99 problems

Years ago, I used to design promotional posters for a local DJ who put on a monthly dance party. I did these posters for him for many years. There was another DJ who worked with him at these parties and one day, she decided to branch out on her own. Her solo effort was an amiable split with the main DJ. As a matter of fact, he recommended that she contact me to do the promo poster for her very first event. She did so and we agreed on a very very fair price. (This event was over fifteen years ago and the price we settled on was fifty dollars. That price was offered as a favor for a friend and far below what I would normally charge for such a project.) I sent the finished piece to her and sat back and awaited payment. Payment never arrived. The date of the event came and went and still no payment. I contacted her via email which was my only form of contact for her. I received no reply. I began to email her more frequently and still no replies. After months and months of no replies and no payments, I gave up. Almost a year after the event, I received a reply. A very short, indignant reply. She said that the event was not as successful as she had hoped and she had no money. I countered, expressing my sympathies about the poor reception of her event, but reminding her that we did have a business agreement. I did do the work and I did supply her with a product as promised. I received no further emails from her. A few months after this futile exchange, I saw her name pop up in an internet chat room of a local radio station. I identified myself to her and, once again, asked about payment for my work. She replied that she had no money after buying  Christmas gifts for her friends. Then she promptly left the chat room.

No money after buying Christmas gifts? What? What about priorities? What about obligations and responsibilities? 

Some time ago, I arrived home from work to find my wife in tears. She explained that she just came from the bank. She was discussing a situation with a bank officer with whom we had recently secured a line of credit. In the course of the conversation, it was revealed that he — the bank representative — had supplied us with incorrect information regarding some aspect of the agreement. Instead of admitting his error and apologizing, he berated my wife — insisting that she should have read the details more carefully. Then he lied — lied — saying that he told us the correct policy from the very beginning. I was furious. No one should ever leave a bank in tears — with the exception of being a victim in a robbery. Otherwise, "banking" and "crying" are mutually exclusive. I got back in my car and drove over to the bank. I asked for the bank officer and confronted him over his reasoning for making my wife cry. He hemmed and hawed and stammered and shuffled... until he finally spat out, "Well, my father just died!" I told him I was sorry to hear that, but perhaps he returned to work too soon and he still needed time to grieve without taking his "five steps" out on his customers. (As an epilogue to this incident, I called the corporate office of the bank and explained what had transpired. The bank officer in question was no longer seen at the bank after that.)

Yesterday, I arrived home to find a car parked directly across my driveway, completely blocking access. There was a woman sitting in the passenger's seat, but no driver. I tapped my horn. The woman looked at me. I gestured towards my driveway. She shrugged her shoulders. I tapped my horn again, but this time, I lowered my window and yelled for her to move the car. Instead, she got out of her car and called up to someone standing on my next-door neighbor's porch. "This guy wants you to move the car. He says it's blocking his driveway." The woman on the porch called back: "Oh, I'll be there in a minute." and she made no attempt to make a move towards her car. In the meantime, a car was stopped behind me and another was stopped behind the blocking car, unable to maneuver past. I lowered my passenger window and screamed: "MOVE YOUR CAR!" The woman on the porch slowly — s  l  o  w  l  y — sauntered down the front steps and headed toward my car. She stopped just in front of my car and wagged her finger at me. "Sir!," she began condescendingly, "there is a person in this house who needs assistance in getting around. There is no need to be rude." I was fuming! I pointed to her car. "But blocking my driveway isn't rude?," I hollered. She turned on her heels and walked to her car, got in and even more  s    l    o    w    l    y  turned her vehicle around and sped away. When I got inside my house, my neighbor had send a text to my wife that read: "Please apologize to Josh. He seemed pretty annoyed."

For the past twenty-five or so years, my next-door neighbor — or someone living in or visiting her house — has blocked my driveway no less that seventy billion times. And I have complained each and every one of those times. One would think that, after all those years, she would say to a visitor or resident of her home, "Oh don't block my asshole neighbor's driveway. He's a jerk and he gets mad when someone blocks his driveway, even if they have a perfectly good reason to do so." Nope. She has never done that. Instead, she just continues to block my driveway.

