crazy thing!

On Labor Day, we drove over to our local Toyota dealer, the same one where we purchased our last three cars, including my 2004 RAV4 that sat almost dormant for the 12 years I took the train to work. Once in the showroom, we were approached by the same salesman that sold us our Previa minivan when our 31-year old son was a toddler. The salesman, in typical salesman fashion, told us he remembered us. (He did not.) My wife had done some online research prior to our arrival and reserved a 2018 RAV4 (in red) for herself. Our salesman led us out to the lot and we all climbed inside this shiny-new, pumped-up version of my car – fourteen years newer and chock full of technological enhancements that weren't even considered when my car was easing its way down the assembly line. There was a back-up camera and blind-spot indicators and beeps and dings and other assorted noise that alerted the driver to critical circumambient happenings, as though it was the command center on a NASA rocket launch.

We made our purchase, signed and initialed a bunch of papers and soon, Mrs. P was presented with a giant plastic key fob emblazoned with the Toyota logo. It was explained that the car did not require a key to start the engine. The dashboard sported a lighted button that fired up the engine when pushed, as long as the driver had the fob somewhere on his or her person. My wife joked that she went from driving the Flintsone's car to driving the Jetson's car.

The most important update on the hulking dashboard, of course, was the sophisticated sound system. This computer-operated, digital-displayed system integrated Bluetooth technology, HD radio and the Sirius XM satellite subscription radio. With 30 optional pre-set stations and a large screen displaying a wide variety of information, this system was, at first, overwhelming to those of us who considered an in-dash cassette deck to be hot stuff. Although it wasn't officially presented to us, we found out that with our purchase, we received a free, three-month, trial subscription to Sirius XM satellite radio. Sure, it was cool, but we really only listen to one terrestrial radio station in the Philadelphia area – the one that, bias aside, employs our son. However, free is free, so we gave it a cautious shot. First we discovered a channel that plays only big band and swing classics from the 1940s. My wife and I are huge fans of the music of that era. A little more scouting around unveiled a channel that played only Beatles tunes. Then one that plays early New Wave songs from the early 80s. Then a Billy Joel only channel, hosted by the Piano Man himself. Then, Mrs. Pincus stumbled upon the Grateful Dead channel and it was as though the red carpet to the Pearly Gates were just rolled out for her. A scenario that included twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week of Jerry Garcia and his psychedelic pals was the clincher. Mrs. P was officially spoiled.

After enjoying weeks and weeks of Sirius XM, the pending end of the trial period loomed large. The regular price of continuing the service was outrageous, as was affirmed by a number of emails reminding us of the termination of the free subscription. However, the longer we waited to make a decision, the sweeter the deals became. First, Sirius started dropping the price a little bit with each email. Then, the length of time of the proposed subscription was extended. Then, a combination of lower price and longer time period. Sirius didn't want us to leave, so they finally took a page from the Don Corleone playbook and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. My wife opened an email that enticingly put the price at fifty bucks for six more months and they'd throw in a free Amazon Echo Dot, something with which were were only vaguely familiar and were pretty sure we didn't need. But, we took the offer and we took the free Echo Dot and within two days I found myself setting up this little lighted hockey puck that plugged into the wall.

Talk to me.

Two years ago, we made a major leap into the world of advanced entertainment technology. We bought – not one – but two high-definition flat-screen televisions and signed up for the magical X1 service from Xfinity Cable. The new system came with a sleek black remote control that would respond to voice prompts. I felt kind of stupid talking to a piece of plastic, especially if I was asking to see the latest episode of Sam and Cat. I use the feature infrequently, as there are many other options to make the television do the exact same thing. Honestly, I feel more comfortable pressing a series of buttons than telling the remote what I want to watch... especially when I am by myself. Now, we have a new gadget in the house that is operated by voice commands. Granted, it was essentially free, but we still felt obligated to use it. (Actually, Mrs. P wanted to sell it on eBay, but I thought it would be cool and convinced her to keep it.)

The future is now.

