I don't belong in this club

Remember why you hated to go into Radio Shack? You went in because you happened to walk past the store while you were at the mall and you remembered that you needed a special, obscure battery that you couldn't find in the rack in the supermarket. Or a particular light bulb that fit in that weird lamp you got when you cleaned out grandma's attic when she died. So, for a quick purchase — with no intention of ever setting foot in a Radio Shack again — the cashier pressed you for your name, address, phone number, yearly income, your previous address, the name of your employer, your pet's names, your dead pet's names... an entire profile of your current living situation. He typed all of your responses into the Central Customer Radio Shack database and you were officially indoctrinated into the cult of Radio Shack. No wonder Radio Shack went out of business. Who needed that shit?

There are several types of stores I try to avoid. Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores. I am not a "do-it-yourself" guy. I don't want to "do-it-myself." I want someone to do it for me. I don't want to put an addition on my house. I don't want to paint a room in my house. I don't want to do anything to my car except put in gas and scrape off snow (when necessary). Anything more involved than those simple activities, I want them done by someone who is not me. AND... when they are completed, I do not want a run-down on how those tasks where done. I don't care. If I cared, I would have taken the time to have learned how to do them myself. But, I did not do that, so....

I worked for Pep Boys Auto Parts for three years. I worked in their advertising department, where I placed pictures of various auto parts into ads alongside a giant red price. I could not identify any of the auto parts in the ads. I placed them by item number. I didn't know (nor care) what any of the parts did. My job was to make the ads look "pretty" and "appealing." I think I accomplished that. During my time with Pep Boys, I set foot into a Pep Boys store a grand total of one time... and that was to purchase a set of Pep Boys bobbleheads. Any "car-related" issue I had was taken care of by my trusted mechanic.

Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores all have one thing in common. They have customers that fall into two very distinct categories — do-it-yourselfers who make these types of stores a frequent destination and those who rarely venture into one of these stores and try to avoid them as best they can. I fall into the latter group. I hate these types of stores. The employees, it seems, do not posses the skills to differentiate between die-hard roll-up-your-sleeves doers and those of us who are not sure which is the "business end" of a hammer. Maybe that's just the kind of people who are hired to work in these places. Maybe they don't have the thinking capacity to "read the room" because that have just about grasped the concept of "measure twice, cut once" and that can be very taxing on a limited-thinking brain.  So, they just treat everyone as though they are Bob Vila. On the off chance that they can tell the difference, they seem to go out of their way to make non-DIYers feel inferior. They use specialized lingo that only someone who completed years of authorized MOPAR training would understand. They expound on the foot-per-pound ratio of a particular line of torque wrench as though it was common knowledge. They explain primer coverage and semi-gloss opacity as though they were discussing the weather. And they talk about the comparative ins-and-outs of windshield wipers as though anybody really gives a shit. 

Which brings me to this...

We experienced a rather brutal winter this year. We had several days of heavy snowfall, coupled with ice storms and weeks of below-freezing temperatures. The weather, and its lingering after-effects, really did a number on the windshield wipers on my car. During a recent rainstorm, I noticed a long strip of rubber bouncing wildly across my windshield, noticeably out-of-step with the rhythmic uniformity of the wiper arms. It looked like a single strand of black spaghetti wildly whipping around the rigid wiper blades who were otherwise maintaining their glass-cleaning duty. This errant string of rubber was causing an occluding streak of water right in my line of vision. I craned my neck to see around it, but it was a futile effort. It was obvious I needed to replace the wiper blades. Or, more accurately, I need to have someone replace the wiper blades for me. 

My car is due for inspection in May, and since it will probably rain a few more times before May arrives, I need new wiper blades immediately. I weighed my options. There's a quick oil change place a few blocks from my house. A quick Google search revealed that they sell and install wiper blades. However, my experience with those types of places is they love to upsell. I didn't need an oil change or fluid check or whatever else they offer. I didn't feel like being subjected to their company-sanctioned "you know you could also use a (fill in the blank) while you're here!" My second option was to visit the Advance Auto Parts that's just a short drive from my house. I have noticed a sign in their window that proudly announced that they install windshield wiper blades for free. I decided — with much trepidation and anxiety associated with going into an auto parts store — to go with Advance.

While trying to skirt a four-day-late St. Patrick's Day parade, I maneuvered my car on an alternate route to Advance Auto Parts. I parked my car and, with my stomach already in my throat, I entered the store. A fellow greeted me and asked if he could help. I told him I needed wiper blades for my car. Our exchange went like this:

Josh Pincus: It's a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek.

Auto Parts Guy: 2004?

JP: No, 2024.

APG: Oh! That makes a big difference. In 2017, a lot of car manufacturers like Subaru, Mazda, Volkswagen and some others changed the kind of wiper blades they use to the new, single push button type that are the slim design cfkjngpofr[  klkspokqf sps alctkwd gjhspsn dbdfojdp

Oh my God, I thought I had a fucking stroke. Suddenly, this guy launched into Marisa Tomei's climactic "Chevy Bel Air" speech from My Cousin Vinny. I tuned his words out and said nothing. He continued, however, going on and on and on about clip housings and old designs and about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.

He turned his attention to a computer screen after typing in some information.

APG: I'll bet you — without even looking — that it's part number A327875-AE.

He said this to me, I suppose, but I think he said it more to impress himself with his vast knowledge of random auto part numbers. 

APG: Let's see.....

Suddenly, he turned to another employee seated waaay down at the other end of the counter. He, too, was working with a customer.

APG: Hey, AJ! Hear this song? (He pointed up in the air, indicating the music floating through the store, courtesy of the overhead speakers.) Rolling Stones. Gimme Shelter, man. My favorite Stones song, man.

He returned his attention to his customer (me) and the wiper blade inventory that had now populated the computer screen.

APG: Yep! A327875-AE! Just like I said. (If he was a sideshow contortionist, he would have patted himself on the back.) I hope we carry these, because sometimes these new model numbers are fdkg hddkd djfgjfiueh jdhoidp jdpdpokf   (Things were starting to grow dim again and my hearing was getting distorted.)