The common thread in these three incidents (and many others like them) is the excuse. An excuse for rude and inconsiderate behavior is always rendered with words that make the offender's problem a valid, inarguable reason for bad behavior. It is as though their problem or issue is so important — so undeniably crucial — that it negates any other situation. Any one of your trivial, insignificant dilemmas are meaningless when compared to their earth-shattering, life-threatening, monumental concern. 

The DJ for whom I designed the poster — she was not aware of my financial situation. She didn't consider that I needed that fifty bucks to pay a bill or purchase medication. She didn't think that I make my living as an artist and this was how I meet my financial responsibilities.

The guy at the bank — I am sorry that his father died. My father died. So did my mother. And my grandmothers (the one I like and the one I didn't like). So did my best friend from high school. So did a lot of people. People die. But the death of his father doesn't necessarily affect the lives of everyone. And a personal tragedy has no place and no bearing on the day-to-day function of a bank and its services. 

That woman blocking my driveway — how does she know what may be going on in my house? Did she consider that I may be delivering important medicine for someone inside? Did it cross her mind that a long lost relative could be waiting to see me after many, many decades of little to no contact? Did she think that perhaps I was answering a desperate call from an elderly inhabitant of my house that had fallen and was in need of my immediate help?

When did we become a society of self-centered, self-righteous, inconsiderate, arrogant, narcissistic egotists? 

Sure, I can come off as an angry, complaining curmudgeon. Well, now you know why.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's what you get for being polite

I have a question. What is the correct amount of times one needs to say "excuse me, please" to get the person blocking you to move? One? Two? Six? Is it a trick question, because, oftentimes that person never moves.

Since my wife and I started eating salads for dinner — almost exclusively — about a year ago, I find myself in the supermarket several times a week. I go often to replenish basic fresh salad ingredients — tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, carrots. You know, stuff that doesn't have a very long shelf life. My supermarket trips don't last very long, as I make a beeline to the produce section, pick up what I need and scoot. Sometimes, my "scooting" is not as quick as I'd prefer. Thanks to the arrogance of other shoppers.

This afternoon (Sunday) I left my house fairly early (for a Sunday) to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy. Then, I headed over to the supermarket to grab a few salad items that needed restocking in our refrigerator. In less than five minutes, I had everything I came for in my cart (except for scallions, which a clerk told me: "we are having a hard time ordering." I didn't believe him, as his explanation had that "I'm making this up 'cause I couldn't be bothered to find out" tone) and made my way to the self-checkout. I wasn't about to waste my precious time while a bored cashier examined and commented on every one of my purchases. 

One by one, I scanned each of my items, entering produce codes manually when requested. I bagged my purchases and then slid my credit card into the scanner, removing it when prompted. I loaded my bags back into my cart and prepared to make my exit from the store.

However...

As I was checking out my items, I spotted something in my peripheral vision. A man with a full shopping cart moved into position at the checkout station next to me — approaching from the wrong side — thereby avoiding the customer queue line. Since I only had ten or so items and I scanned them with efficiency and I finished long before my new colleague did. But, my fellow shopper had his cart positioned in such a way that it did not allow me access to leave.  I frowned.

I offered a friendly (well, friendly for me) "excuse me, please." I like to think that, although I am often accused of being a "curmudgeon," I am polite. I am not an instigator. I avoid conflict as much as I can. But, I will speak up if I believe I am right. And, in this case, I was right. This guy was blocking my exit with no regard for anyone but himself. His cart was crooked in the aisle and it was inconsiderate. My "excuse me" was met with absolutely no reaction. None. He made no attempt to move his cart an inch. I frowned again.

"Excuse me, please." I repeated myself, something I don't like to do, especially if I am being totally ignored. Again, this man continued adjust and survey the items in his cart, selecting and scanning. He was doing everything except changing the position of his cart. I thought for a moment. "How many more 'excuse me's will it take until this guy finally acknowledges another human being in his world?" (Unfortunately, I have run into this rude, self-absorbed behavior before. From adults, no less.)

So here we are at an impasse. He entered the self-checkout area from the exit side. He was blocking the aisle with his cart parked across the access lane. And my repeated pleas of "excuse me" were falling upon deaf ears. I repeated my "excuse me" again, this time sans "please." A customer at the terminal across from my rude shopping neighbor pulled his cart closer to afford me some room to slip by. I nodded to the other customer and sarcastically (and loudly) "thanked" the fellow next to me as I pushed my cart past him. He looked up with a scowl, as though I was disturbing him.