Following the brief, simple set-up, our new Amazon Echo Dot was ready to heed our every command. According to write-ups and explanations about the Echo Dot's capabilities, it could control our television, control our house lights, operate and set our burglar alarm, lock our doors, adjust the heat, see who is knocking at our front door, answer our phone and a plethora of other time-saving duties. But, none of those things in our house are compatible with or equipped for the state-of-the-art technology of the Echo Dot. Instead, we are limited in its potential. Disappointed that our home was not immediately transformed into the Monsanto House of the Future (on display in Disneyland from the late 50s until the late 60s), we were relegated to having the Amazon Echo Dot perform a few amusing tricks. At this point, it was a novelty, like a little trained seal that can do a bit more that balance a beach ball on its nose. Activated by starting each command with "Alexa" (the so-called "wake word"), we get a daily report on the news, the weather, what are our choices for the evening's television viewing and other basic information. We have asked "Alexa" various trivia questions like who played a particular character in a movie or in what year did a certain event occur – questions that could easily have been answered by a few taps on our omnipresent cellphones. We have installed several "skills" (Echo's version of "apps") that allow "Alexa" to tell us daily celebrity birth and death anniversaries. We can also have "Alexa" provide musical entertainment via WXPN (our favorite radio station) or even through our new Sirius subscription. We discovered that "Alexa" can tell jokes, sing songs and recite poems all in her pleasant, weirdly-inflectioned, otherworldly female timbre – somewhat unnervingly reminiscent of HAL 9000.

"Alexa, hi."

To be honest, we are enjoying our time with "Alexa." For the first week, my wife was determined to change "Alexa"'s name to "Janet," after the adorable and obedient android on the quirky TV series The Good Place, to no avail. (The device is pre-programmed to respond to either "Alexa," "Computer" or "Echo" exclusively.)

Resigned to the fact that a name change is impossible, Mrs. Pincus is now focused on trying to get "Alexa" to say "fuck."



www.joshpincusiscrying.com

boy, you gotta carry that weight

I am fascinated by technology. I remember when we got our first color television, the annual network showing of The Wizard of Oz took on a whole new excitement. When I was in high school, my family got a VCR complete with a hard-wired remote that my father would monopolize, as he fast-forwarded the boring parts of DeathWish 3 to watch Charles Bronson shoot the bad guys over and over again.

In the late 80s, I was totally awed when my boss at the small graphics studio where I worked purchased a fax machine. Oh my God! This was the coolest thing I had ever seen. Way cooler that a Xerox machine. Little did I know, that facsimile technology would be obsolete before too long. Then came computers and modems and flash drives and on and on and on. But just this week, I discovered a piece of technology that is so ingenious that all of those aforementioned things pale in comparison.

I found out long ago.
It's a long way down the holiday roast.

Thirty or so years ago, when Mrs. P and I moved into our house, we purchased a chest freezer. To this day, I'm not sure why it was an immediate purchase for our new abode, but it proved pretty convenient as it sat nestled in a corner of our basement next to the washing machine. We stocked it with all sorts of stuff. We had a few free turkeys obtained by collecting supermarket receipts around Thanksgiving time. We had a big box of fruit-flavored sherbet that came in little fruit-shaped serving dishes. I'm pretty sure we lost interest in eating them after two or three, but at least we had a giant freezer in which they were kept rock solid. We had just purchased a number of difficult-to-find Gardein® vegetarian holiday "roasts" and when I went to put them in our old reliable freezer, I noticed that the bottom was covered with a wall-to-wall sheet of ice about an inch thick. A few frozen chickens that my wife had been storing where imprisoned in the ice, telling me that it had thawed and refrozen a few times. Well, after thirty-plus years, it appeared that our trusty, workhorse freezer — silently and without warning — gave out.

My wife began searching the internet, as it was without question, that we needed a new freezer. We had become spoiled (as spoiled as those thawed chickens) by having an additional fifteen cubic-feet of frozen storage space in our house. She settled on a smaller model and we ventured out to a nearby Best Buy to make our purchase.

Mrs. Pincus spoke with a sales representative (who, curiously, didn't budge from his chair behind a desk), while I opened and closed the doors of several $2600 refrigerators on display, wondering if a $2600 refrigerator keeps food colder that the one we had at home. Mrs. P picked out a freezer, paid and arranged for free delivery for the weekend and we left. The whole transaction took about twenty minutes. We returned home and cleared a path in the basement to make removal of our old freezer easier for the delivery crew. I remember when Freezer Number One was delivered, the delivery guys were exasperated by the steep, narrow steps that lead from our backyard to our basement, with those steps ending at an even narrower doorway.

