help me

I maintain that my wife is one of the nicest — if not the nicest — person you will ever meet. I have often talked about and given examples of just how nice she is. She is helpful, kind, thoughtful and considerate of her fellow human — something that is a rarity in today's deteriorating society. In noting just how nice Mrs. Pincus is, I am careful to point out that I, admittedly, am not nice. I am, by comparison, the exact opposite of nice. I have nothing but contempt for my fellow individual. I am aware of how I feel and how wrong it really is, but I just can't help it. I am one of those people who could walk into a room full of strangers and say to myself: "Look at all these assholes," expecting each person to demonstrate nice behavior in an effort to change my mind. Mrs. Pincus, on the other hand, would try to figure out how she could help everyone. I defy you to find someone nicer... and before you answer, may I remind you that Mother Teresa is dead.

We live within very close proximity to several supermarkets, far more than are needed to properly accommodate the needs of the community. For the past six or so years, Mrs. Pincus has been doing regular supermarket runs for her parents. My in-laws are both 90 and their mobility has diminished in recent years. Curiously, their marketing demands have increased at the same rate that their mobility has decreased. It is not unusual for Mrs. Pincus to receive daily phone calls from her parents, asking with faux innocence: "Are you going to the supermarket today?" Of course, she will ask what they need and obligingly go to the supermarket to fulfill their request. Sometimes those requests come two and three times a day. Sometimes, the request includes a specific supermarket at which the particular item or items need to be purchased. (They like the bagels from Giant, but they like the salmon from Aldi.) There are some days where Mrs. P has visited three or more supermarkets to satisfy her parents extremely specific shopping requirements.

A few days ago, Mrs. P found herself in the produce section of a nearby Acme Market. This Acme, while closest in distance to our home, is the least frequented of all the markets in our area. They are expensive. They are poorly stocked. Their staff is less than cheerful and, after several remodeling efforts, the entire store is very difficult to navigate. But, my father-in-law asked for a very specific type of orange or lime or something that is only available at Acme... allegedly. So, his dutiful, obedient and nice daughter went to Acme.

While strolling the vast, labyrinthine aisles of Acme's produce section, Mrs. Pincus located the fruit in question and added it to her shopping handbasket. As she headed towards the check-out area, she passed a woman holding a clear plastic hinged container filled with watermelon, cut up into manageable chunks. Just a split second after they passed each other, Mrs. Pincus casually turned to watch this woman's left foot slide on something, raise up and out from under her and deposit the poor woman square on her ass on the tiled floor. She let out a pained cry as she sat splayed on the floor, surrounded by the wet chunks of watermelon that had escaped the now-opened container. Mrs. Pincus instinctively approached the woman and asked if she was all right, then cautioned her not to move. Mrs. Pincus quickly scanned the produce department and spotted a worker — a slow-moving woman sporting an angry scowl on her face. Before being asked, the Acme employee quickly — and defensively — asserted: "There's no water on the floor!" and she repeated the statement several times. Mrs. Pincus calmly  asked the employee to summon the store manager and also asked for a chair for the woman who fell. As the employee scurried off, still muttering about no water being on the floor, another employee arrived with a scooter shopping cart in place of a chair. Against her better judgement, but wishing to make the customer as comfortable as possible, Mrs. Pincus slowly and carefully helped the woman onto the seat of the scooter, first confirming that she was ready to move and be assisted. 

Firmly gripping the woman by the waistband of her pants, Mrs. Pincus slowly maneuvered her on to the seat where the woman seemed to be more comfortable, but still in visible shock and pain. By this time, the store manager appeared with a clipboard, ready to take a full description of the incident and displaying way more compassion than the "No Water on the Floor" Acme associate. Mrs. Pincus asked the woman if she was shopping alone today. The woman replied, "No." and explained that her daughter was already in the checkout line and she had just come over to pick up a forgotten container of cut-up fruit. Mrs. P asked for her daughter's name so she could find her to bring her over. The woman also began massaging her own shoulder, revealing that she had just been released from rehab, where she was recovering from shoulder surgery.

Mrs. Pincus swiftly made her way to the checkout area and located the woman's daughter by loudly announcing her name. She accompanied my wife back to the scene in the produce department, elaborating on her mother's recent shoulder surgery. The store manager had begun writing down the woman's account, asking what she thought may have caused her to fall. The manager, the woman's daughter, the "No Water on the Floor" employee and my wife all began searching the immediate area until Mrs. Pincus spotted a clear piece of plastic that had almost completely slipped under a display counter of oranges. Apparently, it was the covering of a price sign and had fallen on the floor. Its shiny finish provided the "perfect storm" of slick surface on top and bottom — sliding on the waxed floor as well as sliding under someone's foot. The store manager sheepishly examined the errant plastic square and frowned. Then he asked the woman if she would like an ambulance. Before she could answer, Mrs. Pincus whispered to her daughter that it would be wise to accept the offer. An ambulance was called. Mrs. Pincus was also asked for a statement and she offered her corroborating version of the episode. She also volunteered her contact information to the woman's daughter. Then she moved on to finish her parents' shopping order.

Later in the day, Mrs. Pincus received a text from the woman's daughter She said that her mother was taken to the hospital for x-rays. X-rays that confirmed her mother's shoulder was broken. Mrs. P offered a sympathetic reply and added that she'd be available for any further required information.

My wife asked me if I would have helped the woman who fell and if I would have stuck around and done any of things that she did.

I answered, "No, of course not."

Mrs. Pincus is nice. Josh Pincus is not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if I can't have you

On Sunday, my wife and I took our son to one of his favorite stores - H Mart. We actually live equidistant from two H Marts, but he chose to go to the larger one. (Just as a side note, the smaller H Mart is the actual one that is referenced in Michelle Zauner's best-selling memoir Crying in H Mart.) Okay, maybe the larger H Mart is a bit further from our house than the one that traumatized the lead singer of Japanese Breakfast, but, nevertheless, we obliged my son and his shopping list and drove the extra mile.

