must have got lost

I wrote this story in 2012, a few years after the events described herein took place. It originally appeared on my illustration blog and it is one of my personal favorites. If you have read it before, well... you might enjoy it all over again. If this is your first time reading it, you may want to grab a box of tissues first. It's a harrowing tearjerker. — JPiC

Let me tell you about Pudge.

In the summer of 1982, just after Mrs. Pincus and I met, we went on a day trip to Hershey Park. Just barely into our 20s, the appeal of an amusement park still held excitement for us. In between turns on the roller coasters, bumper cars and Mrs. P's personal favorite, the Tilt-O-Whirl, we wandered into a few souvenir shops that dotted the park's layout. Among the Hershey-emblazoned t-shirts, snow globes, mugs and giant pencils was a shelf displaying an array of plush animal characters. On the second shelf below eye-level sat a slightly over-stuffed brown bear looking very dapper in a blue and red striped shirt. That bear was Pudge. The expression on Pudge's face made him look a bit forlorn and Mrs. Pincus was instantly smitten. I convinced Mrs. P that the last thing she needed was another stuffed animal. (At the time, I did not realize the gravity of the mistake I was in the process of making.) Pudge was placed back on the shelf and we left the store. The one-sided conversation on our ride home was me being berated for not allowing the purchase of Pudge. The next several months saw my beloved bride scouring every conceivable outlet within a fifty-mile radius that would have the remotest of possibilities of stocking the elusive Pudge. (This was in a time before a simple Google search would yield any number of global retail establishments and purchases could be made without putting on shoes, getting dressed, burning gasoline or making contact with another human being.) Finally, after what seemed like an eternal exercise in futility, Pudge was tracked down and located at a mall a little under sixteen miles from our home. Mrs. Pincus purchased that little brown fellow, brought him home and soon his adventures began.

Pudge has accompanied my family on many trips to many places. From short jaunts around the corner to my in-law's house to exciting, multi-day automobile treks down the eastern seaboard to elaborate, cross-country flights to the Pacific coast, Pudge has been there and he has the pictures to prove it.

L to R (top row): At the Statue of Liberty; On the Kiss production line at Hershey, PA; With the Monster.com mascot at eBay Live in Boston; Pudge receives the Emmy; In Graceland's visitor parking lot; At the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland; With the 2008 World Series trophy.

L to R (bottom row): At the famous Randy's Donuts in Inglewood, CA; On the front steps of Gianni Versace's house in Miami; On Winnie the Pooh's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; Waiting for the Strasburg Rail Road; Having fun on a Carnival cruise; Riding a Nittany Lion at State College, PA; Riding the bus with Rosa Parks at the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis.

Pudge has seen the roaring waters of Niagara Falls and the stirring majesty of The Statue of Liberty. He has paid his respects to the late King of Rock and Roll at Graceland and viewed memorabilia of Elvis' contemporaries at The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Pudge has witnessed tributes to legendary ballplayers at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown and famous movie stars on the star-studded Walk of Fame in Hollywood. One trip, however, is the topic of limited discussion — the details of which are related in hushed tones and then quickly the subject is changed before emotions bubble over. Over twenty-five years after Pudge joined our family, he was nearly lost forever. (Sure, one time my wife absent-mindedly stuck Pudge in a drawer at her parent's seashore apartment in Ventnor, New Jersey. But, once we retraced our moves, Mrs. P was again united with Pudge in a tearful reunion.)

As spring became summer in 2008, the planning stages began for a complicated, multi-legged, two-week drive to Florida — involving my in-laws, my brother-in-law and his family and other assorted and uncategorized extended family members — with a lengthy stop in Orlando before proceeding to the ultimate destination of Miami Beach to visit yet more relatives. My wife would be accompanying her parents alone, serving as travelling companion, as well as navigator and chauffeur of their vehicle for the lion's share of the journey. I would not be joining them, as securing two consecutive weeks off from my full-time job would be difficult, plus, it was implied that my son and I were not invited on this trip. (I surmised this when my wife's brother informed her rather bluntly, "Your miserable husband and your miserable son are not invited." I was quite proud of my brilliant deduction skills.) My wife carefully packed all the necessities she would require for a fortnight in the Sunshine State including a travelling companion of her own — Pudge. Snug within the confines of her backpack, Pudge stayed secure between Mrs. P's make-up bag and her wallet, occasionally popping out for a seat on the dashboard, providing company when Mrs. P's Mom and Dad dozed off in their seats.