For reference only

Well, Saturday rolled around and, at the appointed time, a truck pulled up in front of our house. Two guys (one who looked like veteran character actor Hector Elizondo and a younger fellow who looked like my friend Steve's son Peter) bounded out. Hector came up to our front door clutching a clipboard. We instructed him that the only access would be through the outside basement door. He walked around back and I went downstairs to meet him at the basement door. He assessed the layout, smiled, nodded and went to fetch his partner. The first task would be to remove our out-of-commission freezer. They quickly returned. Within seconds, Hector had our wooden basement door off its hinges. Peter began arranging an unfamiliar apparatus around his shoulders and torso. The two-man team slid two long cloth straps underneath the freezer. Hector took up the slack and hooked the ends of the straps in a similar fashion around his shoulders. With little to no effort, the two men lifted that enormous freezer up off the floor. They easily guided the dead appliance up the narrow stairs with nary a kvetch or a grunt, effortlessly guiding it lightly with their hands so it didn't hit the walls. The freezer just barely swung in its little hammock suspended between these two men. In a few minutes, they returned with our new freezer, snugly fitted into its little cloth harness. They had it down the steps and placed in its waiting basement corner in under two minutes. Mrs. Pincus signed on the dotted line to confirm delivery and Hector snapped a picture on his cellphone confirming the same.

Happy lifting!

Those straps, I later discovered after a Google search, are called "shoulder dollies" and are readily available for purchase on Amazon. The many listings for them show Mr. and Mrs. Average Couple easily hoisting a huge clothes dryer with this thing threaded over their shoulders. They both are smiling as though they are holding a puppy. Best of all, this clever invention costs under thirty bucks and requires no electricity or lengthy set-up. Just a few twists and wraps, and you can lift (as Hector informed us) up to 700 hundred pounds. Technology doesn't always have to involve an internet connection, a three-prong electrical adapter or even a set of multi-blade screwdrivers. Sometimes it's a simple "why didn't I think of that?" solution to everyday challenges. But, honestly, I don't know if the need for "shoulder dollies" will ever present itself to me.

But I am glad I know about them.... just in case.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

now it's time to say goodbye to all our company

In the summer of 1980, I made my first trip to Walt Disney World.... and I didn't even want to go. 

I had graduated from high school just a year earlier and hadn't yet decided what I wanted to do with my life. My friends had all taken the expected educational path and were enrolled in college. But not me. I was working as a cashier at a clothing store as I pondered a suitable (and lucrative) direction for my career. I considered going headfirst into retail — except I hated it. I had been drawing since I was a child, but the thought of making a living at it was inconceivable. I had always heard of the proverbial "starving artist" and I didn't want that to be me.

My friends and I began kicking around ideas for a trip — our first collective vacation sans parents. As summer was approaching and the school year (at least for some) was drawing to a close, a vacation sounded like just the thing we all needed. We quickly dismissed a week in Atlantic City, as that was the "go-to" option we were compelled to take for most of our lives. We wanted to really go somewhere. Somewhere to which we'd never been. We all agreed on Florida, but where exactly in Florida was a point of contention among us. I voted for Fort Lauderdale, lured by my older brother's tales of flowing beer and bikini-ed girls. My friends Alan and Scott suggested landlocked Orlando, home of Walt Disney's variation on his "Disneyland" theme. I frowned at the idea. "An amusement park?," I whined, "I don't want to spend a week at an amusement park!" I was debated and cajoled until I finally relented. Little did my 19-year old self know that by agreeing to go to Disney World, my feelings for all things Disney were about to do a complete one-eighty.

I scraped together every spare cent I could and even had to borrow the last few dollars to purchase my very first airplane ticket. Soon, my friends and I found ourselves face-to-face with actual palm trees of which we had only seen pictured in geography books. Our rental car took us to the ritzy (in our perception) International Inn, dead center on the main drag of bustling International Drive in Orlando, a thoroughfare so exotic in our sheltered eyes that it boasted an International House of Pancakes at either end of the street. We were definitely not in Philadelphia anymore. We checked into our room, tossed our luggage where ever it landed and headed out to the first liquor store we could find. Unlike Pennsylvania, where the state-run Liquor Control Board holds a tight grip on the distribution and sale of distilled spirits, alcohol flowed freely and was as readily available as Coca-Cola (or in Florida's case — Mr. Pibb). And four rambunctious, uninhibited Yankee 19-year-olds took full advantage.