I followed him to the windshield wiper section of the store, where he pointed to a bunch of similarly packaged wiper blades. He pointed out the prices and I selected a pair of beautiful Bosch Focus blades... just breathtakingly beautiful.

APG: Would you like me to put them on your car?

JP: Yes. (This was the first word I had spoken since I corrected him about the year of manufacture of my car.)

He instructed me to swipe or tap my credit card on the terminal and I did so. Then he asked for my phone number. And my last name. And my first name... in that inimitable style made so irritating by Radio Shack.

APG: Pincus? Is that a Scandinavian name? Sounds like a Nordic name. I think its a Nordic name. Is that Nordic?

JP: (thinking) What the fuck does the origin of my last name have to do with me buying wiper blades? And what the fuck business is it of yours to analyze the etymology of my last name? (I merely shrugged my shoulders and remained silent.)

The APG fumbled with the packaging until he finally removed the blades. I followed him out to the parking lot and, although I had earlier gestured towards my car from inside the store, he still needed me to identify it. It was, however MR. CAR PARTS GUY, the only Subaru Crosstrek in the entire lot. Even a non-car guy like myself could see that. Within three seconds, he had popped off the old blades and set the new ones in their proper place. I thanked him and offered an accompanying wave of my hand. His parting words were, "I think you'll really enjoy these blades."

I have owned and driven several cars in my lifetime. I do not recall ever — ever! — thinking, while observing the wipers sweep the downpour of rain off my windshield, allowing for a clear view of the road ahead of me, "Well, goddamn!, I certainly am enjoying these windshield wipers! Yes sir! Pure enjoyment!"

Guess where I will never be going again.  Go ahead.... guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

time has come today

I love Wawa. As a life-long resident of Philadelphia (and now the Philadelphia suburbs), I believe it is my duty as a citizen to love Wawa. Wawa has stores throughout the Greater Philadelphia and New Jersey area and have recently expanded to include locations operating in Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington, D.C., Florida, Alabama, and North Carolina — with its corporate sights set on Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio, Tennessee, New York and Connecticut in the near future. If you don't live in one of these lucky states, let me explain what exactly Wawa is.

Wawa is the greatest convenience store there ever was. Wawa runs circles around places like 7-11 (except for Japanese 7-11s, which, by all accounts, rival Disneyland). Sure, Wawa sells a smattering of groceries for those who run out of something-or-other and need to fill in before their next supermarket run. Yeah, they sell pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream for a little over eight bucks, but Wawa is not a grocery store. Wawa is Wawa! it's a place to stop for great coffee and a fresh packaged baked good on your way to work. It's a place to grab a pre-made sandwich or snack or salad or — better yet — get a custom-made sandwich or hoagie from their innovative (and intuitive) touchscreens. Over the years, since Wawa introduced the made-to-order system, they have branded themselves as the "go-to" place for quick-serve meals. It's become as "Philadelphia" as The Liberty Bell, chucking snowballs at Santa Claus and soft pretzels.... oh! and they have soft pretzels, too. Sure, there are a lot of people in Philadelphia that do not like Wawa — some of whom I know personally, but I still choose to remain friends with them. 

Wawa's hoagies are just fine, as far as I'm concerned. Granted, as a vegetarian, my choices are limited. I switch between a mixed cheese, tuna and roasted vegetables varieties — three choices that die-hard Philadelphia hoagie aficionados will tell you don't belong anywhere near a hoagie. I cannot speak on behalf of any of Wawa's "meat" variety of hoagies, so I will not pass any judgement. Their custom-made salads are good, too. Wawa has added a number of different sandwich options to their menu, including paninis, quesadillas (with customers readily pronouncing both "L"s in that word) and wraps. They have also bolstered their expanding menu with breakfast options like oatmeal and egg sandwiches. More recently, Wawa has begun to offer milkshakes, smoothies, and whipped cream topped coffee beverages that rival Starbucks. Plus, their "annual hoagiefest" seems to pop up way more than "annually."

A few months ago, Wawa introduced pizza to the Wawa stable of made-to-order fare with a campaign they mounted as though no one in the Philadelphia area had ever heard of pizza before. (Full disclosure: Aside from the various national pizza chains that dot the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia boasts a "Mom & Pop" pizza place approximately every fifteen feet.) Nevertheless, Wawa sang the assured praises of their pizza, flooding the area with billboards and commercials and plastering their stores with the simple mantra: "Wawa has pizza!" The phrase was ubiquitous. It grew to sound like a threat. It was apparent that Wawa spent a ton of money outfitting their stores with some sort of pizza oven (these were concealed "in the back" and out of customer's view) and training their minimum-wage employees in the fine art of the culinary preparation required to produce a pizza that Wawa would be proud to put its name on. (For a frame of reference, Wawa has no problem with feeding customers macaroni & cheese or soup out of an 80 ounce food service bag, so their sense of "pride" is questionable.) Needless to say, local pizzerias have nothing to fear.

Mrs. Pincus and I do not fancy ourselves as "food connoisseurs." We like what we like. We don't frequent pretentious restaurants. And we are fine with getting hoagies from Wawa a few times a week. It's convenient, relatively inexpensive and a stop on the way home from work only takes about twenty minutes. Our interest was piqued by Wawa's big pizza "roll out." So, when the good folks at Wawa offered one of their pizzas for five bucks (if ordered through their easy-to-navigate app), we were all in. Hey, I've eaten Little Caesar's pizza and I am convinced that there is no such thing as "bad pizza." So, five bucks was good enough for us to give it a try.