I kept in regular phone contact with my wife during her trip. She'd call to document the day's activities, the sights they saw, the pictures Pudge posed for. I'd tell her about the concerts my son and I attended in her absence and reassured her that we were eating well and taking care of each other. As she began her week in Orlando, the phone conversations evolved into reports of the petty arguments and unusual behavior she witnessed among her family as an unattached observer. Mrs. Pincus was the first one up each morning and, subsequently, the first one out the door as my sister-in-law's sister staggered about in a hangover-induced stupor and my two nieces bickered over which pair of Crocs they would wear and who picked all the green clovers out of the box of Lucky Charms. With a smile on her lips and Pudge in her backpack, Mrs. Pincus exited the mayhem in the claustrophobic time-share and drove her own rental car off to enjoy a Disney theme park. She'd spend several days experiencing all that Disney offered in EPCOT, the Disney Studios and, of course, The Magic Kingdom. (She skipped the Animal Kingdom because, no matter how persuasive Disney tries to be with the idea that it's "Natazu" ... it's a zoo.) Her solo adventures were interrupted infrequently by the briefest interaction with her parents (based on their limited capacity of mobility) or her brother's family (based on their limited capacity of getting their shit together). So, for the most part she was alone — except for Pudge.

On the final day before departure to their more southerly course, Mrs. Pincus wished to spend her remaining hours at the Magic Kingdom, her favorite of the Disney parks. Before she set out that morning, Mrs. P's sister-in-law presented her with a heaping stack of special "line jumper" passes — allowing immediate access to the ride-boarding area — that they had received from a Disney "castmember" (The Walt Disney Company's universal word for "employee") in order to pacify a (possibly-imagined and most-likely exaggerated) "horrible situation." It was explained that they couldn't conceivably use all of the passes they were awarded in their allotted time, so Mrs. P took them with the instruction: "use as many as you can." With the majority of her group awkwardly traipsing their way across EPCOT, Mrs. P languidly strolled down Main Street, meandered through the faux-exoticism of Adventureland, leisurely moseyed along the wooden-planked walkways of Frontierland and lazily sauntered the winding paths of Fantasyland. As dusk approached and the ambient lights came on, the once sun-brightened surroundings now sported an otherworldly glow and Mrs. P found herself in Tomorrowland. Choosing a ride on the fearsome Space Mountain as the capper to her visit, she entered the queue line and distributed fistfuls of the special passes to delighted strangers who happened to be in the right place at the right time.  At the ride's conclusion, she was breathless and parched. She reached into her backpack for a bottle of water. With her thirst sufficiently quenched, she headed towards the still-open shops on Main Street when her cellphone rang. It was her brother.

"Are you still at the Magic Kingdom?," he inquired.

"Yes. Why?," replied Mrs. Pincus.

"I forgot to get Mouse Ears for the girls. Can you get them?" he asked, hopefully. It was nearing closing time on the last day of a six-day vacation and it had just occurred to my brother-in-law that the single most popular Disney souvenir had not been purchased for his children.

"I'd be glad to.," my wife answered cheerfully. She truly is the nicest person on this otherwise God-forsaken planet. She memorized the details of her brother's request, dutifully noting the style of head wear and the desired inscriptions, and made a beeline towards the Main Street hat shop. Engulfed by the throng of exiting guests, she came upon a cheerful group of castmembers wearing Mickey Mouse-style gloves and waving "Good Night" to the tired and contented patrons. Mrs. P thought this would make for a great photo of Pudge. She opened her backpack to retrieve her camera and, to her horror, Pudge was gone. A cold sweat burst upon her forehead, her throat tightened and her heart thumped uncontrollably in her chest. She tossed the contents of her backpack from side to side. Pudge was indeed gone. Tears began to well in her eyes as she frantically scanned the ground in her immediate area. Panicked, she retraced her steps for several yards and replayed her recent activity in her mind. Space Mountain, water, phone call, castmembers. It all swelled into a big confusing blur. Suddenly, a lucid thought was triggered and she beat a determined path to the renowned Lost & Found at Main Street's City Hall.

Taking her place at the end of a line populated by the optimistic owners of lost sunglasses and misplaced flip-flops, a tearful Mrs. P fidgeted until the woman in front of her said, "You look like you lost something very  important. Please. Go ahead of me". My wife thanked her and approached the castmember behind the desk. With tears streaming down her cheeks, my wife's voice cracked as she spoke.

"I lost a small brown plush bear. He has a red and blue striped shirt and I am not leaving this place without him."

The young lady behind the desk smiled reassuringly and said, "Just a minute. I'll look."

A few excruciatingly-long moments later, the young lady emerged from a hidden cache somewhere behind the reception area. Resting in the cupped hands of her outstretched arms was Pudge.

"Is this him?," she asked. Before she had reached the word "him", Mrs. Pincus had nearly leaped over the desk and snatched Pudge out of her hands. She hugged the little bear to her face, wetting his matted, plush fur with her tears. She thanked the City Hall staff profusely, still crying. Somewhere between Space Mountain and the end of Main Street, Pudge must have tumbled out of the backpack. Then, a thoughtful, concerned and compassionate guest picked him up and brought him to the Lost & Found, figuring that someone might be looking for this little, and obviously, well-loved bear.