This particular H Mart is at the end of a large, L-shaped shopping center. Closer to where we parked in the very busy, very congested parking lot is a Family Dollar store. When we got out of our car, my son made a beeline towards H Mart, while my wife announced that she was going to check out the Family Dollar store and we would meet up with him shortly. I had never been in a Family Dollar store, despite their having over 8000 locations nationwide. As a matter of fact, before their 2015 acquisition by rival Dollar Tree, Family Dollar was the second largest retailer — of its kind — in the country.... and neither Mrs. P nor I had ever been inside one. Well, that was about to change. As they say, you're never too old to do new things... although I suppose the proverbial "they" were referring to skydiving or learning a foreign language.

Excitedly, we breached the door of Family Dollar and — let me tell you — this place was a shithole of the highest level. I mean it put other shitholes to shame! If they gave awards for shitholes.... well, you get it. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I should have been expecting the same strange amalgamation of mismatched, out-of-fashion, discontinued, brand name knock-off crap that I have seen in other dollar stores. Family Dollar was no different. Its aisles were alternately jammed and empty. Some were stocked with big bottles of laundry detergent whose alternative brand labels were faintly reminiscent of Tide or Cheer. Adjacent aisles sported empty shelves with just one or two items — a pair of generic sneakers and a few cookbooks by a TV chef whose show has not presented new episodes in years — and all sorts of other merchandise littering the floor. The toy department displayed boxes of things that looked like Lego alongside packaged superhero figures from a movie that made its big premiere in theaters for the lucrative Christmas season... the Christmas season of 2019.

Mrs. P, with her keen eye, spotted a small counter display box with PVC figures of characters from the film The Nightmare Before Christmas. These, she thought preemptively, could serve as small gifts for children (neighbors that Mrs. P undeservingly fawns over) or could eventually make it out to one of our world-famous (or neighborhood famous, at least) yard sales — if they were cheap enough. There was a small sticker on each figures' backing card that showed the price as $1.25. Mrs. P grabbed all of them (about eight or nine) and handed me the box to carry as we scouted the store for more "treasures." In the very next aisle, there were hooks of various hair accessories. "Ooh!," my wife said, "I should grab a couple of hair ties for my mom." Mrs. P — as we have already established — is the nicest person in world. She regularly checks in and tends to her parents who are of an advanced age and are not nearly as mobile as they once were. Especially, my mother-in-law. On a regular basis, Mrs. P washes and combs her mother's hair, often tying it back to keep it neat and out of the way. Being the nice person she is, my wife thought some new hair ties would be a sweet surprise for her mom. She selected two different styles and tossed them in the box with the Nightmare figures.

We made our way through the narrow aisles until we decided we had seen enough. (Actually, I had seen enough as soon as I walked through the doorway.) Anyway, we took our small purchases up to the checkout counter and laid them out. We were greeted by a friendly young man who picked up the first figure and waved it across the electric eye of the price scanner. It beeped and the LED readout on the cash register showed ".01." The cashier scrunched up his face at the price and turned to another young man who was by the doors straightening the small shopping carts. The other man craned his neck to see the lighted display. He explained to the cashier, "If something comes up 'just a penny,' that means you can't sell it. It's old merchandise and you just gotta throw it away."

I have been shopping in stores for many, many, many years. I have even worked in my share of retail stores, some on the large chain level and others of the "Mom & Pop" variety. Never — and I do mean never — have I ever been instructed to throw away a perfectly saleable item — in full view of a customer — because a "secret code" price popped up. But this guy stood firm. He was adamant about not letting the cashier sell these figures to us at any price. He stood by as the cashier gathered up the nine or so figures, walked them over to a nearby trash receptacle behind the counter and deposited them with an audible clunk. He returned sheepishly from carrying out his duty as a loyal and abiding employee of  Family Dollar and asked if we still wanted the hair ties. The man who was straightening the shopping carts stood defiantly with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face, silently exuding pride in his flagrant toeing of the corporate line.

"Yes, please," replied Mrs. Pincus and the cashier continued to ring up our remaining item, in this case, just the hair ties. A woman, in some managerial capacity, stood behind the cashier and slowly shook her head in soundless disagreement. Once the now-abbreviated transaction was completed, we left the store. Mrs. P politely held the door for someone who followed us out. It was the manager woman, whose shift for the day had just ended. We all walked out to the parking lot together. The manager woman was still shaking her head, adding a few "tsk tsks" under her breath. Mrs. P chuckled. The woman smiled and said, "I would have sold them to you or just given them to you... if he wasn't there." The "he" was obviously the shopping cart straightener whose job — it appeared — also included loss prevention, inventory control, corporate policy and telling the teacher it was five minutes before three o'clock and homework had not yet been assigned.

We took our purchases — our two purchases — to our car and tossed them in the back among a collection of shopping bags, a few empty boxes and  assorted other items that have accumulated in Mrs. P's vehicle. We went to meet our son in H Mart.

A few days later, Mrs. P asked if the hair ties she bought for her mother ever made it into our house. I said I didn't bring them in and I wasn't sure where they were. She called our son to see if he inadvertently picked them up along with the stuff he bought at H Mart. He had not. Mrs. P looked in the back seat of her car. She looked in the surplus bags. She looked in the boxes. She even checked with her mother's belongings to see if she brought them in to her parents' house and simply forgot. Nope. Nothing.

I am never going to Family Dollar again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try a little kindness

Contrary to popular belief, I am a nice guy. Sure there are some people who will disagree with that statement, but, they are wrong. I am a nice guy. And I'll prove it.

On a recent Friday night, Mrs. Pincus and I, along with our son and his girlfriend, went to a Phillies game. Recently, our onetime baseball-loving family has embraced the "national pastime" after a few years of waning interest. We went to a few games last year and now we have found ourselves buying tickets and attending more games this season. (Our son's girlfriend hasn't quite adopted the Pincus family's affinity for baseball, but she does admit to liking the "vibe" that the ballpark exudes.) 

This season, the Phillies are off to a bang-up start (I don't know how this will read in August of this year, but we shall see...), so tickets are in high demand. Also, on this particular night, there was a give-away of bobblehead figures depicting Phillies youthful second baseman Bryson Stott. The figure was a pretty good likeness, although I am fairly sure that Stott's head is more in proportion to his body, unlike.... say.... Kyle Schwarber. Making a late decision on attending this game, we had to settle for seats high up in the right field stands where the aisles are steep and narrow and handrails are suspiciously scarce. As a former season ticket holder (for eighteen years), we have been spoiled by having reserved seats just fifteen rows from the field that provided a spectacular view of the action.. Up in section 320, the baseball game is just a rumor. You have to rely on crowd reactions to follow progress of the game. Cheers from the lower levels indicate a run has scored. Boos usually mean the Phillies did something wrong.