Twenty bucks including tax.

On our first full day in Florida, my friends and I stuffed ourselves with the fine offerings from Davis Brothers breakfast buffet (where a mere five bucks allowed me to eat more waffles in one morning that I had eaten in my entire life up to that point). We piled into our rental car and tooled on over to the Magic Kingdom, the only Disney theme park in Central Florida at the time. We made sure we each had our coveted two-day, all-inclusive Magic Kingdom "Passport" that we had purchased under the guidance of  the travel agent with whom we had arranged our trip. Yessiree! Our "passport" would allow full access to every attraction the Magic Kingdom had to offer without having to fuss with those pedestrian "letter" tickets. As we passed through the turnstile, our admission ticket was hand-stamped by a smiling young lady in a Disney-branded plaid vest and skirt. I began to feel a twinge of actual excitement breaking through my previous "vacation cynicism." This was pretty cool. And perhaps, I thought to myself, this place is something more than an amusement park. The combination of a loud, steamy tooooooot from an old-fashioned train just above our heads, the low tones of a unseen calliope, the distinctive rhythmic tinkle of ragtime piano chords, the scent of fresh popcorn and the sweet aroma of flowers was putting my senses into euphoric overload. A grin stretched across my lips as I scanned the free park guide map, trying to decide which attraction would be my inaugural foray into an eventual lifetime of Disney.... hell, I'll say it.... obsession. I raced with my friends up Main Street, weaving around the crowds, making a slight left toward the path marked "ADVENTURELAND" in decidedly primitive-looking letters arranged across a wicker arch that spanned the walkway. Jungle drums beat out an ominous cadence. Giant palm trees bent down, creating a cool, secluding canopy that effectively blocked out the gaiety on Main Street, a mere fifty or so feet away. We tackled The Swiss Family Treehouse first, making our way up and down the narrow rope-and-plank staircases that threaded through the enormous trunk. On first glance, the whole thing is quite impressive, but, when you realize that not a goddamn thing in the entire place is real — that's when it hits you just how impressive Disney World is. It was the kick-off of a surreal day filled with rollicking pirates and singing bears and spinning teacups and gas-chugging race cars and 999 happy haunts and eighty dolls singing small world after all.

Gotta have 'em.

At the end of my first taste of the immersive world of a Disney theme park, my friends and I made our way towards the exit, but not before an obligatory stop at The Emporium — the largest gift shop in the Magic Kingdom. Excitedly, I sorted through the bins and displays and racks of Mickey Mouse-emblazoned tchotchkes. I began grabbing everything! And I do mean everything! Buttons! T-shirts! Pens! Posters! Magnets! I started filling a shopping basket as my bewildered friends marveled at my behavior. They had never seen me so... so.. possessed, at it were. They also seemed curious as to why I was wasting precious beer money on black felt Mouse ears with "Josh" stitched across the back. When the dust finally cleared, I lumbered out of the store with several bags brimming  with all sorts of Disney treasures.

And that's where it all began. My hobby. My pastime. My collection.

I visited Walt Disney World many more times after my initial trip, including my honeymoon and a wintertime vacation when Mrs. Pincus was about six weeks pregnant. Actually, when I met the future Mrs. Pincus, we each had a small collection of Disney items from previous theme park visits. Her family had been to Disneyland in '68 and to Disney World just after its 1971 opening. When we married, our collections were merged in much the same way as her Grateful Dead albums were placed alongside my Queen albums, but without as much cacophony.

Each visit yielded more and  more Disney items added to "the collection." What had once been a little assembly of cute figurines, novelty buttons and a smattering of ephemera on a single shelf in a spare room now swelled to three full bookshelves and soon an entire room and it showed no signs of receding. Books and toys (still pristine in their packaging) stood meticulously positioned alongside vintage glassware and novelty lunchboxes, all distinct in their inclusion in the Disney canon.

Our Disney collection was expanding almost at the same rate as Disney expanded their theme park roster worldwide. Of course, we obtained items from Tokyo Disneyland, Disneyland Paris, Hong Kong and the Shanghai locations, as well. My wife and I were always on the hunt for that elusive object that we didn't even know we were missing until we saw it. We had housewares and mugs and records and the much-sought-after "cast member" items... oh, all kinds of stuff. Guests at our house would smile, and yet, scratch their heads, pondering why two adults would have a roomful of kids' stuff. In their defense, it was a pretty good question.