I suppose, in his world, I was.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stand in the place where you are

My wife and I find ourselves in the supermarket quite regularly. We eat a lot of salad and fresh vegetables, so we must keep replenishing our stock. That stuff doesn't have a long shelf life and, honestly, the salads we make are pretty big. 

We live in close proximity to several large supermarkets, each one equally convenient, however not as equal in the products that they carry. The one that is closest to us – Acme, a subsidiary of the Albertson's grocery chain – does not carry bagged, shredded red cabbage. I love red cabbage in my salad and the amount that is included in the pre-bagged “Classic Salad” mixes (as offered by Dole and Fresh Express) is not sufficient to satisfy me. Acme is also lacking in other products, such as low-fat salad dressing. (I know. I know. I am very particular about my salads.) So, more often, Mrs. P and I find ourselves in the produce section of our local Giant supermarket. (Giant is the name, not a commentary on its size. It is no bigger that any other supermarket near us.) 

Giant has a beautiful produce section, with offerings that Acme never carries (including bagged, shredded red cabbage). Until a recent remodel rectified the situation, the Giant store was poorly laid out, with aisles running perpendicular to other aisles. There were aisles that did not run the entire depth of the store,  and aisles that ran part way across the store, making shopping a tedious and exhausting task, forcing the poor disoriented shopper (me) into feeling like a lab mouse caught in an impossible maze experiment. Well, they straightened out and simplified the floor plan, plus they introduced “Marty.” Marty is a robot that roams the aisles of Giant. That's right – a robot. Marty is a sleek gray plastic piece of equipment standing 6-and-a-half feet tall and outfitted with scanners and – inexplicably – a large set of googly eyes. Marty's mission is to identify spills and obstacles that may impede on a shopper's in-store experience. Marty glides almost silently through the store, moving slowly enough so as not to startle the elderly shoppers and to enable the curious to snap a quick selfie. Marty has been programmed to not bump into carts or shelving and nor will it block the aisles. 

Although that problem at Giant has not been fully resolved. 

One of the reasons I don't care to shop at Giant is an on-going phenomena among a large percentage of their clientele. It's a phenomena I have been subject to on nearly every visit to the store. It seems every single time I go to Giant, someone is blocking every single aisle. I have never encountered this at any other supermarket besides Giant. There always seems to be someone standing in the dead center of any given aisle with their shopping cart strategically positioned so no one can scoot around them on either side. This shopper is usually rifling through a fat cardboard folder of coupons or craning their neck in confusion while considering a display of products on a top shelf ten feet away. The other infuriating scenario is when folks saunter to the end of an aisle and stop. Just stop and ponder. Ponder which way to turn. Ponder what items are still remaining on their shopping list. Ponder which items they missed in the aisle that they almost exited. Ponder the speed at which the Earth rotates as it makes its way around the sun. Who knows what they are pondering. I just know they are not pondering getting out of the way. That one they got all figured out. 

On my most recent visit to Giant, I left my wife at the deli counter to peruse the various cold prepared salads. I told her I was just going to hop over to a far aisle and grab a jar of sliced roasted red peppers (another favorite salad topping of mine) and I'd be back in a second. On what should have been a ten second quest, I was held up no less that five times by shoppers standing at a dead halt at the end or middle of an aisle for no discernible reason. People just stopping dead in their tracks, as though they were trapped in quick-drying cement. These people have no regard for other shoppers around them. Other shoppers who don't lead a life of leisure that allows for a casual stop-and-start stroll though a bustling market. There are people who don't want to make a trip to the market like a trip to a museum. A lot of people want to get what they need and get on their way. That is the beauty of self-serve markets and the concept that brought them into existence in the first place. You want to stop and think about your next supermarket purchase? That's fine. Just do it off to the side and have a little consideration for someone who doesn't share your (and The Eagles') philosophy of “Take It Easy.” 

When I finally returned with my jar of roasted red peppers, I related my tale of woe to Mrs. Pincus as we made our way up to the check-out area. As you would expect, I prefer the self check-out lanes – except when I get behind someone with an issue or a problem or something they didn't mean to purchase. This time, though, we were lucky and it was smooth sailing. We quickly scanned our items, bagged them and paid. I gathered up our bags and we started for the exit. 