We rode a steep escalator to the 300 level and climbed even steeper stairs to our seats. At the top of Citizens Bank Park, the seats are arranged on very steep cement tiers and the cantilever angles place your knees at the back of the head of the person in front of you. Folks walking up the narrow aisles to get to seats in the rows above us utilize empty end-of-the-row seats — or even someone's knees — to steady themselves in lieu of missing handrails. 

Prior to the game start time, anxious and excited fans filed into the the ball park. As per usual, they stopped to load up on food and snacks before making their way to their seats. We were no different, stopping off at the only vegetarian concession stand and grabbling some overpriced meatless hot dogs. We got to our seats and chatted while we waited for the game to begin.

Ten or so minutes before the first pitch, a man and a woman emerged from the concourse access just below our seats to look for their seats. The man, decked out in full Phillies regalia, was carrying a cardboard tray laden with an abundance of typical ballpark fare. There were hot dogs, beer, chips and a cup overflowing with Chickie's & Pete's Crab Fries, a local favorite. Popular at the ballpark and throughout the Delaware Valley, Crab Fries are crinkle-cut French fires liberally coated in Old Bay seasoning. The man held the tray of food as level as he could as he slowly navigated the inclined steps with the deftness of a tightrope walker. He wife scooted on ahead, leaving the man to take on full responsibility of delivery of the refreshments. As the steps got steeper, the man's pace got slower and more deliberate. He struggled to climb the steps and keep the tray and its contents in tact. He had his head down and a look of distress crossed his face. Bowing forward, he seemed to peer over the top of his glasses that were perched low on the tip of his nose. As he came up to where I was sitting he stopped and leaned in to me. 

With a quaver in his voice, he said, "Would you be so kind as to push my glasses up further on my nose?" The tone of his request reflected the same helpless plea in his eyes.

I smiled. "Of course!," I replied and I daintily grabbed the corners of his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose and easing them gently into position even with his eyes. When the task was completed, he smiled and thanked me. Then he proceeded on his journey to find his wife and their ticketed seats.

The Phillies won the game that night. Courtesy and kindness won, too.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gimme a head with hair

On Sunday afternoon, I was at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I needed a head of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a cucumber. (Not for me, for Mrs. Pincus. I don't eat cucumbers in their natural form, Once they are turned into pickles, though... I'm right there!) I added a few more items to my cart before heading to the check-out line.

I queued up behind a couple who had loaded up the conveyor belt with their afternoon's grocery order. I grabbed a plastic divider, placed it behind the last item in their order and began to transfer my selections from my cart to the conveyer belt. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man take his place behind my cart. I continued my task and — in typical Josh Pincus fashion — ignored everything that was going on around me.

Then I heard the man behind me say.... something.

In these days of cellphones and Bluetooth and wireless earbuds, one can never tell who someone is speaking to. I have seen folks have lengthy conversations — complete with flailing arms and expressive hand gestures — with unseen recipients of these animated diatribes. From a distance of even a few feet, they appear to be performing some sort of pantomime skit or perhaps an interpretive dance. With this in mind, I usually assume that a stranger speaking in my general direction is having a phone conversation and not addressing me. That's what I assumed regarding the man behind me in the supermarket check-out line. However, I unconsciously glanced up while leaning over the top of my cart and looked directly at him.

He smiled at me and said, "I like your hair."

Admittedly, I was taken off-guard and I felt myself involuntarily smiling. Then, I emitted a little laugh. He smiled even more broadly and added, "You certainly have more that I do!" He pointed to the top of his own head — shiny and bald. I nodded and laughed again.

It had been a very, very long time since any stranger had paid me a compliment about my physical appearance. For many years, I colored my hair a striking, yet decidedly unnatural, red. This chosen shade became something of a "trademark" among those who knew me personally. It also served as a point of focus for strangers. I regularly received comments about my hair and its unusual hue — in restaurants, in stores, on vacation, even while just walking down the street. However, after a dozen or so years and the onslaught of inevitable hair loss, I stopped coloring my hair and let it grow into its natural gray. With each subsequent haircut, more and more of my forehead became less and less hirsute. The nice woman who cuts my hair would hand me a mirror with which to view the back of my head and assess the results of her adept scissor work. With every new haircut, the bare spot on the back of my head grew bigger and bigger and barer and barer. She always comments that my hair grows so fast, but I know she's just being nice or, perhaps, looking for a bigger tip.

So, no matter what the guy behind me in the check-out line said, there is no way that he — or anyone — genuinely "likes my hair"... at least not at this juncture of my life.

Or.... maybe.... maybe... he really liked my hair.

After I paid for my groceries, but before I made my way towards the exit, I turned to the man behind me in the check-out line and said, "You... have a good day!," with emphasis on "you."

When I got home, I related this story to Mrs. Pincus and that four-word phrase — "I like your hair" — officially entered our daily conversations, joining such stalwarts as "How was your day?" and "What should we have for dinner?"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've just seen a face

This is Daniel Roebuck. He's an actor. A pretty busy actor, as a matter of fact. You know him. He's that guy from that thing... you know. Actually, IMDB (the invaluable Internet Movie Database) lists him with over 250 acting credits, not to mention his numerous other credits as director, producer, writer and "special thanks." Here's a story about when I met Daniel... who is a really nice and gracious guy, to boot.

My in-laws owned and operated a store in a once-thriving farmers market just outside of Philadelphia. By the time they became my in-laws, the store was well into its fifth year of business. (Side note: my father-in-law opened this store as a stopgap while his primary business — a popular hardware store — was rebuilt after a devastating fire.) The store in the farmers market — Larry's Hardware — became a well-known "destination" as my wife and my mother-in-law brought in more "pop culture" merchandise, shoving aside precious shelf space once occupied by hammers, trowels and boxes of nails. 