Just before our son was born, the entire collection was moved (by me — in a single night) to a heretofore empty room on the third floor of the home we had purchased a few months earlier. Of course, we purchased a lot of Disney toys and related items for our new baby, as did family and friends who figured that he had no choice but to become a "Disney Kid." Our son E's room was subtly appointed with Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh, in both plush and plastic formats. We watched Disney video tapes as a family and E was a fan of cable TV's fledgling Disney Channel. As E grew up, he would often ask people whose houses we visited if he could see their "Disney Room." He just assumed that every house had one. His house did, as well as the standard living room, kitchen and bathroom, so why wouldn't they have a "Disney Room?" When his requests for a tour were met with confusion, I suppose that's when he figured out his parents were not like other parents.

Over the course of thirty or so years, between numerous vacations to Disney World, Disneyland, Disney merchandise outlets, Disney Stores, eBay auctions, flea markets and collector shows, our "Disney Room" grew and grew and grew. It became legendary among friends, relatives, friends of friends, coworkers and other acquaintances. At our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert soiree, invited guests would climb the two flights of stairs to the third floor of our house and cram themselves into the ever-shrinking space in the center of the "Disney Room." With each passing year, the walls seemed to close in a little more and fewer people could fit in the room at the same time.

(click to enlarge... if you dare)

When my parents passed away in the early 1990s, I became concerned about what sort of mess my son would be left with when my wife's and my time on earth has run its course. I certainly didn't want to leave a house full of shit like my parents left me. While our house is way more orderly than the chaotic shambles my parents called "home" (and stocked with way cooler stuff), Mrs. P and I toyed with the notion of thinning out our household accumulations — including our beloved "Disney Room." With our 60th birthdays looming in the not-too-distant future, we really gave "liquidation" some serious thought.

Then, this past February, came the unthinkable. I lost my job. At 56, it was quite scary. Not knowing when my next employment would begin, my wife and I tightened our belts, swallowed our pride and started in on the bittersweet task of dismantling and selling off a lifetime — our lifetime — of Disney memorabilia. At first, it was hard. Very hard, as a matter of fact. I scanned the room and reluctantly cherry-picked a few nondescript items. A book. A die-cast car. A yo-yo. A doll. My wife, who has maintained an eBay store over twenty years, patiently schooled me on the ins-and-outs of listing items on the world's largest internet auction website. The first weekend of our "little project" was admittedly tough, but as the days went on, it was actually a freeing and fun experience. I began to gather up items with zeal. I was not nearly as discerning as I was when the project began. Certainly not as discerning as when I was originally buying the stuff. I was on a mission and that mission was clearing those shelves to both generate income and not leave an abysmal burden for our son. Every weekend afternoon, my wife and I sit side-by-side and list our prized possessions. And little by little, the room is noticeably emptying. For the first time in thirty years, I am able to see the backs of the shelves. Some surprising items are generating interest, while others — ones I thought would be most sought after — are ignored by what is obviously a new crop of collectors who don't share the same sense of nostalgia as Mrs Pincus and me. There is activity among DuckTales and TaleSpin items, a Disney cartoon that was popular when I was 26, so there's this "window of opportunity" for the older, more collectible pieces that may have closed when were were still happily admiring our accumulation. Nevertheless, the majority of our collection is selling at a fairly brisk clip.

Am I sorry to see the stuff go? Not nearly as much as I thought I'd be. As a matter of fact, as the weeks go on and more of our collection is sold, I am less and less concerned. Recently, my son had the opportunity to give the Disney Room a "once-over," grabbing stuff that he had singled out and desired over the course of his lifetime — stuff that, at one time, was off-limits to the touch of a child's hand. He took a mini Pirates of the Caribbean music box from Tokyo Disneyland that he had been eyeing for years. (Actually, my wife had to yank it from her eBay store, as it was already available for sale.)

If you have ever been to my house — I'm sorry — but the "Disney Room" is no longer accepting visitors. If there was something you saw on a shelf that you secretly wished you could own, now is your chance. Take a look at the Disney items available in Mrs. P's eBay store and auctions.

There's enough stuff to fill a room. But it's going fast.

Click here for a panoramic view....that no longer exists.

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