Only to be blocked by an emergency meeting of the Old Man Giant Door Blockers Union Local 101. I believe it is usually held RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE ONLY STORE EXIT! 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

goin' down the road feelin' bad (redux)

Early on Saturday afternoon, Mrs. P and I set out to run a few small errands. We pulled out of our driveway, drove down our street, eventually making our way to Church Road, a main thoroughfare in our small, suburban community. Wait. Don't get the impression that Church Road is a bustling freeway with on and off-ramps. It's not even a sleek multi-lane boulevard. Church Road is a winding macadam covered street that twists and turns through several quaint hamlets in Cheltenham Township. In most places, it narrows to a single lane in each direction where passing cars are so close drivers could shake hands if they so desired (and slowed down enough).

My wife maneuvered her car onto Church Road and we headed east. Within a minute of our journey, we found ourselves behind a Porsche 911. Mrs. P pointed out that it was the type that her brother always talked about and, one day, hoped to own. (The closest he came was purchasing one of the German automotive maker's early forays into the burgeoning SUV market. Sometimes the line between "sporty" and "sensible" is a thin one.) No sooner had she delivered this little anecdote, than the Porsche ahead of us slowed to a crawl. It crept along casually. I saw that traffic behind us was beginning to accumulate, as this section of Church Road had a single eastbound lane. Any attempt to skirt around on the shoulder would send a driver rambling across someone's front lawn. Suddenly, the Porsche coasted to a complete stop in front of the driveway access of a house sitting on an elevated plateau of manicured grass about seventy-five feet from the street. The Porsche's hazard lights sprung to life, blinking in a regular pattern in its elegantly-designed taillights.

And it sat.

And sat.

And sat, while traffic behind us stacked up with more and more cars. We could see the silhouette of two people inside the Porsche — a driver and a passenger — but there was minimal movement. After thirty or so seconds, the passenger door swung open and a male leg extended into view. Slowly, the owner of the leg extracted himself from the passenger seat. Once fully out of the car, he leaned his head and shoulders back inside to fumble around with something. Again, he stood up, this time, however, he was holding the long cloth handles of a dark duffel bag. The man stood for few more long seconds and, through a full grin, offered a few more long sentiments of farewell to the driver.

There must have been at least a dozen cars stopped behind us on Church Road. Stuck. Helplessly stuck. This, obviously, was of no concern to the driver of the Porsche or his passenger. He waited until his colleague ascended the driveway and climbed the stone steps to the house. Then — and only then — did he disengage his flashers and pull away from the foot of the driveway...

.... only to pull into the very next driveway a mere ten feet further. The driver threw the Porsche into "PARK" and killed the engine. It may have even been less than ten feet.

This reminded me of a joke I once heard. A very wealthy man solicited an uneducated handyman for a job. "I'll give you twenty dollars to paint my porch out back.," the wealthy man explained. He directed the handyman towards a pail of gray industrial paint and a couple of brushes. The slack-jawed handyman headed into the wealthy man's backyard. Two hours later, the handyman returned for payment. "All finished!," he announced and he accepted two tens from the wealthy man. As he shoved the bills into his shirt pocket, the handyman remarked, "I don't think that's a porch, though. I think it's a Maserati."

Maybe this guy will be in need of a handyman someday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

Twenty-eight years ago, we moved into our home in the small suburban community of Elkins Park, just outside of Philadelphia, not far from where my wife grew up. We live on a quiet block, though most blocks in this neighborhood are pretty quiet. The only real noise comes from the infrequent blasts from the nearby fire house siren and the clatter of the regional railroad that runs twenty feet behind my house. (Having the train so close is actually a plus, as I can practically roll out of bed and make it to the station at the end of my street in a matter of seconds. Literally, seconds!) Aside from those two sonic sources, there are few disturbances... except for my neighbors on either side of my house.

I have chronicled the unneighborly exploits of one neighbor (here and here and especially here), but the other next-door neighbors are giving that nut a run for her money.