I began working for my in-laws by the time my soon-to-be wife and I had our third date. I worked every weekend while I diligently sought a job in my chosen profession — graphic design. Even after I secured many a position in the design field, I still found myself stocking shelves and applying price tags to various items each and every Saturday from early in the morning until late at night. On Fridays, I was at my regular job, but Saturday was "Larry's Hardware" day for me. My wife, however, worked both days. When our son was born, Fridays were the times I spent with him while Mrs. P worked late. After putting him to bed, I would try my darndest to stay up until Mrs. Pincus got home. Sometimes, I didn't make it and I was often jolted awake by the sound of a key turning in the front-door lock. The TV was showing something that I don't remember watching. We'd go to bed to get a little rest before tackling a marathon Saturday at Larry's.

One particular Friday, I was watching a movie that I had never seen before. It was called River's Edge, a 1986 independent effort from director Tim Hunter, who went on to helm a lot of episodic TV, including Twin Peaks, Mad Men and the recent Hannibal. River's Edge is a dark, disturbing tale featuring a quirky cast of actors with a young Keanu Reeves at the forefront. I watched the film, admittedly dozing on and off as the hour got later. When Mrs. P got home, we talked a bit. She told me about some regularly-occuring incidents at the store and we headed off to bed.

The next day, I caught myself dozing off while sitting at the unusually not-busy cash register. I glanced over at one of the aisles — ten or so feet away — and I saw my wife talking to a customer. He was a man about my age. He sort of looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him. I stared at this man as my wife talked, gesturing to some items on a shelf, although they were too far away for me to hear actual details of their conversation. Where do I know this guy from? was going over and over in my head. Finally, it hit me... I think. I got up and walked over to them. At first, I didn't interrupt them and the man smiled and nodded at me. I couldn't hold back any longer.

"Do I know you from coming into the store," I began, "or do I know you because I saw you kill your girlfriend in River's Edge last night?"

He wasn't even taken aback by my accusation. As a matter of fact, he laughed. Loudly. And so did my wife. Through her laughter, she explained that she just had a nearly identical exchange with this man.

"I asked," she said, "do I know you from coming into the store or because I saw you in an episode of Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman?"

Daniel in Lois & Clark and River's Edge

The man, as we soon found out, was Daniel Roebuck. Daniel, a native a nearby Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, explained that he has been coming to this farmers market since he was a child. Now that he lives in California, he makes sure that it's one of his stops when he comes in to visit family. As we continued our conversation, we heard customers whispering and pointing at Daniel. We heard things like "That's Cody Bank's father!" referring to his role in a popular kid's film franchise and "There's the guy from Lost!," recalling his role of the notorious "Dr. Leslie Arzt," who blew himself up in a memorable sequence in the cult series. Other folks remembered other times they've seen Daniel Roebuck flash across their TVs or the big screen during an evening at the movies. After all, he's been in a lot, working alongside some of Hollywood's biggest names (Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive comes to mind), as well as being cast as a regular in the TV series Matlock and Nash Bridges. Horror films seem to be Daniel's bread and butter, appearing in a number of shockers with both big and small budgets. Daniel briefly paused our conversation to run out to his car to retrieve a photo album (this was before such a collection could be conveniently stored on one's phone) displaying his vast accumulation of horror movie memorabilia. He also inscribed a glossy, black & white headshot of himself to my wife and me. He actually purchased a few horror-related items to add to his collection, thanked us and exited into the busy main aisle of the market — where more people rattled off some of Daniel's past roles in somewhat hushed tones.

Daniel as Grandpa

From that point forward, we saw Daniel Roebuck in everything! New shows, old shows that we've seen a zillion times, but just now noticed an appearance by our new friend. He's been in a slew of comedies, dramas and anthologies. He was even in a late-season episode of Love Boat... (but who hasn't?) He played Jay Leno in a made-for-television movie about the late-night talk show rivalries. He played Garry Marshall in a TV biopic about Robin Williams. He's been featured in small roles in several of rocker-turned-filmmaker Rob Zombie's productions. As a matter of fact, Daniel landed the plum role of "Grandpa Munster" in Zombie's upcoming take on the classic TV sitcom.

Daniel popped into the store a few more times before its permanent closing in 2007. I have contacted him through various social media platforms, and after relating the story you just read, Daniel confirmed the episode and told how it still makes him laugh. He's a good guy.

If you didn't know his name before, you do now. And, just like us, you will now spot him in everything.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

forget you and forget her too

I have written about my wife's eBay business several times over the years. I am very careful to preface each post with the disclaimer — actually fact — that Mrs. Pincus will not sell your stuff on eBay. I never really elaborated on the reason behind that statement, just hoping that you (the reader and possibly any friend or relative) would just take it for face value and dispense with any further cajoling, convincing or downright begging.

Well, not that I owe anyone any sort of explanation.... here's the reason why Mrs. Pincus — in my opinion, the nicest person in the world — will not sell your stuff on eBay.

Mrs. Pincus sells a wide variety of merchandise in her eBay business. Over her years in the field of retail, she developed an uncanny sense for what will sell and she has managed to use that knack to her advantage for nearly 30 years. As buying trends change and "hot products" pop up, Mrs. P is front and center, cashing in quickly and getting out just as quickly before a fad turns sour. From Cabbage Patch Kids to Pogs to Beanie Babies, Mrs. P was there at the beginning — sneaking stealthily away before interests waned.

With a child well out of the "toy-buying" age, keeping abreast of the current trends in "flavor of the month" playthings is a little trickier. However, since it is in her best interest, Mrs. Pincus keeps a sharp eye on "what's hot" and "what's not" and what the parent of an eight-year old will buy at any price. Of course, toys aren't really limited to the wants of a child. There are plenty of adults who collect any number of toy varieties (Hell, we ourselves fell into that category for years, before we unloaded our vast Disney collection via the eBay route.) 

One of the more recent trends is something called "5 Surprise." 5 Surprise is a cute line of toys that, as far as I can tell, presents a dangerous choking hazard to any child engaged in its play. The 5 Surprise line of toys consists of miniature versions of characters that kids love, like unicorns and dinosaurs. They come packaged in a sealed spherical opaque container that is divided into five segments, each one containing a different character. The buyer can't see the selection before purchasing (in what is known as "blind packaging"), making the process of collecting more exciting... or frustrating, depending on how you look at it. In addition to kid-friendly characters, 5 Surprise also offers mini versions of popular grocery items in a line called "Mini Brands." The same premise of distribution is applied, but in this case, the spheres are filled with very detailed versions of Skippy peanut butter, Dum-Dum lollipops, Hostess cupcake boxes and a whole slew of tiny doppelgangers of your favorite products from supermarket shelves. In the assortment, there are also mini shopping baskets, shopping carts and even store shelving units on which to display your little collection. Evidentially, these little gems are pretty popular and Mrs. Pincus was able to acquire a quantity of individual pieces of 5 Surprise Mini Brands, out of their packaging. She listed them on eBay and they began selling immediately. This was good, as they are pretty simple to pack and ship. Most of them measure just a few inches in size and they certainly are not breakable. Every week, Mrs. P ships five or six of these little things along with the rest of her larger eBay item shipments.