Wawa's pizza is okay. Just okay. It's kind of like the pizza you got in the cafeteria in elementary school. Not horrible. Not terrific, Just.... well.... okay. We ordered, and picked it up at a nearby Wawa. (We live in close proximity to four Wawas, all about the same distance from our house.) When we got it home and opened the box, it looked just like the pizza they display in their commercials. Perfect! Perfectly golden brown crust. Perfectly yellow-y cheese melted in a perfectly symmetrical circle equidistant all around from the crust, with a perfect border of red tomato sauce serving as a barrier/border between the cheese and the crust. It looked fake. I'm sure you've seen those videos of how they used food-like alternatives in commercials to showcase food products — like motor oil in place of pancake syrup or white school glue in place of milk in cereal or mashed potatoes (that won't melt under the studio lights) in place of scooped ice cream. Wawa's pizza appeared to be a reasonable facsimile of pizza. It tasted..... okay. Without the special deal, a Wawa pizza is fifteen dollars. I can get a larger, better tasting pizza for nineteen dollars just a few doors down from a Wawa near us.

Well, Wawa started offering us five bucks off the price of a pizza (when ordered through the app) nearly every weekend. So, I buckled and ordered on a Saturday evening. When the total was calculated, a full ten dollars was deducted from the price, leaving a final total of just five dollars. I selected the time I'd like my order to be ready from a list of times broken down in five minute increments. I also elected to have the pizza brought out to our car. I clicked and clicked and clicked and my order was placed. We arrived at Wawa #8080. We parked and — through the app — I let Wawa know in which numbered space we were parked. Several long minutes after our selected "ready" time, a Wawa employee emerged from the front doors carrying a large pizza box. He walked right past our car. My wife and I looked at each other. Mrs. P started the car and we slowly followed the guy with the pizza as though we were looking for an address on an unfamiliar street. He took our pizza on a little stroll and turned the corner of the building, headed back to the front door. Before he went back inside, Mrs. P called out, "Hey! Is that our pizza?" The guy adjusted his Wawa visor and asked, "Order for Josh?" Mrs. P replied in the affirmative and he handed over the pizza. We got it home and ate it. It was fine. Maybe a little overdone this time. Someone didn't read the training manual as closely as they should have.

In subsequent weeks, we began to order pizza from Wawa nearly every Saturday. We kept getting offers for five dollars off and they kept miscalculating the discount, leaving a grand total of five dollars. However, even after choosing a "ready" time in the app, I have had to wait at least twenty minutes for my order. Each time. Sometimes, I had to flag down an employee to check the status of my order. The employee's report of "it'll just be a few more minutes" was always punctuated with an apology. They seemed to be used to the question and accustomed to rendering apologies. After a few incidents of waiting too long for an "okay" pizza, I switched Wawas. 

I decided to give Wawa #8066 a chance, placing my "usual Saturday usual discount" order. I arrived a few minutes before my selected "ready" time. The sandwich makers were busy making sandwiches. Customers placed orders and picked up their orders as I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a Wawa employee started refilling shelves near where I was impatiently waiting. As he got closer to me, he asked, "How are you today sir?" in a very "customer-service-y" tone. I told him I was waiting for an order that should have been ready fifteen minutes ago. He aske for the order number and promised to check the status. He disappeared behind the sandwich prep area and quickly returned with a solemn look on his face. With the somber demeanor of a surgeon delivering adverse results to a grieving family in a hospital waiting room, he said, "They're remaking your order. It stuck to the pan and they weren't happy with the presentation. I'm sorry. It'll just be a few minutes." It was fifteen more minutes. Ultimately, he handed me a warm pizza box along with another apology. I wonder if "apologies" are the final chapter of the "How To Make A Wawa Pizza" instruction course. I brought the pizza home. It was fine. Maybe a little burnt in some places and the cheese was placed a little unevenly, but it was fine.

Once again, Saturday brought another pizza discount from Wawa. Mrs. P and I gave in to the offer. I would be giving Wawa #0276 an opportunity to redeem the good name of Wawa. I placed my order as I had in the past, selecting my "ready" time as 5:40 PM, giving me enough time to pick up my pizza and get it home before the 6:05 start of the evening's Phillies game. I arrived a few minutes ahead of 5:40 and waited. At 5:39 on the dot, a guy behind the counter stopped what he was doing and retreated to the unseen "back," returning with a pizza box a few seconds later. I approached the glass separating the customers from the workers and pointed to the pizza. At 5:40 exactly, he place the pizza box in my waiting hands. After a little trial and error, I think I found the correct Wawa.

This pizza was okay. Maybe a bit more overdone that it should have been. Maybe the cheese had shifted a bit to one side. Maybe the crust was a little dry in places and chewy in others. Maybe the slices were uneven and not cut all the way through.

Maybe Wawa pizza isn't really that great. Maybe it really isn't even that good.

But I do love Wawa. Just like Bryce Harper. I bet he doesn't have to wait for pizza. I bet he doesn't get pizza from Wawa.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's the story, morning glory?

Would you ask this guy a question? Does this guy look like he wants to answer your questions? Does this guy look like he wants to engage in nonsensical chit-chat with someone he does not know? Does this guy appear to be in any mood to listen to your inane inquiry about something he is purchasing that is none of your goddamn business? Know your audience, my friends. Read the room.

My wife, who has been in the retail business for many years, has this uncanny ability to spot an item that she knows she can turn into quick cash. From a mile away, her senses will draw her to something that, with a little examination and quick calculations, she knows is a good item to sell. Aside from her regular suppliers, Mrs. P often seeks out after-holiday sales, clearance events, as well as the random going-out-of-business sale to buy items that others couldn't sell. She will also do the "leg work" and track down rare and hard-to-get items (limited editions and regional issue stuff) as sort of a service for her loyal customers. And when she buys, she buys big, sometimes filling up several shopping carts with merchandise. Stores are happy to get rid of the stuff, to make room for more stuff that they will price too high and start the cycle all over again. Other customers, who don't buy nearly in the quantities that Mrs. Pincus does, are fascinated to watch someone stock up in the clearance aisle. And, even though it is none of their goddamn business, feel it is perfectly within their rights to ask my wife what she intends to do with all this stuff. Mrs. Pincus — who I maintain is the nicest person on the planet — answers these questions cheerfully, happily and with such utter bullshit that her fellow shoppers are satisfied. They will smile, shake their heads, click their tongues and move on — totally forgetting what they were just told because... honestly.... how is their life affected by what my wife — or anyone else, for that matter — is buying.