Our house is colloquially known as a twin. In other parts of the country, this type of house is known as a two-family dwelling, semi-detached or a duplex (although a duplex means something different in the Philadelphia area). A "twin" (or whatever you choose to call it), is simply a single building, with a separate entrance to each dwelling and there is a shared center wall. The lot line runs down the middle of the house. You own the half of the lot your home is on. You are responsible for the maintenance and insurance on your half of the house/lot. You can paint your house a different color than the other side, different roof color, whatever you'd like. Clear? When we moved in, the house connected by that aforementioned center wall was the residence of two women who kept to themselves. We would see them when snow needed to be shoveled or grass needed cutting, but we never socialized. After they moved, a succession of nondescript occupants moved in for short periods. Then, Len, a young, hip accountant with no apparent accounting skills, overpaid for the place and turned it into a fucking frat house. He threw regular, loud parties that raged into the wee hours of the night, frequently spilling out onto his front porch and lawn. The limited available street parking was hogged by visitors who would repeatedly block my driveway. After several years, Len's employer transferred him to sunny southern California. Unable to unload his investment outright, he offered the house as a rental. A slew of college students moved in for an 18-month "par-TAY" that picked up where Len's inconsiderate celebrations left off. The parking situation grew worse, as the four tenants each owned a car (as did their numerous guests) and soon our block began to resemble the long-term parking lot at the airport. At the end of a year-and-a-half, the students vacated and, thankfully, a normal, respectful family moved in - Rae and O. O., a general contractor, had his sights set on the slowly-crumbling, long-unoccupied single home directly across the street. Not long after he moved his family in to the home adjacent to ours, he packed up the whole shebang and moved ninety feet away, single-handedly rebuilding the place around his patient family's daily life.

Then, Fan's family moved in.

I sensed something off about them from the moment I met them. They struck me as out-of-place hippies — in a Manson Family sort of way. The dad, (who I'll call "Cool"), gave the impression of one of those survivalist guys who stockpile canned food, drinking water and high-powered weapons in his basement, knowing that government agents are gonna come pounding at his door after they shut off the electricity. Mrs. P and I attempted to be friendly (well, Mrs. P anyway), even inviting them to our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" get-together. They came, stayed a very short time and left. And slowly withdrew. They turned down subsequent invitations, or just plain didn't show up. No more neighborly "Hellos." No more acknowledging nods as we simultaneously dragged our trash cans down to the curb on Tuesday evenings for the next day's collection. We didn't push it. If they wished to be left alone, I would happily grant that wish. I've been doing it to my other neighbors for nearly 30 years, so I'm pretty good at it.

One evening, Mrs. P and I were sitting down to dinner. With no effort, I have a clear view of my attached neighbor's backyard from my kitchen window. I looked up from my veggie burger to see Cool skip off the wooden deck at the back of his house. He was carrying a plastic food storage container in his hand. He walked toward the fence that separates his yard from the train tracks just on the other side. He stretched up on tip-toes, removed the container's lid and dumped its contents over the fence. He then returned to his house. Over the next few weeks, I saw this ritual repeated almost daily.

In 28 years, I have never seen nor smelled the noxious odor of a skunk in our neighborhood. Since I witnessed Cool's "dumping procedure," the stench of skunk fumes has been a weekly occurrence. It's odd and bit coincidental that they started at the same time. Soon, the skunk smell was accompanied by this:

A groundhog! A fucking groundhog was brazenly sitting in my neighbor's yard, munching on some delicious, discarded morsel, thanks to Cool's Wildlife Smorgasbord. Whatever shit he's been dumping over the fence (a violation of township regulations), is now attracting all sorts of property-damaging critters. My neighbor is a renter, so having no real financial interest in the property, aside from a possible security deposit, he obviously doesn't give a shit. And, with a landlord living two-thousand miles away, even less of a shit is given.

In the past, I have called the local police for various reasons (a stolen bike, an on-going annoyance lawsuit, a bat that got into our house) and they have always been attentive, helpful and courteous. I called the Township Municipal Services to report this woodland creature incident and I am still waiting for a return phone call. In the meantime, the skunk smell is overpowering, strong enough to bring tears. And I spotted the groundhog in the yard again this morning. I think he gave me "the finger."

I wonder when the next round of neighbors are due, because this one (and his four-legged, furry pals) has over-stayed his welcome.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sorry seems to be the hardest word

During the work week, my alarm is set to go off before the sun comes up. Not to say I actually get out of bed at that time, but that electronic buzz serves as a reminder of  my responsibility to my employer. So, after five long, grueling days at work, I look forward to the weekends.I sleep a little later. I lounge on the sofa. I leisurely sip a cup of coffee while watching an episode of Phineas & Ferb or an old rerun of The Monkees.