A week or so ago, she sold a 5 Surprise mini replica of a jug of Kikkoman soy sauce. As per eBay procedure, the auction ended, the high bidder paid, included a nominal pre-determined shipping fee and Mrs. Pincus dutifully sent it off on its way. The end.... or so she thought. A short time after sending the mini Kikkoman jug to its new owner, Mrs. Pincus received an irate — borderline accusatory — email from the unhappy buyer. She stated that she was very disappointed that she had only received one item, when she was expecting five items, as the auction description stated. She was further disappointed in the size of the item. She expected it to measure three-quarters of an inch tall. Then, without waiting for Mrs. Pincus to explain or offer some compromising solution to this self-imposed dilemma, she proposed her own (somewhat threatening) arrangement. She instructed Mrs. Pincus to send the additional items — free of charge — and negative feed back would not be left for this transaction. Okay.... there is a lot going on here. First - let's take a look at the original listing for this particular item.

Let's begin with that fact that this item sold for $2.99. Obviously, we are not getting filthy rich selling these, but eBay is a volume-based business. In each one of the listings for 5 Surprise items, a line was consciously added to the description for the benefit of clarifying any questions a potential buyer would have about exactly how many items would be sent to the high bidder. The line, purposely put in bold red text, reads: "Manufacturer brand name is "5 Surprise", you will receive one item." This listing also clearly states the size of the items as two inches. Another disclaimer was added for the sake of those who, for whatever reason, would think they were buying a tiny jug of soy sauce. This line, in the same bold red text but in all capital letters, informs the buyer that this "DOES NOT CONTAIN ACTUAL PRODUCT, MINIATURE REPLICA FAKE FOOD" This, of course, is to discourage anyone from following their dream of opening an Asian-style restaurant that caters exclusively to mice.

All of our angered buyer's complaints are distinctly addressed in the original auction listing. The size, the quantity, everything. Plus, all of the correspondence was tracked and recorded through eBay's messaging system, so there is a record of the entire transaction and complaint. Oh, and eBay doesn't take too kindly to what they refer to as "feedback extortion." Feedback, for those unfamiliar, is an eBay rating system that rewards sellers who offer smooth, hassle-free transactions. Buyers have learned they can threaten to leave "negative" feedback until they get what they want. This will affect a seller's rating if enough "negatives" pile up. eBay warns about this practice and discourages it at several places on their website. Mrs. Pincus prides herself on her strong positive feedback rating and does not stand for idle threats ...especially over a $2.99 item and an unscrupulous buyer. She replied to the intimidation immediately, explaining how all details were plainly stated on the listing. She went on to make it perfectly clear that no additional items would be sent and that unjust negative feedback would be reported to eBay authorities. In a subsequent email, the buyer backed off with a far different tone than previous. She thanked my wife for the item and even offered a "God bless you" as a closing salutation.

This is just one example of an annoying transaction. They don't come up often, but when they do, they take a good chunk of time to resolve. Although most resolution is quick, some stretch out for weeks or even months. Most are not the fault of Mrs. Pincus, who is very careful about how she lists items for sale and how she packs those items for shipment (she does both single-handedly). A lot of the issues are postal-related, which, of course, Mrs. P has no control over. Even with United States Postal Service package tracking, buyers contact my wife first to find out why they haven't received their precious item in the blink of an eye. All they need to do is enter their tracking information on the USPS website and they will find out when to expect their M&Ms coloring book or their unopened pack of Dick Tracy movie trading cards. (Contrary to the behavior of panicked buyers, Mrs. Pincus does not sell life-giving elixirs nor does she operate a clearing house for transplant-ready internal organs.) Instead, hysterical high bidders frantically email my wife as their first line of defense... and when she replies to get details (because she is nice), she is invariably told: "Oh, I didn't check my mailbox today. I got it. Thanks."

Beetlejuice won't sell your stuff either. 

Mrs. Pincus sells thousands of items. That's right, thousands! When one of those items sells, she gets the entire amount of the sale — less fees from eBay. And there are a lot of fees from eBay. A lot. She does one hundred percent of the work. She is entitled to reap one hundred percent of the benefits. Now, if she were to sell an item for you, she would have to create the initial listing, take and upload several photos of the item and answer any questions that buyers may have about the item. What if it is something with which she is not familiar? She would have to contact you and you would have to answer the question immediately, because eBay buyers are not a patient bunch. They don't sleep and they sit by their computers 24 hours per day, waiting for answers to their inane questions. If your item sells, Mrs. P would have to pack it securely, take it to the post office and ship it. Then, she'd have to field any subsequent questions about delays in delivery or — eek! — complaints about the item itself once it is received by a remorseful buyer. All for a small percentage of the final selling price? How much? Ten percent? Twenty percent? If your item sells for ten bucks, then Mrs. P's indispensable efforts would net her — what? — two dollars? For doing all of the work while you sit on your butt and wait for the money to roll in? Would you do it? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, while Mrs. Pincus is the nicest person in the world, a line has to be drawn somewhere. In this case, the line is drawn from eBay to you.

Any further questions?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try a little kindness

I have been accused of being a curmudgeon, a pessimist, grumpy, a crank, a griper, a complainer, a sorehead.... well, you get the idea. Yeah, I know. I find fault with my fellow human, recurrently pointing out things they do that — shall we say — "rub me the wrong way." And, if you are a regular reader of my blog, or, God forbid, know me in real life, you know that I don't often acknowledge when someone does something kind, something genuinely thoughtful and unselfish. Well, that's about to change. And please forgive me if I begin to choke up while I type.

