lessons learned

You know all those times when I write something about an incident involving Mrs. Pincus and her eBay business and I always add a disclaimer noting that she will not sell your stuff on eBay......? Well, here's why.

A little while ago, Mrs. P acquired a children's play table from one of her many sources. She has an uncanny knack for spotting things that she knows are desirable and will sell quickly. Granted, there are a number of items in her vast inventory that were obtained during the Clinton administration that are still waiting for their chance to be "re-homed," as they say. But, for the most part, Mrs. P will acquire an item and sell it within a reasonable amount of time.

Once a particular item is sold, it has to be packed securely and shipped to its new owner. Most of the items that Mrs. P sells are small enough to fit in a standard square or rectangular box. These are things like books, toys, jewelry and small kitchen gadgets. On the occasion that an item is large and awkward and oddly-shaped — like a children's play table — well, that's when things get a little more involved.  See, Mrs. Pincus acquired this table fully assembled. She knew, when the time came, it would have to be disassembled. Because the table did not come with its original box, a new box would have to be imaginatively created from the stockpile of other boxes that Mrs. P has collected. 

But, first, the disassembly portion...

I am not what you would call a "handyman." I can draw a handyman, but I can barely change a lightbulb or hang a picture. Our household toolbox consists of six or seven screwdrivers in assorted sizes, a hex key set that I think I used once and a couple of hammers — including a small lightweight example that is painted pink. Oh, and the "toolbox" itself is actually a small plastic beach bucket. It may even have Thomas the Tank Engine emblazoned on it. Needless to say, I have no plans to add a deck on to the back of my house or change an air filter in my car by myself. So, when the task of taking apart this children's table arose, I grabbed three of my screwdrivers and excitedly set to work. (That's what we, in the trade, call "sarcasm.")

The table had somewhere between thirty and a million screws holding it together. The object was to get this big, square, three-dimensional table to be as flat as possible. That would involve unscrewing and removing each of those million screws. and stacking up the colorfully-painted slats that formed the table. The first couple of screws came out easily, giving me a false sense of accomplishment. "This will be a snap!," I thought to myself. After quickly removing four screws, the fifth one spun and spun and spun in its little screw hole. If it was capable, I'm sure it would have giggled at me and my efforts to extract it. For the next hour or so, I struggled with these tiny screws. Some came out relatively easily. Others — most of the others — took much more concentration and a fair amount of elbow grease. I kept switching from screw to embedded screw, leaving several partly extracted while I worked on one of its colleagues. Mrs. Pincus suggested borrowing an electric screwdriver from her brother. I haven't spoken to my brother-in-law in nearly ten years and I wouldn't borrow a pint of blood from him if it meant another few hours of my life. As an alternate, my wife suggested asking if my next-door neighbor had an electric screwdriver I could borrow. This is a guy with whom I exchange waves when I arrive home from work. That's hardly the type of relationship that includes the lending out of tools. I waved off both suggestions and — eventually — I got all of the screws removed. The task stretched across two weekends, but after a little sweat, a little resolve and a lot of cursing, success was mine. At least for the first part of the "let's ship this table" project. Now, the thing has to be packed up.

Mrs. P and I toted the table pieces over to her shipping and packing facility just a few blocks from our house. First, we wrapped each piece in plastic and bubble wrap. Then, we measured and stacked and rearranged and fitted those pieces into a double-thick cardboard box that was fashioned — Frankenstein-style — out of pieces of other cardboard boxes. Together, we secured the table pieces into a tight and sturdy package, all held in place with miles of clear packing tape. When we were satisfied that the whole thing was capable of making the trip to the far reaches of North Carolina and would not succumb to the angry and careless hands of the good folks within the Federal Express shipping lanes, the box was hoisted up on the office scale for a final check of weight. The digital display confirmed that our little (well, not so little) parcel was within the "safe" bracket and would not incur additional "oversize" charges. Then it was off to the nearest Fed Ex office.

A few days later, Mrs. P got an email from the happy buyer. The table had arrived safe and sound. She complimented Mrs. Pincus on the stellar packing, noting how each piece was carefully wrapped and secured inside the box. She went on to say how she and her husband were assembling the table where it would provide their young daughter with hours and hours of educational fun... or something like that.

However...

The email concluded with a slight criticism. She scolded Mrs. P for not properly wiping off visible dust and smudges on the table's surface. She noted that there was a slightly sticky residue on the one of the slats. Although it was not visible, she could feel its tackiness when she ran her finger over the particular spot. Before concluding her email, she reiterated her complaints and recommended that — in the future — items be cleaned before shipping. As Mrs. P responded in the most humble and apologetic way possible, I offered a passionate "fuck you" which did not make the final cut of Mrs. P's reply.