I have accompanied my wife on "buying trips" on several occasions. I must physically bite my lip when someone asks (and someone always does): "Oh! So much stuff! What are you going to do with all of this stuff?" And most of the time, each word in this question is dragged out to way more syllables than they normally contain. Mrs. Pincus will reply with a story of a youth group or a kindergarten class or early stocking stuffers (no matter what time of year it is). I, on the other hand, must wander off to another aisle, otherwise I will give a patented Josh Pincus-style smart-ass explanation, resulting in a sneer from the questioner or my wife or (often) both. 

Home of (National League) Champions

Today, Mrs. Pincus was otherwise occupied with a more pressing responsibility and her plans to visit the Team Store at Citizens Bank Park were sidelined. Citizens Bank Park is the home of the 2022 National League Champion Philadelphia Phillies. And, although they didn't win the World Series, an awful lot of merchandise was produced for Major League baseball's beloved Fall Classic. A good portion of these time-sensitive items are taking up precious selling space in the souvenir store and, come spring, anything related to World Series 2022 is as dated as the Revolutionary War. However, not everybody feels that way... and Mrs. Pincus knows it. There are specific items that appeal to specific collectors and those collectors don't always have access to the items they seek. So, not wishing to miss out on a good deal on stuff she can sell, Mrs. P sent me to the ballpark store as her "buying agent." I was instructed as to what merchandise to buy and in what quantities to buy them. I followed the directions I was given, although, left on my own, I would answer any extraneous questions in the manner in which I saw fit. Oh.... there would be questions. There always are.

At the store, I filled up a plastic shopping basket with a large quantity of different designs of baseballs, all emblazoned with the logo of the most recent World Series, as well as the logos of the Phillies and that other team from Houston that actually won the series. My basket was kind of heavy, as it was piled high with a large number of baseballs. A very large number. I made my way to the closest cashier and placed the basket on the countertop. The cashier began counting out the baseballs and ringing up my purchase.

The store only had a few customers. It was two weeks after Christmas on a Saturday afternoon at a ballpark where the next scheduled game was to occur in four months. Not exactly the makings of a big shopping day for baseball memorabilia. One of those customers took her place behind me in line.

And, here it comes...

She was a short, bleached blonde with a curled-lip sneer already plastered across her face. She cleared her throat, and with nicotine-addled vocal cords, croaked out her inquiry regarding my purchase.

"What are you going to doooooo with all those?" 

Approximate location of her house

She pointed a tobacco-yellowed finger in the direction of my now half-empty shopping basket. This woman was typical South Philly. I could picture her setting up two lawn chairs to secure the parking space that her grandson dug out after a recent snowfall. I could imagine her strutting in her living room in front of the television, a four-inch ash hanging off the end of her cigarette, while the Mummers marched across the screen. I could almost hear her defending the New Year's merrymakers for their God-given freedom to wear blackface and make fun of Asians. In my mind, I could see her coming down the front steps of Our Lady of Get the Fuck Off My Front Stoop after attending Christmas Eve services. I may have seen her on the six o'clock news excitedly celebrating when the city was forced by a court order to remove the wooden box that encased the statue of noted enslaver and historical oppressor Christopher Columbus for nearly two years. I'm almost positive that before she got to the store to question me, she had a PBR and a couple of Marlboro Lights for breakfast. And now, she was very concerned about why I was buying 60 baseballs... and my answer better be a good one.

"What are you going to doooooo with all those?"

I turned slightly in her direction and said, "Play baseball."

She sneered more. She wasn't finished. "Are they real baseballs or are they those foam things?" Why are these baseballs of such interest to this woman? 

"I sure hope they are baseballs.," I replied. I looked at her. She was holding a t-shirt on a hanger and a baseball cap, both sporting the familiar Phillies "P" logo.

"What are you going to do with those?" I asked in a monotone as I pointed right back at her.

"Wear 'em!," she answered indignantly. My question, nearly identical to hers, seemed to have insulted her.

She scooted behind me when the other cashier called her over. As she passed behind me, she muttered "Sorry I asked." The three words were dripping in sarcasm.

I didn't see this woman monitoring the purchases of anyone else in the store. I saw a man carrying a Phillies jersey. He wasn't questioned. A woman and a young girl were buying a plush figure of the Phillie Phanatic. They weren't asked to explain their future plans for the toy once they got home. Just me. I was interrogated. I was cross-examined. My intentions were probed by the unofficial representative of Major League Baseball Purchases - National League East Division. And what exactly was she going to do with the information gathered from her little third degree? Do I have a detailed file in some cabinet somewhere south of Ritner Street?

When I left the store with my paid-for purchases, I spotted my personal inquisitor getting into a car that was illegally parked.

Now, I have some questions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the future's so bright, i gotta wear shades

There's a scene in the 1957 film 12 Angry Men, where studious Juror 4 (as played by E.G. Marshall), weary from a day-long jury room debate, removes his wireframe glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The little indentations on either side of the bridge of his nose are noticed. Someone remembered that the key witness had those same marks on her nose, even though she was not wearing glasses. Suddenly, the accuracy of the witness's eyesight was brought into question. The room erupts in another heated debate. Lee J. Cobb yells at Henry Fonda, Jack Warden throws a crumpled piece of paper at an imaginary basketball hoop and Martin Balsam rubs his own nose and mutters: "Yeah, she had those marks! Whaddaya call 'em?"

"Nose pads," Martin. You call them "nose pads."

I was sitting at my desk at work when I felt something drop and ricochet off the top of my hand as it was poised above my keyboard. I looked around and discovered a small, yellowed piece of flexible plastic that, as a long-time glasses wearer, I identified immediately as a nose pad. If you have ever worn glasses fitted with these little doo-dads, you know that normally, you never give them a second thought. But, if one becomes misaligned or — even worse — breaks.... well your glasses are uncomfortable until it is replaced. Glasses sit funny on the bridge of your nose, affecting your ability to focus. If your prescription is for bifocals, it can be very disorienting. I know from past experience that getting one of these things replaced can be a breeze or it can be a long, drawn out, dreadful hassle. It was in the hands of fate now.