And Mrs. Pincus still managed to get the Mouse Ears for her nieces.

 * * * * * * *

Footnote: Pudge still travels with us, only now he uses this helpful accessory.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

silent night

In 1995, the Pincuses took their first trip as a family to Walt Disney World. I had been to the Florida resort with my friends as a teenager, and Mrs. P had been with her family as a child, but this was our first time as the proverbial "Mom and Dad and Son." The first of many.

On my first visit as a rambunctious teen, my friends and I stayed at a hotel just outside the sprawling 27,000 acres that Walt Disney and his company purchased under assumed company names way back in the 1960s. We couldn't possibly afford the high rates charged by the (then only) three hotels on Disney property. For almost a quarter of the cost of a stay at a Disney hotel, my friends and I enjoyed five glorious days of as much debauchery that four sheltered Jewish kids from Northeast Philadelphia could muster.

My wife and I spent our honeymoon at Walt Disney World. We also stayed at a hotel outside of the resort, as the cost of an official Disney hotel was still waaaay out of the price range of a couple of newlyweds. On two subsequent trips, again, we booked rooms at non-Disney hotels.

By the time we decided to take our son to experience the wonders the Walt Disney Resort had to offer, Disney had opened nine additional hotels to join the Contemporary, Polynesian and Golf Resort/Disney Inn/Shades of Green, the three original on-property hotels. Of those nine, eight of them were still out of our price range. One, however, was surprisingly affordable - the new All-Star Resort. Labeled "a value resort," the All-Star offered room rates just slightly higher than the popular hotels that line nearby International Drive. The price seemed fair, considering the amenities that were included to guests staying at a Disney hotel. Free on-property transportation, free parking at the theme parks and that signature guest service that Disney is famous for. We booked a room at the All-Star Music Resort which had just opened at the end of 1994. Each of the five "hotels-within-a-hotel" is themed to a different genre of music. The décor is over-the-top, with giant icons complementing each specific type of music. The buildings sport enormous saxophones and drumkits and conga drums, along with colorful music notes on the walkway railings. We chose to stay at the "Rock Inn," with its neon jukebox entrance way and huge speakers cleverly concealing stairways which allow access to rooms for those not wishing to use the usually crowded elevators. It was exciting to actually stay at a Disney hotel, after years of hearing about how wonderful the staff and accommodations were.

...and now, for the "brutal honesty" portion of this blog post.

There are basically two types of people who visit Disney theme parks. There are those die-hard, avid Disney fans who are just enamored with anything and everything the company does. Sure, they are, at times, critical of some decisions, but, all-in-all, Disney is their "happy place" and being at a Disney resort is the best place to be. Then, there are those who go to a Disney resort because their neighbor went to a Disney resort and we can't let that son-of-a-bitch and his family do something that we haven't done. This faction of vacationers follow the crowds like lemmings, taking in as much "experience" as they can so Dad can brag to his co-workers that he was first in line at Space Mountain and how much the whole goddamn thing cost him, but, y'know, it was worth it, y'know, for my kids. However, during the trip, they complain about prices and service and waiting in line and point their kids in the direction of Daffy Duck to take a picture that they will never look at.

When Disney made staying at an on-property resort more affordable for the "working class Joe" who wished to take his family to "that place that everyone talks about," they opened themselves up to a different group of society. One they weren't exactly prepared for. Going on vacation can be a joyful , yet stressful, undertaking. Sometimes the line between "joy" and "stress" is blurred, resulting in loud, boisterous behavior exhibited by folks who are used to staying at a fleabag hotel in Wildwood. Sometimes people forget where they are and forget simple decorum. Some people forget that there are other people in this world. Some people just don't care.

On Night Two of our 1995 Walt Disney World trip, we arrived at our room — tired after a long day at the Magic Kingdom. It was past midnight by the time our bus dropped us off at the All Star Music stop located at the main building of the hotel. We still had a ten minute walk back to our second floor room in the Rock Inn, which was situated near the rear of the property. Already dragging and with an exhausted eight-year old in tow, Mrs. Pincus and I were blocked from direct access to our room by a dozen or so teenagers playing soccer in the hallway. They were loud and aggressive and had no regard for the late hour or any other guests. We did our best to maneuver through the young men and women. They made no effort to allow us passage. We managed to get into our room and Mrs. Pincus was pissed. I readied our son for bed, while Mrs. P stormed off to the front desk, once more navigating through the impromptu soccer match going on outside our door. About 30 minutes later, my wife returned. After voicing her dismay about the lack of proper chaperones for this young group and Disney's failure to maintain guests safety, she received an apology, along with instruction to pack up our belongings. Disney would be moving us to a different room (in the closer-to-the-bus-stop Calypso building) and discounting our final bill for the inconvenience.