Once again, eBay is much more that listing an item for sale then kicking back while the money rolls in. There is a lot of work involved. A. Lot. Of. Work. So... for the last time.... no! Mrs. Pincus will not sell your stuff for you on eBay.

So, stop asking.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

love for sale

I suppose today's post on It's Been a Slice is the equivalent to an infomercial. For however long this blog has been raging on (it's been thirteen years, but who's counting?), I have referenced Mrs. Pincus's eBay store and the many places that have been my employer. Today, however, I offer a blatant plug for a little side hustle I got going. Perhaps you have seen it on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook if you are one of the tens of people who follow me and my internet antics. For those of you in the dark but still reading this far, I'll fill you in.

My first sale!
(No longer available.)

For the past few months, I have been selling t-shirts on a great website called TeePublic. I have been sitting at home, watching TV of contributing to my blogs (yes, that's plural. I have two) and wondering how I can make a few extra dollars from my silly little drawings and my slightly off-kilter sense of humor. I began to explore some options and decided that TeePublic's set-up made the most sense for me. One Sunday afternoon right around Thanksgiving, I created a few designs and selected a few drawings from my illustration blog (see? I do have another blog!) and uploaded them to my newly created storefront on the TeePublic website. Because I have a background in advertising and marketing, I also created a few graphics to promote my new business venture on several social media outlets. Almost immediately, I made a sale... giving me a false sense of security. It turns out, my first sale was to someone I knew. Nevertheless, a sale is a sale! I thanked her for her purchase and sat back, waiting for more sales to roll in.

They didn't.

However, I did get an email from TeePublic, that one of my designs was taken down for copyright infringement. A day later, I received a similar email and another one of my designs was removed. TeePublic is rampant with non-licensed designs of copywritten properties, yet I got busted right out of the gate. Still determined, I added a few more designs to my storefront. I chose designs of recognizable images and characters, trying my best to be discreet.

A few days after my first sale, I made two in one day. I began to think this little endeavor was gonna be great! Both, I found out later, were to someone else I knew personally.

Then, my entire store was pulled by TeePublic. Just four days after I "opened for business," I received this sad little email that began...

This is to notify you that, as a result of a violation of our terms and conditions, we have removed or disabled access to the material that appeared at www.teepublic.com/user/Josh Pincus and have deleted your account.

I stewed for a little bit, but I was determined. I rethought my approach and, with a different email address and a slightly altered name, I boldly relaunched my business as "JPiC Designs" on TeePublic. I scoured my website for drawings that I had done that were not overtly recognizable or could be altered so movies and names or references if they too drew much attention to a particular celebrity, movie or the like. I also began a series of illustrated song lyrics. Sure, that sounds like trouble in the making, but I was careful to select lyrics that did not mention a song's title. I figured these would appeal to true fans of a particular band. I also mixed in some famous movie quotes, again, careful not to use the actual title of the movie, but slyly employing recognizable typefaces and using images that could be.... well.... anything.... nudge, nudge.

I launched my TeePublic store 2.0 a week or so before Christmas. I made my first sale in the early weeks of the new year. I started the reboot with about two dozen designs and slowly added more each week. I have not bee sticking to any particular theme or style. I try to create what I think will sell, not necessarily what I like... but what the people will like. You know... give the people what they want! If you visit my storefront, you'll find movie quotes, song lyrics, goofs on famous works of art, silly drawings featuring both Jesus and Satan and a lot of designs depicting food.... because everybody like food. There are even a few designs aimed to please my fellow Philadelphians. Besides t-shirts, TeePublic offers a wide variety of other products, including hoodies stickers, buttons and mugs. Everything can be emblazoned with your favorite Josh Pincus created design.

So, there you have it. A word from our sponsor. Go take a look at what I have for sale. At last count, there are 240 different designs available. Some are drawings you may have seen on my illustration blog. Others are unique to TeePublic. I add new designs fairly regularly. Maybe there's something to fill that hole in your life you didn't know needed filling.

Or something like that.