First of all, the place where I got my glasses is out of business. I got my glasses at the small optical concession at a nearby CVS Pharmacy. On a recent visit to this particular CVS, I was surprised to find the little area where my eyes were poked and prodded and put through a regimen of tests and, later, a technician adjusted the temple pieces on my new pair of glasses, was now filled with colorful racks of greeting cards for all occasions. It was as though the optical department had never existed. I had to ponder my next move. I could innocently wander into another local optical store like America's Best or Lens Crafters (if there is still such a place) and try to convince them to fit my glasses — that I did not purchase there — with a new nose pad. Or I could see if the Walgreen's near my house carried this item alongside the small assortment of non-prescription reading glasses that occupy a endcap of the first aisle near the antacids. Coincidentally, Mrs. Pincus and I had appointments at Walgreen's to get our eighth or ninth COVID booster shot early on Saturday morning. On the off chance that they didn't carry them, I would reluctantly employ my original plan of hitting up a mall optician.

That evening, after dinner, I logged onto an online eyeglasses website. I joined the ranks of thousands of other folks and made my first ever purchase of glasses via the internet. Sure, I'm late to the party, but when you're used to buying things one way, trying a different method can be daunting. This was not. It was easy and cheap and.... did I mention "cheap?" I ended up getting two pairs — a pair of sunglasses to supplement my new pair of internet-bought glasses. I may never set foot in a brick-and-mortar optician store again. Or so I thought..

On Saturday morning, the weather was nice, so Mrs. P and I walked to Walgreen's. While we waited for the slow-as-molasses pharmacy staff at the nearly empty Walgreen's to call our names for our shot, I perused the glasses rack. Nothing. Aside from a single repair kit hanging on a lonely hook, the display was filled with a selection of magnifying reading glasses in variety of frames. But, no replacement nose pads. I was disappointed but not exactly surprised. We got our shots and left the store. I was still wearing my glasses, even though they rested cock-eyed on the bridge of my nose. I remembered that in the small, never-busy shopping center across from Walgreen's there was an independent optical store — one I had passed by, but ever entered. We walked over and Mrs. P waited outside, allowing me to try this on my own. Usually, she is much better and way more persuasive than I am. I thought: "I'll just ask. The worst they could say was 'no' and tell me to get out of the store."

The store barely looked open. It was kind of dark and I didn't see anyone inside. I entered anyway, half expecting the door to be locked. It wasn't. There was a long glass display case that formed a sales counter. The walls were lined with Lucite displays of sample frames and huge photos of sophisticated-looking models looking at me from over the tops of their shiny designer frames. At the far end of the sales counter, an older man (I'm 61 and he was definitely older than I am) was seated at a computer. When I tapped on the counter, he eased himself out of his chair and  asked in a monotone: "Can I help you?" There were no other customers in the store. It looked as though there hadn't been a customer in this store for days or maybe months. I removed my glasses and explained my dilemma, pointing to the empty spot on my glasses where the missing nose pad once resided. The man took my glasses from my hand and shuffled to a work area beyond his computer. He began rifling through some boxes and drawers, but his back was to me... and I was without my glasses, so I couldn't tell exactly what was going on. So, I just stood and waited patiently. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and squinted. Although blurry, I recognized my wife. She asked in a low voice what was going on. I pointed in the direction of the "back room work area" and shrugged.

Within a few minutes, the man returned with my glasses. He said nothing as he handed them back to me. They sported a brand new clear silicone nose pad, proudly fitted into the tiny metal socket opposite the original yellowed and dirty nose pad that had been there since Day One. I slid them on and they felt like they did before this whole episode began. I asked the man how much I owed him for his services. He waved me off and grumbled "no charge" under his breath. I thanked him and I thanked him again. My wife spoke up, offering to pick up a cup of coffee for his trouble and generosity. Again, he waved his open hand and said "no... no thank you" in the same low voice. I said a few more "thank you"s as we made our way towards the front door.

While I was genuinely appreciate of this guy's kindness, I have never been in his store before and, in realty, I have no plans of ever going into his store again. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he has closed up shop the next time I pass by, due to competition from bigger stores at the mall or unbeatable deals available on the internet. I wish he would have accepted a buck or two as payment to alleviate my guilt.

My new glasses arrive on Friday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've been searching so long

Many, many years ago, when my son was little, he and I were in a nearby location of a local chain of home improvement and hardware stores. (When I say "many years ago," I am not exaggerating. My son is nearly 35 years old and the chain closed is last remaining store in 1999.) I rarely venture in to these types of stores, as I don't know the first thing about "home renovations" and "DIY" (aside from that song by Peter Gabriel). Anything more complicated than changing a light bulb will have me phoning someone who regularly straps on a toolbelt before leaving the house.

On this particular trip to the home improvement store, I was probably in search of lightbulbs. But, for some reason that I cannot remember, I was also looking for a simple wire fence that I could put around some flower beds in my yard. If I am not mistaken, Mrs. Pincus had seen them earlier in the week and described them in detail so I could find them in the store. The thing is, if they weren't front and center in a huge featured display in the front of the store, I was going to have a difficult time finding them. You see, I have a personal policy when it comes to shopping. I never — and I mean never, ever ever — ask any employee in any store where a particular item is located. My feeling is justified and I listed the following reasons when I imparted this code to my son.

1. Employees in stores have no idea where anything in their store is located.
2. Employees don't care where anything in their store is located.
3. Employees in stores are not interested in what you are looking for and they don't care if you ever find what you are looking for.