I have not been to a Disney theme park since 2017. After nearly annual trips, we, as a family ventured to other destinations. Then, our son moved out on his own and Mrs. P and I began taking cruises as our preferred form of vacationing. Then, of course, the world fell under a pandemic, cancelling or severely limiting everyone's vacation plans. Despite not actually visiting a Disney theme park, I have kept up with the numerous changes going on. Not just exciting new rides and innovative dining options, but policy changes. Disney has implemented a reservations system and a virtual queue policy and all sorts of nuanced protocol that has taken a lot of the spontaneity out of a Disney vacation. I understand that things evolve and it is someone's job to come up with a "better way" for everything. Sure, it takes some getting used to for stogy old traditionalists like me, but I understand the need.

Just this week, however, it was reported on a Disney fan website that new signage has been popping up at the Disney All-Star resorts. Over the years, the All-Star resorts has become the designated hotel for visiting marching bands, cheerleaders and other youth groups performing or competing at Walt Disney World. The signs gently state: “Hey there, Musicians! We hope that you are enjoying your stay! Please remember that quiet hours are between 11:00 pm and 8:00 am.” Yep, Disney has to remind guests to behave themselves. Guests who are paying $185 per night have to be reminded — via printed, publicly-displayed signs — that they should be respectful of other guests at the hotel. On the Walt Disney World website, there is a lengthy list of "dos and don'ts" for guests considering a stay at the resort. The list includes things like "no firearms or other weapons" and "no fireworks." I honestly don't understand why this policy has to be stated.

Who am I kidding? Of course I do!

What has happened to people? What has happened to respect for yourself and your fellow human? Why do adults have to be told how to behave and why to they have to be told to monitor the behavior of their children? The folks at Disney should be concerning themselves with the newest technology for making your theme park experience thrilling, fun and memorable. They should be concocting inventive menus at their restaurants and original souvenirs for their gift shops.

Teaching and maintaining discipline? That's your job.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

(Yes, Steve, I know you would never go to a Disney theme park. I know.)

happy place

Vanessa Hudgens is a popular (I guess?) singer and actress who rose to her level of fame as part of the young ensemble cast in Walt Disney's celebrated High School Musical. As a teenager, Vanessa became a staple among the prepubescent set via a generous, though well strategized, push from the mighty Disney publicity machine, much in the same way as Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears. And, like them, Vanessa has done her very best to bust out of the safe and wholesome confines of the "Disney brand." First of all, she is 31, hardly an age that would appeal to any pre-teens. But, still, she has adopted a more sultry and sophisticated persona in hopes of being recognized as an adult and taken seriously by an adult audience.

In her quest to maintain a career, she has done some good things and done some bad things — just like any one of a zillion actors trying to "make it" in a cut-throat business. She costarred in some box-office successes as well as some failures. She stayed in the positive headlines by dating her High School Musical co-star Zac Efron. She caused a bit of controversy when she carved her initials into a rock and posted the photo on her Instagram account, proudly displaying her handiwork to her nearly forty million followers. The US Forest Service wasn't among those lauding accolades on the young celebrity. The rock, you see, was in Coconino National Forest and she was ordered to pay $1000 in damages.

Well, Miss Hudgens is at it again. She posted a photo on her Instagram account for which she received a good amount of criticism. Unjust criticism, in my opinion and the opinions of some of my death-obsessed pals across the internet... and there are a lot of us. On October 10, in a time where most Hallowe'en celebrations have been stifled by the global COVID-19 pandemic, Vanessa offered a bit of the dark holiday season to her followers. She posted an artful, black & white shot from a recent photoshoot that took place in a cemetery in the storied New York burg of Sleepy Hollow. Vanessa is pictured in a clingy black dress (and accompanying face mask) cavorting among the headstones. She originally captioned the image as "my happy place." Immediately, the post was hit with a barrage of angry comments, as the internet is want to overreact to pretty much everything — including: “Why would you pose in a cemetery and post ‘happy place?’ Bruh.," “Um am I the only one who finds that disrespectful?," "Ur happy place is a cemetery?," and my personal favorite - "What's wrong with you?"

Some folks came to her rescue, noting that — at one time — a great many cemeteries were park-like places that welcomed family picnics. However, the overwhelming response was negative. Vanessa did not remove the post, though she did revise the caption to read: "Searching for that headless horseman" - a reference to Washington Irving's beloved tale that takes place in the otherwise quiet little town of Sleepy Hollow. 

I know that "the internet" is very judgmental and awfully quick to jump all over those who are deemed "objectionable." That means everyone at one time or another. But, just because something seems strange to one person, someone else could — and often does — find that same thing thoroughly enjoyable. Skydiving, getting a tattoo, eating octopus, liking the Dallas Cowboys — all of these things are both joyful and repulsive. It all depends on who you ask. Which is why I found "the internet's" initial condemnation of Vanessa Hudgens's photo so... so... offensive!