CLICK HERE  >>>> JPiC DESIGNS TEEPUBLIC STOREFRONT

 

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

 

pretzel logic

Recently, I was talking to a friend about our respective jobs. I noted that — after forty years — I finally have the job I was looking for. One that allows me to earn a living and not give it a second thought once I leave for the day. No pressure. No meetings. No bosses with nothing to do all day leaning over my shoulder. No unnecessary or unrealistic goals. No disruptive co-workers. Is it the best job I've ever had? (and I have had a lot!) No. That would be the first job I ever had.

After I had outgrown setting up a Kool-Aid stand on the cement apron of the driveway of my parent's house, I was recruited by my brother Max's friend Gerb to join the ranks of a little business enterprise he had started and was trying to grow. Gerb (that's pronounced with a hard "G") was a tall, lanky jovial guy with a giant shock of curly hair and a keen entrepreneurial mindset. Max told me that Gerb had a crew of kids about my age (that would be 14) set up in various, carefully selected locations throughout Northeast Philadelphia, selling soft pretzels. Soft pretzels are a staple food in Philadelphia, so they would — no doubt — sell like hotcakes! (Is that what they call a "mixed metaphor?") To this day, I still describe Philadelphia soft pretzels as "my kryptonite." Many people in the City of Brotherly Love feel the same.

Without even asking, Max volunteered me to join up with this little venture. Honestly, I didn't object. School was out for the summer and, at 14, I certainly could use a little extra money. After all, comic books and pizza didn't buy themselves. So, it was settled and I was officially among the gainfully employed. This was also my opportunity to help my brother out. He had been friends with Gerb for some time, but he didn't know his actual name. Everyone just called him "Gerb." Coincidentally, I went to school with Gerb's younger brother, who was also called "Gerb," but I knew that his real name was "Howard." I could only assume that the elder Gerb had a real name as well.

Early one summer Saturday, Gerb pulled up in front of my house in his tan Camaro. He honked the horn a couple of times and I bounded out of the house, ready for my first day of selling pretzels. I brought a big insulated jug of my mom's "world famous" iced tea to keep a potential mid-day thirst at bay. I also brought a peanut butter sandwich — in a bag stuffed in my pocket — that was in the process of being violently disfigured as I took a seat in the passenger's side of Gerb's car. Gerb — with a big grin on his friendly face — drummed on the steering wheel as he drove me out to my chosen spot. He explained the simple procedure of selling pretzels and how much to charge. "When someone asks the price," he began, "tell them 'four for fifty.' That way you have a better chance of selling four pretzels at one time." Always thinking, this guy Gerb! He gave me a stack of brown paper bags, the kind my mom would pack my school lunch in and the kind I was involuntarily mangling in my pocket at this very moment. I was instructed to fill a dozen or so bags with four pretzels each and have them ready to go for customers, the majority of whom I'd be doing business with through their driver's side window. You see, my little retail outlet was a card table set up on an eight-foot-wide median strip of a rather busy neighborhood thoroughfare.

Gerb pulled up to said median and set his four-way hazard flashers on. He hopped out of the car and I did the same, grabbing the flattened card table from the back seat. He popped open his trunk and removed a large plank of discarded faux wood paneling upon which rested a pile of soft pretzels, connected in the baking process in long rows, stacked on top of one another. I quickly extended the legs of the table and Gerb plopped the plank of pretzels on its surface with a thud. He jammed his hands in his pockets and extracted a fistful of change. "Here," he said, "this should get you started." He jumped back into his car and, as he drove off, he said, "I'll be back around three to pick you up. Good luck." And off he went.

And there I was.

I immediately started bagging four pretzels at a time, as I was instructed. Cars zoomed by me on both sides and it was a little jarring at first. Within a minute or two, a car pulled up and the driver barked, "How much?" in my direction. Startled, I meekly replied, "Um...four for.... um... fifty." I struggled as I tried to remember all of the simple directions Gerb imparted to me. "Gimme four," the driver said and he waved a dollar in my direction. I handed him a bag, took his dollar and fished two quarters out of my pocket from the supply of coins Gerb gave me. The whole exchange took about 60 seconds. Shit! This was gonna be easy!

And to be honest, it was.

In Philadelphia, pretzels practically sell themselves. Everyone in this city grew up eating them. For goodness sake, I loved them! They are delicious, convenient, easy to handle and available all over the place. And buying them from some kid standing on a median strip in the middle of Bustleton Avenue wasn't the least bit odd in 1975. That summer was great. Gerb picked me up every morning at my house and came by around three in the afternoon the collect me, the table and the empty hunk of paneling... because I always sold out. Always. The days were filled with an interesting assortment of characters, including my current Social Studies teacher (who, at first, scared me, but became a daily customer) and a driver from a nearby funeral home who stopped to inquire the price of my salt-and dough wares while transporting a casket in the back of his vehicle... with a long procession of funeral attendees behind him. I witnessed accidents, police chases, terrible drivers and even a fist fight. It was more excitement than a 14-year old could take.... and I loved every minute of it.