However, after not finding the garden fence in question prominently displayed as soon as I walked through the front entrance, I spotted a young man wearing a nametag and a royal blue apron identifying him as an employees of the store. Against my better judgement, I approached him and asked if he could tell me where the garden fence was stocked, particularly and I launched into a detailed description of the fence, separating my hands to approximate the length and width of each fence section and noting that each piece was embellished with small plastic flowers. The nametagged-and-aproned young man stared at me with a lifeless expression, as though my entire dissertation was delivered in a language other than his native tongue. When I finished speaking, I waited — hopefully — for a helpful, informative response. One that would point me in the direction of the store's vast garden fence department. Instead, his slackened jaw opened just wide enough to say: "Uh, we don't carry that."

I looked at him. I decided not to repeat what I had just asked with even more detail, perhaps some more description that he may have missed in my initial explanation. No. I just walked away. My son and I were going to find the garden fence on our own. We wandered towards the back of the store and located a giant directional sign pointing the way to an outdoor garden department. When the automatic doors parted, the first thing we saw — piled to the ceiling — was an enormous display of the garden fence fitting the description of what my wife explained to me... and what I had just explained to the young man with the nametag and apron. My son and I marveled at the display, shaking our heads as we gathered a dozen or so sections of fence. As we headed to the cash register area, we passed the young man with the nametag and apron. 

"Hey!," I said to him, "The fence is back in the garden department." He looked at me as though he had not seen and spoken with me less than five minutes earlier. After looking at me — silently — for as much time as he deemed necessary, he disappeared down an aisle, no doubt in an effort to avoid any more human contact, be it customer or supervisor.

Yesterday, over a quarter of a century later, my wife went to kill some time in Walmart while I got my haircut at a salon across the street. She made a small list of some things that she knew — for a fact — could be purchased at the mighty retail giant because she had purchased those items there before. There was one item on her list that she was not sure if Walmart carried. Wandering around the store, Mrs. P asked a young woman in an identifying Walmart vest if she could help. She asked the young employee if they carried "craft glue." The woman stared blankly at my wife. "I don't know what that is.," she confessed. Now there are items that, I'll admit, are curiously named. A Philips screwdriver for instance. Explaining this to someone who is not familiar with tools could prove difficult. There are some plumbing components that have misleading names like a "j-bend," "p-trap" or the mysteriously named "ballcock." But "craft glue" is fairly self-explanatory if you understand the meaning of those two words separately... like "chocolate milk." My wife asked a more general question. "Does the store have a craft department?" The question was met with a puzzled expression from the employee. "You know," my wife elaborated, "like glitter and sewing stuff?" The young employee perked up, as she knew the answer to this one. "Yes!," she said, "Yes we do!" 

Well if you know there is a craft department and you just heard the word "craft" in the name of the thing I am looking for... oh never mind.

Mrs. P found the craft glue on her own.

My policy stands firm.

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state of confusion

Mrs. Pincus went to the local Walmart to pick up a few things in their grocery department. Elsewhere on this blog, I have discussed my "love-hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their incredibly — sometimes impossibly — low prices, but I hate the caveat of having to go to Walmart to get those prices. I believe that's what called a paradox. The customers and staff at Walmart are equally.... well, what's the nicest way I can phrase this?... moronic. I marvel at the level of stupidity I witness each and every time I visit Walmart. The customers all look like they just rolled out of bed, threw on the closest (and filthiest) Halloween costume they could find and headed out to shop. The employees all seem to be on their first day of work... wandering the aisles in a stupor, as though they were just dropped there from an airplane.

As long as Mrs. P was in Walmart, she decided to trek on over to the cosmetic department. Among the lipsticks and lotions and powders and such, she found a hook with a particular item that she wished to purchase. (Honestly, I don't know exactly what she bought. The reference to "lipsticks and lotions and powders" was just a guess on my part.) The hook that the item — Maybelline Eye Brow Something-or-Other — was on had a lock at the front of it. Who knew that this was such a hot property that it needed to be kept under secure lock and key.... like baby formula and Sudafed. But, sure enough, there it was and it was locked. My wife noticed that there was a small security camera mounted above the item that she desired. She waved at the camera and pointed to the locked hook, hoping that whoever was monitoring the camera would send someone over immediately. Then she remembered that she was in Walmart — land of sloth-like assistance. No staff member was monitoring anything. She looked around the department until she finally spotted an employee in a bright yellow, Walmart logo-emblazoned vest. She explained to the employee which item she wanted and that the lock on the hook needed to be opened. The employee instructed my wife to ask at the pharmacy counter for help. Someone there will have a key, the employee told her. Mrs. P dutifully went to the pharmacy and repeated her dilemma. The pharmacy employee told my wife that they do not have a key to any locks in the cosmetic department, adding that anyone with a yellow Walmart vest carries a key. Mrs. P offered a blank look, turned and set off to find the first Walmart employee... the one with the yellow vest.

Mrs. Pincus tracked the first employee down. The employee said she did not, in fact, have a key. She walked over to the hook with the eye brow makeup, confirming that this was what my wife wanted. Then, she tore the cardboard hole on the product's packaging. "Here you go.," she said with a smile, as she handed over the damaged package. "Well, I could have done that!," responded Mrs. P, "but I guess security would have come right over to me." The employee replied, "No. Probably not." Then she continued, "If you come in again and want to buy this, just tear it off the hook." Mrs. Pincus tossed the makeup in her cart and went to check out.

She selected a check-out aisle and put her soon-to-be purchases on the conveyor belt. The cashier picked up each item, passed them over the scanner and deposited them in a plastic bag. Mrs. P held the eye makeup in her hand, making sure it was the last item. She wanted to point out the torn package and to let the cashier know that the tear was not her doing. Mrs. P displayed the torn box and described the entire scenario to the uninterested cashier. Actually, the cashier reacted, saying, "Well, anyone in a yellow vest has a key to any lock in the store." The cashier wore a yellow vest. Mrs. P frowned. and countered, "The woman who tore the package was wearing a yellow vest." The cashier shook her head and answered, "That was a different yellow vest."

This evoked another blank stare from my wife.