I have been visiting cemeteries for years. Years! They are fascinating, interesting and informative. In addition, I find them to be both majestic and peaceful. They are not merely storage places for the deceased. They are three-dimensional history lessons for the living. Grave markers are works of art, sometimes engraved with personal sentiment or loving memorials to the person buried beneath. Many graves are adorned with statuary, commissioned by the surviving family to honor their loved one. The grounds are usually pastoral areas of rolling lawns and shady trees, offering a tranquil retreat in which to reflect.

Or it's a cool place with dead people.

However you feel, there are a lot of people who like cemeteries. I regularly peruse the Find-a-Grave website to plot out my next cemetery field trip. I find myself craning my neck for a better look when we pass a cemetery while out running errands. Vacation destinations would often include a side trip to a nearby cemetery, much to the chagrin of my family. (They love me, so they humor me.) I belong to a private Facebook group called "The Death Hags" — a darkly humorous name for a bunch of folks who share my love of cemeteries and all things death. (Note: I have since been kicked out and banned from this group based on the feelings of a paranoid and over-zealous admin.) Before you start passing your self-righteous judgement, the group boasts eleven thousand members. So, your neighbor, your boss or even your spouse might be one of us... so watch it.

As far as Vanessa Hudgens's little jaunt through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.... I was there in 2014. It's a beautiful spot and a local tourist attraction. It is the final resting place of some pretty notable names like Walter Chrysler, Elizabeth Arden and, of course, Washington Irving. You can visit vicariously through this link.

I am really not that familiar with Vanessa Hudgens's work and I believe I am way out of her target audience. But.... she's okay by me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the anniversary waltz

There once was a boy
named Pierre

eBay, the famed internet auction, is celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary in 2020. It's hard to believe 28 year-old computer programmer Pierre Omidyar sat in his apartment on Labor Day Weekend 1995 and wrote the code for an online auction, just so he could sell off a few duplicate Pez dispensers he had in his little collection. Or so he says in the company's press release. Actually, that story about eBay's humble beginnings that Pierre has been telling for a quarter-century is total bullshit. But it sure makes the internet auction powerhouse sound... um..... human?

My wife has been selling on eBay for nearly as long as there has been an eBay to sell on. (No, she won't sell your stuff.) Starting off as a supplement to running her parents' general merchandise store, Mrs. P has built her eBay business into just that — a business. She buys, lists, packs and ships merchandise in a regular routine and does it all herself. (I said 'No!,' she will not sell your stuff. Let it go!)

Way back in 2003, when my in-law's store was still operating, Mrs. P was maintaining her eBay business just a few days per week. Still, she was selling a good amount of merchandise. One day, while going through her email, answering questions from potential buyers and sending "end-of-auction" messages to customers, she received an announcement from eBay's headquarters — or so it appeared. She often received bogus emails claiming to be eBay and alerting her to some discrepancy in her account or a similar issue which needed immediate attention. This particular email congratulated her as the winner of a trip to the annual eBay Live! convention being held in Orlando, Florida. She perceived this email as no different from a number of scam offers and announcements she received on a daily basis — so she deleted it. A few days later, she received the same email again. And, again, she deleted it. A third email arrived. This one she read to me and we were treated to a good laugh before this email met the same fate as the previous two.

Then, a week or so later, instead of an email allegedly from eBay, Mrs. P received a phone call from eBay. The nice man on the phone asked my wife why she had not responded to the email about winning the trip to eBay Live! Mrs Pincus laughed and questioned his claim of truly being a representative of eBay. The man on the phone chuckled and said, "Well, I can end all of your auctions, if that'll convince you." She was convinced from the statement alone. He re-sent the email and we read it more carefully this time.

Apparently, because of Mrs. P's stellar selling record, she was awarded "Power Seller" status. All "Power Sellers" would be treated to a two-night stay at the ritzy Peabody Orlando Resort and full admission to the eBay Live! event at the Orlando Convention Center, a three-day celebration of all things eBay, including workshops, seminars and slew of other informative programs we weren't the least bit interested in. The convention also featured a trade show-like presentation floor, where hundreds of eBay associated businesses would be giving away all the logo-emblazoned tchotchkes we could carry. In addition, eBay would pick up the cost of airfare for the two of us. It sounded great, but we really weren't certain this was legit.

We received an official-looking information packet in the mail — allegedly from eBay — including several different release forms — all of which needed to be notarized. We took these forms to a local notary and then sent them back via registered mail. I said, "If this is a scam, at least we're only out the cost of a notary seal and postage."