My wife and I met Richard on our sixth cruise. A few moths prior to our departure, Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group whose membership was comprised of folks who had booked the same late October sailing aboard the grand Norwegian Breakaway. Mrs. P was very active in this group and interacted daily with a core group of folks who were soon-to-be our fellow cruisers. This made for a very interesting cruise once we set sail, because it was as though we were vacationing with a bunch of our friends. A pre-arranged "meet-and-greet" on our first full day at sea created friendships that were strong during our week on the ocean and remain strong (thanks to social media) to this day. One of these people was Richard.

Richard is a fun-loving guy in the truest sense. He loves fun. He attracts fun. He exudes fun. He's a fun guy. (Keep your "mushroom" jokes to yourself.) In addition to being an avid and very experienced cruiser, Richard is a writer, an editor, a foodie and an amateur filmmaker. He's the kind of guy you sit next to at a bar and — after several hours — you think, "Wow! This is a great guy!" And if you've ever had the opportunity to be on a cruise with Richard, you could easily find yourself in that very situation. During our cruise in 2017, every time I looked up or passed one of the many bars aboard the ship, there was Richard, umbrella-sporting drink in hand, head back and laughing among a group of people who were also laughing. (This is not to imply that Richard spends seven days on a ship drinking and laughing 24 hours a day. He might, but I don't want to be the one to make such an implication.) I actually wrote about an incident involving Richard just after our 2017 cruise. You can read it here.

At the end of our cruise, Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged email addresses and social media contacts with all of our new found best friends and went off to live the rest of our lives. Now, we regularly see, correspond and "like" each others posts, making it feel like we are all still connected. We comment on Richard's Facebook status and his quirky Instagram pictures and he gives ours the ol' "thumbs up" in return.

At the end of 2019, Mrs. Pincus and I returned from our ninth cruise. It was our second one of the year. We had two more planned and the idea of additional cruises in our future. Mrs. P wisely purchased a gift card from Carnival Cruises for a pretty significant amount. 

Then, the world was hit with a devastating global pandemic. In addition to taking lives, COVID-19 wiped out businesses, social gatherings, travel and commerce of all types. All manners of places where large numbers of people congregated — movie theaters, concert venues, sports stadiums, theme parks and, yes, cruise ships — ceased operation. After a few weeks of working from home, I found myself among those filing for unemployment insurance. Thankfully, Mrs. Pincus's eBay business was active, providing us with one source of a steady income. However, we had placed a pretty sizable deposit on a cruise booked for October 2020. A deposit that, given our current financial situation, we could not afford to lose. The cruise lines were all being very cautious. They were indeed canceling scheduled sailings, but they were doing it on a slow, month-by month basis. You see, if you cancel your cruise, you only receive a partial refund of any funds already paid. If the cruise line cancels, then all payments are refunded... and cruise lines aren't real keen on giving refunds. So, in April, we anxiously waited for a cancelation announcement from Carnival. 

Albatross.

Then there was that gift card. We had a lot of money locked up in it. There was an overhanging possibility that cruise companies would not survive a lengthy shutdown. A gift card would be worthless if there was no company to redeem it. We were in no position to lose a considerable amount of money. So, Mrs. Pincus attempted to offer the card for sale in her eBay store. She did a little research and discovered that listed gift cards were still selling. However, she soon found that she was not permitted to sell a gift card, based on the type of account she had. We began to feel trapped and desperate. Mrs. Pincus toyed with offering it for sale on Facebook, specifically one of the many available marketplaces. Then she remembered Richard.

Richard maintains a Facebook group for people who love cruising. She contacted Richard, via a private message, asking permission to post the gift card for sale in his cruise group. Richard instantly gave his approval. Then, he added something totally unexpected. Totally unprovoked. And totally unselfish. Richard offered to buy the card from us outright. Mrs. P read and reread the offer several times to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. Mrs. Pincus asked for an amount that was less than face value, hoping that a "split the difference" offer would be more enticing. Richard would hear nothing of the sort. He insisted on the full amount. We were speechless. That's not just a "figure of speech." We were unable to produced a sound. Mrs. Pincus began to cry as she typed out a simple "thank you" to Richard. Honestly, we spent only a few fleeting minutes with Richard on a huge ship over three years ago. We didn't get to know him as well as we had liked... which makes Richard's act of kindness all the more special and touching.

Bonus.

Within minutes, Richard send a payment through an online payment service. Mrs. P securely sealed the card in an envelope and set out to baking a batch of her famous kamish broit (sometimes called mandel bread) to accompany the card in shipment, as an extra added gesture of sanity-saving and relief-inducing gratitude. She packed everything up nice and safe and took it to the post office the next day with her daily eBay shipments. She kept a watchful eye of the delivery, carefully monitoring the tracking, keeping tabs on its journey to northern New Jersey where Richard lives. Mrs. Pincus finally received confirmation of delivery. She waited for a message from Richard, because the US Postal Service isn't always accurate. 

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Unable to contain her anxiety, Mrs. Pincus contacted Richard to make sure he had, indeed, received the package and the precious gift card within. He laughed, explaining that a box has been sitting on his dining room table all day. He didn't open it because he assumed it was for his partner Gary. While he texted, Richard opened the box and assured Mrs. Pincus that the gift card was in his possession. He also explained that he would be keeping the kamish broit away from Gary.

See, there are still nice, kind, thoughtful, generous people in the world. Richard is at the very top of that list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you and your cousins

My wife's cousin passed away unexpectedly this week, just ten days before her 66th birthday. Yesterday, we — along with many family members, friends, co-workers and other acquaintances — attended a memorial service in her honor.

I didn't know my wife's cousin very well. I had only seen her a handful of times in the 38 years I have known Mrs. Pincus. Our paths crossed mostly at large family gatherings — weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals and those sorts of events. When I was still new to the family, I'm sure I was introduced and reintroduced to my wife's cousin a few times. I remember that our brief conversations were pleasant, although I cannot remember exactly what we spoke about.