As a footnote to this tale, we just returned from another trip to Walmart this afternoon. That one, however was not our local Walmart, but one that is thirty miles from our house. We picked up some fill-in items in their grocery section, including a package of Polly-O string cheese that retails at Walmart for $6.47. We had been issued a corporate coupon from Kraft Heinz Foods (Polly-O's parent company) for a maximum $8.00 off one package of Polly-O cheese. We took our selections to the self-check out. After I scanned the last item, I scanned the bar code on the coupon. The terminal beeped, prompting a yellow-vested employee to join us. She whipped the coupon from my hand and examined it. "Ugh!," she groaned with disappointment, "This is one of those 'eight dollar off' coupons!" She typed some numbers on the touch-screen and sighed. "I have to ring this at my register." She canceled our transaction, removed the receipt that was spit out and beckoned us to follow her to another cash register. She re-rang our entire order, hit some additional buttons and instructed me to insert my credit card into the card reader. It beeped when the chip had been fully scanned and the employee handed my wife the receipt. We exited the store and my wife read the receipt and laughed. "She took the full $8.00 off for the cheese instead of the actual price.," I was informed.

I love Walmart..... almost as much as I hate it.

Oh, I'm with you, sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the right profile

I'm gonna try to write this without editorializing. I will try to just report the events that happened without commentary. My goal is to allow you — the reader — to draw your own conclusion. This may be difficult, but I will do my best.

My wife and her father recently went to pick up a few things at a store called PJP Marketplace, a branch of which is not too far from our home. According to their website, PJP Marketplace is a local chain of "open to the public" stores that "stocks everything you need to run your foodservice establishment." They sell a wide variety of kitchen-y things from fresh and frozen food to utensils and serving pieces all the way up to commercial scales and equipment. Mrs. P and her father were looking for a large quantity of plastic quart containers in which to store the unnecessarily voluminous amounts of soup that my mother-in-law prepares for the upcoming Passover holiday. (Oops! I think I just editorialized. I'll try to watch myself.) They were also looking to buy similarly packaged disposable foil pans for the same aforementioned (and again questionable) purpose (Ugh! There I go again!)


This particular PJP Marketplace is located in a predominately Hispanic neighborhood just over the suburban boundary of Philadelphia. Most — if not all — of the clientele and employees are Hispanic. That is not an observation. That is a fact. My wife and my father-in-law are both Caucasian. That is also a fact.

After finding a parking spot, they grabbed a shopping cart and entered the store. They made their selections and filled their cart, then headed towards the checkout area near the front of the store. They got into one of the many checkout queues, all of which were surprisingly lengthy. A cashier was setting up behind one of the currently-closed lanes, obviously preparing to open up and relieve some of the congestion. When she finished reconciling the money in her cash register's till, she looked up and scanned the long lines, seemingly perusing her choices for who would be her first customer. She pointed to a man in line behind my wife and father-in-law. He was Hispanic. She motioned the man forward, despite the fact that my wife and father-in-law were next in line. She appeared to look right past — or through — them. (Hmmmm.... that may be borderline editorializing. Strike that from the record, please.) The man walked around my wife and father-in-law and was the first customer in the new checkout line. Mrs. P and her father waited patiently in their own line and, within less than a minute, they were placing their items on the conveyor belt for purchase.

After making payment, they gathered up their bagged purchases and made their way to the exit. At the exit, however, a man was stopping each and every customer to carefully and thoroughly check each and every receipt. The man took each receipt and, with a yellow highlighter pen, checked off each item on the paper once he identified it to be paid and in the customer's possession. He also appeared to be giving each customer an accusatory "once over."  When Mrs. P and her father came up to the man with their bag and receipt ready to be reviewed, he smiled and waved them on. "You folks can go ahead." he said, without even taking the receipt from my wife's hand.

That's it. That's my story. Draw your own conclusion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she said she said

You know what really annoys me?

Wait a second. Let me start again....

You know what really annoys me this week?

Once again, Mrs. Pincus has fallen into the good graces of the folks in the marketing department of Harrah's Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. My wife's relationship with Harrah's has been one of ups and downs. After nearly a decade of free meals, free hotel rooms, free show tickets, free cruises and a number of prize give-aways, Harrah's algorithms cut Mrs. P off without an explanation. More than a year passed and, suddenly, Mrs. P was once again receiving promotional solicitations in the mail. Sure, the free slot play amount had dipped dramatically, but the offers of small appliances, watches and gift cards were hard to pass up. Just a quick, weekly drive to Atlantic City and the stuff was just handed over. Hey — free is free.

Recently, Mrs. P received a gift card from Harrah's entitling her to $40 worth of merchandise from the "TJ Maxx/Marshall's" family of stores. So, one evening after dinner, we drove over to a Home Goods at a nearly mall. We dragged ourselves up and down the aisles. We perused the displays of useless crap that nobody needs. We saw large distressed wooden things with hanging brackets attached to the back. I surmised that these things were supposed to hung on a wall in one's home. We also saw several white porcelain animals (a pig and perhaps a cow) that I supposed were made to occupy a place of prominence, also in one's home..... possibly the same home with the wooden thing on the wall.

Mrs. Pincus reluctantly gathered up some items, but by the time we made it to the check-out counter, she said, "I could do without this stuff." She put her selections down and we left. 

We strolled down to another section of the mall and entered a Marshall's, determined this time, to use the $40 gift card. Mrs. P picked up some stuff — a set of Mickey and Minnie Mouse pot holders, a mini mandolin vegetable slicer and a small electric waffle iron. (Actually, she picked up a few of each of these items to make it to forty dollars.)

I carried some of the items and Mrs. Pincus carried some and we approached the check-out counter.

Let me interrupt this post for a moment...