Before the summer ended, Gerb decided to move on to bigger and better pastures. He sold his business to Jeff, another one of Max's friends. I wasn't too keen on this new guy. He seemed to only be interested in the money, as the first thing he did was raise the prices a full quarter. This cut down on business and angered those regular customers who had been paying less just a day before. One morning when he picked me up, I told Jeff that this would be my last day.

After that, I worked in a slew of jobs in retail stores for bosses who were assholes. After attending art school, I worked in a slew of jobs in my chosen field for bosses who were also assholes.

I still love pretzels though and, every winter, I wear this scarf to remind me how much I do.

Available from your pals at South Fellini.

By the way, Gerb's name was Rob.

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

all I want is a proper cup of coffee

 

Many years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I purchased a Keurig coffee maker and it was one of the best purchases we ever made. I love having a cup of coffee every morning, but brewing it in a coffee pot is time-consuming. The Keurig is easy to operate and very convenient. Sure, it's not exactly environmentally friendly. Actually, the single-serving patented K-cups are not recyclable. But, we are hoping that one day, they'll figure out a way to recycle them. (Honestly, Mrs. Pincus is more concerned about the future of recyclable K-cups. I don't really care.)

curse ya! curse ya! curse ya!

Recently, we had been finding a small puddle on our kitchen counter near the water reservoir of our Keurig. Thinking it was just an errant spill, it was sopped up with a paper towel. But, everyday there was a puddle again and, some days, the puddle was bigger that the day before. So, we started looking at new models of Keurig coffee makers to replace our current one, which obviously had seen better days. It still worked, but age had gotten the better of it.

Through some creative finances, including cashback incentives, reward points and discounts, Mrs. P managed a terrific deal on a brand new Keurig coffee maker. When she brought the new one home, I unpacked it and set it up in the spot on our kitchen counter, previously occupied by our old, leaky Keurig. I read over the new instructions, noting a few new features. The old Keuring sat on the counter, off to the side, its power cord coiled behind it like a dead snake. It silently awaited its fate. The ever-enterprising Mrs. P first suggested that it be stored with a collection of odds and ends on our back porch, waiting for the first nice day next spring, when it could be offered for second-hand purchase at our annual yard sale. But, Mrs. Pincus came up with another idea. She took a bunch of pictures of our old Keurig and offered it for sale on a few local "Facebook Yard Sale" pages. A brand new Keurig can run upwards of one-hundred-plus dollars. My wife put a twenty dollar price tag on it, with full disclosure of the water leak and she accompanied the post with a number of pictures showing our once-loyal Keurig from every possible angle, as though it was on a coffee maker "Wanted" poster.

...with diamond legs and handles

On Saturday, just a few days after Mrs. P placed the listing for our Keurig, she got a message from an interested potential buyer. The first thing the "buyer" asked was "Will you take ten dollars for it?" Mrs. Pincus frowned. "No, I will not.," she thought. These things are over a hundred bucks and this still works with a slight inconvenience. Hell, we were just using it last week. A quick swipe with a paper towel and your problems were solved. We began emptying the reservoir and only filling it with enough water to make a single cup of coffee. So.... twenty dollars was pretty reasonable. And from the pictures, one could tell it was in really good condition. The "buyer" countered at fifteen dollars. Not wanting appear as "the jerk," my wife sighed and consented to fifteen dollars. She then began making arrangements to meet the "buyer" on Sunday for the exchange. The "buyer" lives in Glenside, a small community not too far from our own small community. Mrs. P suggested the parking lot of a 7-11 that was midway between our two houses. The "buyer" agreed and a time a bit after noon was agreed upon. I loaded the Keurig into the back of my wife's car and she drove off to meet her "buyer."

A little over twenty minutes later, she pulled her car into our driveway. She had a look of vexed disgust on her face.

"What?," I asked, my single word inquiry covering the entire realm of my curiosity. I spotted the Keurig in the back of the car, in nearly the same spot I had placed it.

Mrs. P explained, "I got out of the car. I opened the back door and took out the Keurig. I turned around, holding it in my hands. The guy looks at it and says 'That's not what I want.' I turned around, put it back in the car and drove away."

Then she added, "I don't have time for this shit."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com