The memorial service began around 11 AM on a Sunday morning, once the attending crowd was coaxed into their seats after a period of mingling and reminiscing. A rabbi spoke and then chanted a few prayers. Then, the rabbi introduced a number of my wife's cousin's family and friends to share their thoughts and memories of a loved one. One by one, a brother, a life-long friend, a neighbor, a nephew and another friend approached the lectern. Each one delivered a short, but heartfelt, tale of kindness, warmth, devotion, loyalty and love. Some of the related anecdotes evoked laughter from the attendees — and rightfully so. These were sweet and humorous glimpses into relationships that my wife's cousin shared with those with whom she was close. Her brother told of long talks at her house when he should have been working on a needed home repair. A friend talked about teaching my wife's cousin how to ski. A neighbor smiled as she spoke about my wife's cousin dropping off freshly baked cakes at her house for no reason at all. Another friend revealed a long tradition of gathering for each other's birthday — with this year's soiree having my wife's cousin's daughter taking her mother's place.

Although I did not know my wife's cousin very well, I was touched by the consistent emotion of each little speech. Everyone spoke of her kindness, her consideration, her ability to listen and comfort, her advocacy for other's ideas and plans. She was a genuinely nice person, something that is rare today. 

I have attended several funerals and memorial services — more than I would have liked. I am not a believer in "just because someone dies, all of their bad qualities are automatically erased." I understand that a funeral is not the time to bring up someone's terrible disposition when they were alive (although I have seen it happen). Eulogies are reserved for extolling the niceties someone exhibited during their time on Earth, not to rehash old grudges or to expose an all-around jerk for what they were. Sometimes, I have listened to a eulogy and wondered if I was at the right funeral. But hearing one story about my wife's cousin after another, made me realize that I had never — and I mean never — heard anyone utter a negative word about her. Never!

It is probably unlikely, but that is the way we would all like to be remembered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

rude boy

After work, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few things in their grocery department. I have a love/hate relationship with Walmart. I love their prices on groceries. However, I hate going to Walmart. Nearly every Walmart I have visited is exactly the same. Scummy, dirty, inconsistently stocked and filled with the absolute dregs of society — both shoppers and employees. I've been to a lot of different Walmarts and it's uncanny how you see the same people in all of them. (The first Walmart I was ever in was in St. Catherines in Ontario. Who knew there were scummy Canadians?) Everyone in Walmart looks as though they'd rather be somewhere else ...and I can't say I blame them. But their prices on groceries are so unbelievably low that I feel silly shopping anywhere else. (Last week, I bought a package of eight hamburger roils for 67 cents. Now, come on!)

There's a Walmart just a few blocks from my job and I stop there often on my way home from work. I usually prepare a list of items I need before I enter the store to make sure I am in and out in ten minutes or less....and I usually am. Today, my list consisted of just three items — milk, a loaf of bread, and butter. This should take under five minutes. 

Today's selections

I pulled into the parking lot and drove up towards the building to find a parking space. I saw a prime spot right next to the row of reserved handicapped spaces. As I flicked my turn signal and began to swing my car into the space, I saw a man pushing a shopping cart in my direction. He was a tall thin man, probably in his mid-seventies. He was one of those guys that has a permanent scowl on his face, as though he is coming to the end of a life that done him wrong time and time again. His mouth was curved into a frown that betrayed years of disdain and contempt. He tightly gripped the handle of the cart with thin bony fingers, but he also may have been using it for support under the weight of that enormous chip on his shoulder. As I slowly guided my car into the space, he frowned harder, made a sweeping gesture with his arm towards the front of my car and mouthed some words that I could not make out. I threw the shift lever into "PARK," pulled up my parking brake, unlatched my seat belt and slowly opened my door... just enough to get out but not so wide as to bump the adjacent car.... which I would soon understand to be the older man's vehicle.

The man stopped briefly right in front of my car, right by the pylons holding the "handicapped" designation signs, and then he pushed his cart to the passenger side of my car and grumbled something under his breath. I managed to get "didn't leave me no room" before he trailed off. He was about a foot away from me and the situation was becoming crystal clear. I dared park next to his car in his parking lot. My selfish act of parking was now forcing him to put his two small bags of purchases in his car by way of the door on the other side. He was tense and fuming.

I looked at my parked car. I was well within the yellow guide lines painted on the asphalt. I was not crooked nor did I overshoot the front of the designated space. I may not have stopped my car equidistant from either side of the space, but I was absolutely within the boundaries. Absolutely.

I spoke up — something I don't normally do. "I can move my car.," I offered, but I followed that proposal with a stern, "You don't have to be rude." 

The old man frowned even harder. "You're the one being rude!," he spat and he pointed in the direction of my car, "Parking like that!"

I raised my voice a bit."I said I'd move my car. All you had to do was ask!" I climbed back into my car, started the engine and backed up into a space on the other side of the parking aisle. This took all of two seconds. I repeated the standard series of "parking the car" formalities and headed to the store. The old man watched me park and exit my car. As I passed him, he managed to choke out a strained "Thank you," but I wasn't convinced. 

I did my shopping (five minutes worth, like I figured) and returned to my car. Considering how slowly the old man moved, I was surprised that he was gone from the lot. But as I approached my car, I saw something under my wiper blade. I gulped and thought the old man left me some kind of nasty note. As I drew closer, I saw every car around mine had the same thing shoved under their windshield wipers. It was an announcement for a restaurant opening in the area. I was relieved.

A lot a people have misunderstood me. I have been pegged as angry and sullen — even a curmudgeon. I am not. I am actually a pretty nice guy. I hold doors open for people. I gladly allow people to enter traffic from a parking lot or an adjacent lane. I say "please" and "thank you" and I do my best to be courteous and polite. I am not aggressive... until crossed. I am a reactor, not an instigator.

But, I'll be damned if being nice doesn't get tougher and tougher every day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nothing compares to you

If you've been paying attention, you probably know how much I love Disney... especially the theme parks. I've been to Walt Disney World in Florida many times and I've been to Disneyland in California many times. When people find out about my affinity for Disney, they just assume that I like going to all theme parks. They assume incorrectly. To paraphrase Sinead O'Connor: "Nothing compares to Disney." I have been to Universal Studios once and that was one time too many. Actually, my experience there showed me why Disney is at the top of the heap and all others in the theme park game aspire to reach "Disney" levels... and, most likely, never will.