In a few weeks, we received a bigger packet from eBay that included airline tickets, a hotel voucher and admission credentials for the convention itself. We still weren't convinced. As our departure date drew closer, we packed as though we were actually going on this trip. On the actual day printed on the so-called airplane boarding passes, we drove to the airport, proceeded to the proper gate and, eventually, boarded an Orlando-bound plane. The plane taxied and achieved an airborne state. Mrs P and I looked at each other and decided that we would finally be convinced once we checked in to the hotel.

Well, we landed in Orlando and were shuttled to the beautiful Peabody Hotel. We checked in without a hitch and soon found ourselves smack in the middle of the eBay Live! marketplace. We met and spoke with dozens of eBay representatives and collected free enamel pins to commemorate the event. We were invited to watch then-eBay CEO Meg Whitman deliver her keynote speech — a rousing motivational address that seemed to only be missing a cheerleading squad. When Ms. Whitman completed her oration, the stage was overtaken by the one-and-only Weird Al Yankovic who serenaded the faithful with an eBay parody set to the timely tune of the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way."

The final day of the convention was capped off with an old-fashioned block party, where the inside of the Orlando Convention Center was transformed into a picket-fenced and green-lawned locale of Anytown USA. Grilled hot dogs, fresh popcorn and big, ice-filled tubs of soda were available for all conventioneers. As we strolled about the faux twilight-flecked neighborhood that the good folks at eBay meticulously created, Mrs. Pincus and I were finally convinced that this was on the level.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sit down, you're rocking the boat

In the summer of 2012, Mrs. Pincus went on a cruise with her extended family. It was made very clear, by my brother-in-law, that I was not included in this trip. Just as well. The thought of going on a cruise, despite being an avid fan of The Love Boat, did not have the least bit of appeal for me. Upon my wife's return, however, I heard all about the endless food, planned activities and kitschy entertainment. I have to admit, I was slightly intrigued. So, based on Mrs. P's casino "activity" (at the time), the good folks at Harrah's Atlantic City offered us a free cruise. With a little bit of convincing, we took the offer. (The "free" part was the clincher.)

Flash forward to today, I am the veteran of eight cruises. I never imagined that we would become the people that I made fun of on our first cruise... and in such a short period of time! I still maintain that all of the cruises have basically been identical. Sure, they have been on different ships with different people and at different times of the year, the overall experience has been the same. They've all featured buffets with endless amounts of food, planned activities (like trivia contents, where on our most recent cruise, we were accused of cheating) and hokey entertainment presented by troupes of fresh-faced performers giving their all as though they were on a Broadway stage, not one rocking back and forth in the middle of the ocean.

Mrs. Pincus and I have had conversations with a number of crew members, something — believe it or not — not many passengers do. A lot cruisers treat the crew like servants, foisting angry demands upon them with a tone of of contempt. Others ignore the crew, except for waiters and bartenders. But my wife and I have had really interesting interaction with crew members while we were waiting for a trivia game to start. Most cruise ship staff hail from outside of the United States, so we have heard fascinating tales of sneaking stealthily through farmland in the Philippines to steal watermelons. We were told about tiny villages in the Middle East, where a crew member's family is the recipient of wired funds and get to see their loved one in person every six months. We learned how employment on cruise ships works (six month "contracts" with the option to renew). These stories have all brought me to the conclusion that most cruise ship staff are akin to carnies. Some of them — not all of them, but a lot of them — lean towards the transient and unseemly side of society. I can only imagine what goes on below the "passenger" decks and I imagine that it's not unlike the "steerage party" scene from Titanic. I picture crew members crammed into tiny, closet-sized rooms — drunk, dirty and sleeping with each other. Just my opinion.

On our third or fourth cruise (I honestly forget which), Mrs. P and I encountered a particular member of the entertainment staff. He stood out from the rest of the young men and women, in that he was wild and rambunctious and overly animated. On our first evening aboard, we met him in the showroom, prior to showtime. He was dancing wildly to the piped-in music. He was hugging guests and acting silly. He came over to where we were seated and made exaggerated "flirty eyes" at Mrs. P. (All in fun, of course.) He introduced himself as "Oston," explaining it was like "Boston" without the "B." Then, he turned his head as an attractive young lady walked by. He loudly remarked: "There goes my future ex-wife." (We would hear that joke countless more times thoroughout the week.) Oston was a native of Turkey and regularly reminded everyone of that fact. When hosting activities,  he would regularly mock his difficultly with non-Turkish phrasing by announcing: "Press 1 for English." We ran into Oston nearly everywhere we went on the ship — hosting trivia games, wandering around near the pool, at the buffet, in the showroom, everywhere. He walked a thin line between fun and annoying. 

At the end of the week, we thanked Oston for enhancing our vacation. However, Mrs. P and I secretly agreed that he would most likely be fired at the end of this trip. He just didn't fit in with the "Norwegian Cruises" persona. We couldn't put our finger on what exactly was the problem, but it was something.