When I was in high school and college, I worked many jobs in the service industry. I was a cashier in a department store and in a women's' clothing store. I worked as a soda vendor at a stadium in Philadelphia. I worked at my cousin's heath food cafeteria. As expected, I also encountered numerous folks in the service industry as well. I was taught that service workers were essentially "non-people." They served a purpose and that was to be helpful and courteous while doing their job and dealing with customers. I was told not to be pushy and not to interfere in a customer's personal business. Lately, however, there has been a growing trend and a severe and unwelcome crossing of that line. I remember the time a waitress sat down — actually grabbed a chair and sat down at our table! —  at a TGI Friday's. I was appalled! Surprisingly, it was not the last time this happened. Wait staff are not the customer's friend and they should never think they are. Cashiers don't need to comment on a customer's purchase. The sale has already been made. You don't have to continue to make the sale.

... and now, back to our story.

We plopped our selections on the counter. The cashier — a young lady with a cockeyed smile and a passing resemblance to Alanis Morissette circa 1996 — picked up each item to scan the bar code. But, prior to each scan, she made a comment. On every single item. Even multiples of the same item.

"Oh, I have these potholders. They're great. I use them all the time. I like the small size." She picked up and examined the potholders, turning them over several times.

"These waffle irons are so cool. And you're getting so many. Are there any left? I might want to get one." She picked up and examined the waffle irons, turning them over several times.

"I got one of these slicers. It's so convenient. I use it a lot." She picked up and examined the slicers, turning them over several times.

After she commented on every item, she commented on the gift card.

"Oh! A gift card! Wow! Forty dollars......" blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. She went on and on and on. Mrs. Pincus politely smiled and offered single syllables of agreement, when she could get a word in. I wandered off, trying to get out of earshot. Finally the transaction was completed and the items were finally bagged. I grabbed extensively-discussed purchases from the cashier's hands and headed for the door.

With the gift cards completely spent, guess where we never have to go again.

So.... what will annoy me next week?

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it's beginning to look a lot like christmas

Here it is, the week of Thanksgiving and The Hallmark Channel is deep in the throes of its annual Christmas celebration. 

In 2001, greeting card giant Hallmark decided to enter the cable television business. The fledgling network continuously gained viewers with its decidedly "family-oriented" programming. As of 2015, Hallmark Channel reaches approximately 73% of homes that own at least one television. Their programs are definitely skewed to lure viewers away from the Lifetime and the OWN Network (mighty media mogul Oprah Winfrey's foray into cable television).

In 2010, Hallmark produced a series of six original Christmas-themed movies and broadcast them, appropriately, around the weeks leading up to the late December holiday. More recently, their output of Christmas movies has increased exponentially each year with 2018 offering nearly two dozen made-for-Hallmark movies. In addition, they show all of the movies from past years – all day, everyday – kicking off their "Countdown to Christmas" promotion long before anyone in their right mind actually begins counting down to Christmas. It seems to start just as most people are tossing their last empty bottle of sunscreen into the recycling bin.

While I haven't seen a single one of these films in its entirety, Mrs. Pincus has. Every. Single. One. I have seen a few minutes of each one, however, because they are on at least one television in our home, seemingly from the second week of October until well after the New Year. Mrs. P loves 'em. They are, for her, what some folks refer to as "a guilty pleasure." I dislike the term "guilty pleasure" because it implies that you try to hide your affection from friends and family for fear of embarrassment (like my affinity for "The Night Chicago Died"). Mrs. Pincus enjoys these movies as a mindless escape. They are joyful distractions from the everyday grind of dealing with unreasonable eBay customers, people who double-park at the post office and tedious family issues. She does not hide the fact that she likes and watches these movies, just like I don't hide the fact that I still watch reruns of "iCarly." We like what we like.

I have seen bits and pieces of a number of these movies and, honestly, I cannot tell one from another. They are literally cookie-cutter productions that borrow unashamedly from other, more famous, stories. The films are usually set in some charming, soap-opera looking hamlet called "Paradise" or "Hollyland" or "Mistletoe" or some other blatant Christmas-y reference. They star either Jennifer Love Hewitt or Candace Cameron Bure or Lacey Chabert or grown-up Winnie from "The Wonder Years," or some other attractive actress who looks like one of those aforementioned actresses. Oh, and there's the celebrated Brooke D'Orsay, a veteran of numerous Hallmark Christmas movies for several years now. (Don't ask me what else she's been in.) The male co-stars are usually some rugged-looking, pleasingly-scruffy hunk who looks like the second runner-up in a Blake Shelton look-alike contest. The revolving plots usually focus on a disillusioned young woman who returns to her quaint small town to rediscover the true meaning of Christmas after becoming jaded and cynical by life in bustling New York/Chicago/St. Louis/Los Angeles (all shot in some Canadian big city doubling as a United States metropolis). Some of them tell the story of a hapless young woman finding out that she is a distant relative of Santa Claus and must help the venerable holiday figurehead overcome a time of great distress. Others throw together an unlikely couple who, at first dislike each other, but, in two hours time (plus commercials) experience the magic of Christmas and live happily ever after (and after and after in countless annual re-broadcasts). And, of course, there are the bald-faced rip-offs of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" and reworkings of Frank Capra's "It's A Wonderful Life." Every so often, one of these movies features a sad appearance by a noted actor whose career hasn't quite taken the path they envisioned. A grizzled Tom Skerritt showed up, playing second fiddle to Candace Cameron Bure. Cantankerous Brian Doyle Murray was Santa Claus in one and Oscar winner Shirley MacLaine appeared with Sex and the City's Kristin Davis in another. 

The Hallmark Channel Christmas movies usually find their way to our bedroom television late at night. For years, my wife and I have always had a television on all night in our bedroom. I've gotten so used to it that, if it goes off (due to a cable or power outage), I wake up from the silence. Now, I am slowly lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of some of the worst dialogue delivered by some of the worst actors I have every heard. But, I have to thank The Hallmark Channel. I have had some of the most restful nights of sleep during the marathon broadcasts of their Christmas movies. And If I ever decide to really investigate the intricate plot twists and turns, Hallmark has graciously published a series of novelizations based on a selection of their movies. 

Happy "Eight More Weeks of Christmas Movies on Hallmark." Sweet dreams.

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