After trying (unsuccessfully) to convince my son that our local Disney Store was Walt Disney World, we broke down and made our first trip as a family to Walt Disney World in 1995. Because we are Pincuses with a penchant for the unconventional, we drove to Florida from our suburban Philadelphia home. We loaded up our minivan with luggage and food and activities for the road and headed south on I-95, stopping along the way to see the sights. As we drew closer to the Florida state line, we passed more and more billboards advertising "FREE THEME PARK TICKETS." We already had our Disney World admission, but my 8-year old son — also an avid Nickelodeon fan — was anxious to get an up-close look at the "Kids' Network" at Universal Studios theme park that had just opened its competitive doors a few years earlier. So, after a bit of cajoling, my wife swung the minivan into the gravel parking lot of a small building on a service road, just off the highway in South Carolina. A young lady behind a high counter greeted us with a smile. She explained that, in order to secure tickets to Universal, we would be required to attend a brief seminar at a soon-to-be-opened time-share complex minutes from the Disney compound in Orlando. My wife and I were young and naive, not fully aware of the hard-sell, pressure-heavy experience that awaited us. We excitedly made a reservation for mid-week to tour the complex, with effortless visions of free tickets to Universal Studios clouding our collective thoughts. We hopped back into our van and I tucked the reservations card away with our important papers.

Early one morning, our little family entered the Magic Kingdom, eager to share each other's joy and ride Pirates of the Caribbean a couple of dozen times. Disney, of course, did not disappoint. My son's first taste of a real, live Disney theme park was borderline mind-blowing. We basked in his excitement, as we re-watched familiar sights though a new set of eyes. We were also treated to that signature Disney service. Disney "cast members" filled our day with smiles and friendly words and honest-to-goodness happiness — from ride operators, to restaurant wait staff to the cheerful guy sweeping the walkways. Every Disney employee was willing to bend over backwards to make sure each and every guest had the greatest time.

A reasonable facsimile.

A few days later, we drove down a desolate stretch of Route 192 through Kissimmee until we arrived at the entrance to The Isle of Bali, a construction site with a single tower looming high above the giant piles of debris and dirt-caked bulldozers. The tower, a light brick structure inlaid with an aquatic pattern, was flanked by two in-progress edifices that had not made much progress at all. We found our way to a large conference room that was packed with folks milling about — obviously lured by the promise of free theme park tickets, because no one looked the least bit interested in buying into the sucker-pitch of a time-share. They were all like us — families on vacation. We were directed to a complementary continental breakfast, but no sooner had I begun to smear a lump of cream cheese across a pale, thin bagel than we were interrupted greeted by our day's tour guide. He was a cheerful young man who resembled Tim Meadows before we knew who Tim Meadows was. He shook my hand, tousled my son's hair and led us to a small table covered with a linen tablecloth. Before he began his presentation, he made several persistent attempts at sticking our son in a "kids area" where he would be "more comfortable." When he finally realized that we weren't letting him out our our sight, "Tim" proceeded with the most incoherent pitch I ever heard. We could barely follow what he was saying, as he jumped from tales of overseas vacations to domestic golf courses, to fishing lakes for fishing (I swear he said that!) to the constant mispronunciation of the name of complex itself. He repeatedly called the place "The Bile of Ali." I kid you not! At the end of a grueling two hours (yes! two hours!), we squirmed and declined every single "supervisor" who accosted us after "Tim" failed to lock us into a commitment. Finally, when we just asked for our free tickets to Universal, we were met with scowls and directed to a door. "In there." we were told. I suspected that a blazing furnace lay on the other side on the closed portal. But, no. Inside was a bare room with a bare Formica counter and bored woman in attendance. Without a word, she handed over an envelope with three passes to Universal and sent us through another door that dumped us in a remote area of the parking lot. Whatever.... we got what we came for.

Universal Studios was just okay. We went on some great rides (Back to The Future, ET, Jaws) and encountered typical "theme park" atmosphere (I seem to remember Elroy Jetson and Beetlejuice passing us on a walkway that was dotted with a recreation of San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf just a short distance from the fictional, shark-threatened town of Amity). But, to me and my Disney-loving family, there was something missing. Universal was closer to a regular, no-frills amusement park than the magical wonderment that echoed the dreams and imagination of a visionary artist from Marceline, Missouri. The employees (decidedly not "cast members") were not smiling and sort of trudged around like they had better things to do. The place, while certainly impressive, didn't sparkle with that otherworldly, pixie-dust sprinkled enchantment that we had come to expect from "theme parks" of this magnitude. Sure, it was nice, but it wasn't Disney. It was just a big place with rides.

While we waited in line for one of those rides, we suffered the blistering Florida heat along with our fellow day guests. As the crowd snaked its way through the roped maze of the queue line, a uniformed fellow skirted along the outside of the line carrying a vendor's tray stocked with $8.00 cans of beer. He paced slowly along the line, making sure everyone saw his pricey, thirst-quenching wares and he even had a couple of takers. My family took full stock of this scenario.

The next day, we were back in the welcoming arms of Walt Disney World. The Florida heat was not diminished in the least and we found ourselves in a similar situation, waiting in a fairly long queue for a Disney attraction. In an antithetical reflection of the events of the previous day, a cheerful, brightly-clad Disney cast member slowly walked along the outside of the ride line. She had a large water cooler (the kind you see at construction sites) ingeniously strapped to her back. She was filling up paper cones with ice water and distributing them to every single person in line. Every single person. While the majority of the recipients thanked her and were grateful for the free refreshment, the Pincuses took note. This was a perfect example of why Disney is successful at what they do. Sure they want your money, but they also know how to make their guests happy. And they think of everything.

It's been twenty-three years since the events of my little tale unfolded. I haven't been back to Universal Studios since that day in 1995, so I don't know if they stepped up their game. I do know, however, that Disney continues to prove themselves to be "The Happiest Place on Earth." Early this year, I came across this heart-warming photograph taken at Disney's Hollywood Studios in Florida. It rains nearly every day in central Florida. That's why nearly every merchandise store at every Disney theme park showcases a fully-stocked display of overpriced rain gear. I don't begrudge Disney for trying to make a buck. After all, that's really what they do best — make their stockholders happy. But, because they are marketing geniuses, they don't appear to be forcing the foul weather items in your face, rather they are merely offered for sale, if you so choose to make that purchase. But Disney also knows how to make their "guests" feel like actual "guests." As proof of that, I offer this photo of a "Green Army Man" street character silently lending some assistance to a wheelchair-bound guest, who was caught in an Orlando downpour.

This is Disney at its finest. A true depiction of the Disney brand. I hope someone at Universal is taking note.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com