My wife and I went on another cruise this past October. This time, we sailed on the Carnival Pride, out of the Port of Baltimore, just a two-hour drive from our suburban Philadelphia home. The Pride is a smaller ship than any of the others on which we previously sailed, and it made for a more intimate and enjoyable trip. On our first evening aboard, we spotted a familiar figure dancing wildly in the aisles of the Pride's main showroom. It was Oston and he was up to his old unmistakable tricks. We got his attention (which was tough, considering his short attention span) and he came over to us. We jogged his memory until he "sort-of" remembered us from that Norwegian cruise several years earlier. Mrs. P asked him how long he has been with Carnival. He smiled a crooked smile and proudly told us that this was his first cruise with the line. He also told us that he had briefly been employed by Royal Caribbean after leaving Norwegian.

On this same cruise, we met a quiet woman who was traveling with Flossie, her eight-year-old daughter. Flossie revealed herself to be a natural performer, as we saw her participating in a number of karaoke sessions as well as showing off her dancing skills in other audience-participation activities. And during the course of the week aboard the Pride, Flossie became enamored with Oston. She followed him from activity to activity, silently observing him with big, puppy-dog eyes. Flossie even bought a plush teddy bear, which she named "Oston," in homage to her favorite crew member. Oston seemed flattered by the youngster's extra attention, but it was hard to tell since his behavior could only be described as "off the rails." At the end of the cruise, Flossie was in tears and parting with Oston was borderline traumatic.

My wife connected on Facebook with Flossie's mother. She told Mrs. P that the ride back home (they drove back to Toronto from Baltimore) was rough, as poor Flossie cried most of the time. When she wasn't crying, she was talking about Oston. Mrs. P remained in regular contact with Flossie's mom and one day, just a week or so after our cruise, she told my wife that they booked another cruise aboard the Pride for November — just so Flossie could see Oston again.

Just prior to their November sailing, Oston emailed Flossie's mom, asking her to pick up some personal items for him. (He knew that they would be sailing.) He asked for toiletries, as well as socks, underwear and sneakers. Flossie's mother complied with all of his requests. When the date of the cruise arrived, she met up with Oston and handed over the items he asked for. He expressed his gratitude. Flossie was ecstatic at seeing Oston. The week aboard the Pride was magical for her. Oston (and all of the entertainment staff) paid special attention to the girl, sometimes affording her "co-hosting" duties at certain activities. Flossie's mom sent Mrs. P photos and videos of little Flossie dancing and singing with Oston. Her smile was huge in every shot. At the end of the week, Flossie and her mom had another tearful departure and headed back to Canada.

Then things got..... strange. 

Flossie's mom received a barrage of texts from Oston saying that he quit his job with Carnival. He was at the airport with Turkey as his destination. A lot of what Oston was saying was incoherent, either due to a language barrier or his erratic behavior. He told Flossie's mom that he has misplaced his passport and left his bags at the airport. He was staying with friends in Maryland... or Pennsylvania. He kept changing his story. In one text, he sounded "desperate" (as Flossie's mom described it) and said he felt "worthless."

Then he asked Flossie's mom for money.

Flossie's mom had, evidently, made connections with other crew aboard the Pride. They warned her to steer clear of Oston. They pegged him as a conman. They explained that he had a pattern of this behavior and he should be avoided. One of his former coworkers told Flossie's mom it would be best to end all contact with Oston right now.

Flossie's mom was confused. She saw no signs of any deceit from Oston... on either of their cruise encounters. He was enthusiastic and appeared sincere with Flossie. Sure he was a bit wild, but he interacted with Flossie like a protective older brother. But these accusations of being a con man sure seemed to be feasible. Flossie's mom was diplomatic and, most importantly, realistic. She explained to Oston that, while she would like to help, she was in no position to offer the financial support he requested.

Flossie's mom hasn't received a text from Oston since.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

questions 67 and 68

Mrs. Pincus and I are the veterans of many a cruise. As I write this, we have just returned from one a few weeks ago and are currently planning to depart on another a few weeks from now. Yes, it seems that we have become the people that I made fun of on our first cruise. I originally balked at the thought of taking a cruise, but now, after seven (soon to be eight), I actually look forward to a week at sea. Not so much the "sea" part, but the week itself.