On Saturday morning, my weekend slumber was unceremoniously interrupted just before 7 am. From just outside my bedroom window came a series of high-pitched squeals and loud, mournful sobs, interspersed by a staccato repetition of "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY." 

What the fuck!, I thought as I leaped from the warm confines of my quilt.

I scrambled to the window and parted two slats of Venetian blinds with my index finger. I peered out into the early sunlight. From my second-story vantage point, I could see my teenage neighbor parading up and down on the sidewalk in front of my house. Despite a typical late February morning temperature, he was wearing a tank top and warm-up pants. And he was barefoot. With one hand, he pressed a cellphone to his cheek while he flailed his free arm in unbridled anger. Every few seconds, he pulled the cellphone away from his ear, positioned it in front of his mouth and spewed his rapid-fire "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY" mantra to the person on the other end. His unintelligible dialogue was punctuated by the anguished cries of a wounded puppy.

My wife stirred. "What the hell is going on out there?"

"Alex., " I replied, "from next door."

She rolled her eyes and soon took her place at an adjacent window as a late spectator.

A car pulled across my neighbor's driveway, blocking the access apron. Alex stomped his bare feet on the pavement as he approached the vehicle. He grabbed the passenger-side door handle and pulled. It did nothing, so he pulled harder. Still no result. He screamed in a voice raised to cracking, "UNLOCK THE DOOR!" The driver, obscured by the dark tint of the windshield, did not oblige. Alex yelled louder, his voice strained and cracking in misery. The shadowy figure behind the steering wheel didn't budge. Alex stood in place, then did a brief "anger dance," bringing his knees up in alternating leg motions and rotating his body each time his foot smashed the pavement. Giving a final, exasperated moan, he marched up the front walk to his house. Although his front entrance is out of the line of vision from our bedroom window, we heard the unmistakable sound of his front door slam.

"Well, I'm getting coffee.," I said to Mrs. P. My morning had started, whether I liked it or not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

meanwhile, back in the jungle

My wife and I were kind of in a hurry. We had to pick up a prescription for my mother-in-law and then rush back to their house for dinner. And we were already running late. My wife gathered a few requested dinner accoutrements, threw them into a bag and we hurried out the door.

We climbed into my wife's car and she slowly began to back out of our driveway, when suddenly a young man pushing a stroller with a baby and another small girl in tow emerged from the knot of overgrown vegetation that enshrouds and obscures my neighbor's driveway and sidewalk. Mrs. P hit the brakes. I leaned out the passenger side window, smiled and waved the Dad on, assuring him that we were allowing safe passage. He offered a silent wave of thanks, a return smile and they were on their way. The small family were never in danger, but had the sightlines been clear of the Amazonian rain forest that occupies my neighbor's adjacent property, there would have been no issue.

My neighbor is an inconsiderate, self-absorbed jerk. I don't want to say that she has no regard or respect for other people, because, as far as she's concerned, there are no other people. She perceives that she is alone in the world to do what she wants, when she wants, where she wants — with no consequence.

Several years ago, she split with her husband and he moved out. While they were still married, he — an old-school, tree-huggin' hippie landscaper — planted an array of exotic plants in their front yard. They were an odd assortment of growths, most looking like they'd be more at home in a Dr. Seuss book. However, he trimmed them and maintained them and when winter arrived, he uprooted them (or ate them or smoked them... whatever) because they were gone until they reappeared in the spring. Then, the whole ritual started again. The divorce must have finalized during growing season, because he left the greenery (and blue-ery and red-ery and yellow-ery) in mid-blossom. By the time autumn rolled around, those weeds were out of control, creeping along the driveway and making a devious reach across our property line. I was furious, but my wife — the level-headed member of the Pincus family — told me to curb my anger or pick my battles or some other cliche to ease my rising blood pressure. I said nothing and those trees and things grew until my neighbor's tiny front lawn was covered by a mismatched hodgepodge of fauna, wide floppy leaves, narrow twisting stems and and an intertwined tangle of sinewy vines. It is unkempt, unsightly, unruly and unnecessary.

And it all blocks my view of approaching traffic.

Maybe one day, if I wish hard enough, those plants will devour her like the stuff that covered Stephen King in Creepshow. And I hope it takes her barking dog, too.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com