Cruises offer many things to many people and you can do as much or as little as you like. Each day, a list of activities arrives at your cabin, making it easy to plan the day ahead. There is literally something for everyone — from physical activities like table tennis and wall climbing to seminars about aging or pain management to art auctions and jewelry shows. Of course there are workout rooms and swimming pools and several hot tubs available. We, however, participate in none of those. Hell, I have never brought a bathing suit with me. I don't even own a bathing suit. We lean towards the activities that exercise the ol' noggin — trivia quizzes. Every day, in an informal setting, there are organized trivia contests that test passengers' knowledge of useless subjects like "One Hit Wonders" or the finer details of various television shows or just obscure general knowledge. A host from the ship's "entertainment" staff reads a list of twenty questions on a particular, pre-determined subject and participants scribble down the answers on a sheet of paper. After the last question is read, the answers are revealed and the correct answers are tallied — usually on the honor system — and a winner is crowned. Carnival Cruise Lines award winners with the coveted "Ship on a Stick," a plastic, gold-toned replica of a Carnival ship resting upon a pair of laurel branches affixed to a base emblazoned with the ship's name. These "trophies" are inexplicably, yet highly, sought after. When Mrs. Pincus and I sailed on the Carnival Sunshine in 2016, we played a lot of trivia and took home eleven of the little trinkets. We answered questions about Seinfeld and Star Trek and James Bond — pulling out answers we didn't know we knew. We showed up late to a session of General Knowledge, missing the first five questions... and we still won a trophy. On Day Three of our trip, my wife and I were getting ice cream from the 24-hour-a-day soft serve machine (yes, you read that right), when we were approached by a couple that we did not know. The fellow asked us if we were going to the "Harry Potter" trivia the following day. We smiled and said we would, but admitted that we knew absolutely nothing about the young wizard and his adventures. He exhaled in relief, adding that maybe now he'd have a chance at winning a trophy.

On our most recent cruise, we garnered eight "Ships on a Stick" (or is it "Ship on a Sticks?") by week's conclusion. We totally blanked on quizzes about The Office, The Big Bang Theory and Game of Thrones — three very popular series of which we have never seen a single episode. Even with some assistance from two generations of younger cousins (who were also sailing with us), we did terribly on Full House and Friends trivia. The questions were too "episode specific," although the eventual winners scored in the high double digits. And for the ubiquitous Harry Potter trivia quiz, I answered "Hogwarts" for every question, expecting to get at least one correct. I scored zero.

On our penultimate evening, Mrs. P and I carefully packed up our faux gold spoils along with our clothing and toiletries. We were congratulated by a few of our fellow passengers, some of whom we even remembered from various trivia sessions throughout the week. We arrived home, unpacked and our glory faded away.

Mrs. Pincus is active in a few cruise groups on Facebook, including a group for our upcoming cruise. The discussion in the group turned to the elusive "Ship on a Stick." Some folks express their disappointment at not being able to secure one of their own. Others lamented that some people won more than their fair share. Accusation of cheating began to be bandied about. There were claims that participants who paid for the pricey shipboard internet package were covertly "Googling" the answers, thus unjustly acquiring their plastic ship. Mrs. P and I were offended by this notion. We do not cheat. We just know a lot of stupid, useless stuff that comes in handy as conversation starters — or enders, as the case may be. We watch Jeopardy! every night and regularly have in-depth discussions about the intricacies of television programs that have been off the air for decades. (yeah... that's our life and we've been married for thirty-five years, so go pound sand!) We just know stuff. Besides, why on earth would we cheat? To win a piece of plastic and bask in the glory and admiration of a bunch of people we will never ever see again.... in the middle of the goddamn ocean?!? Someone else in the group suggested that the cruise lines should offer cash prizes for winners, instead of a worthless trophy. I can tell you that will never happen. It appears that some people don't know how to relax and enjoy the absurdity of the whole thing. If we don't win (and there are plenty of activities that we don't win), we still had fun. Whether it was silly fun or friendly competitive fun, fun is fun. Everyone is on vacation. Leave worries and concerns and real life behind. That's what a vacation is for.

On one of our first cruises, we were playing a silly stunt game with a bunch of passengers that we did not know. Based on the recent game show Minute to Win It, teams were chosen and a series of timed games were played for points. After the third or fourth round of play involving the stacking of empty soda bottles on plastic rings (or some such nonsense), a frustrated young lady on one team loudly announced that she was quitting. Realizing that her team was behind in points, she growled, "I will not be on a team that isn't going to win! I have to win or I won't play!" and she stormed off. The other participants were dumbfounded. The games continued. A team won and the other team offered congratulations. We saw the young lady several times throughout the course of the cruise and pointed her out, relating her actions in hushed tones to other cruisers who had become our "cruise friends." We have brought up her story on subsequent cruises, as well.

In a few weeks, we'll be boarding another ship for another cruise filled with consecutive days of trivia, perhaps more trophies, and, of course, fun.. 

Oh, and there's a buffet, too. I can't forget the real draw.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

yahoo! hoop-dee-doo!

There's a blog called Tips from the Disney Divas & Devos that I follow. The blog publishes information and personal experiences for the Disney fan — both die-hard and casual. It is chock full of tips and reviews of rides, food, hotels, activities and experiences available at domestic and overseas Disney theme parks, cruise lines and other destinations. It's pretty comprehensive and offers guidance to those who need a place to start planning a Disney vacation, as well as helpful and interesting information for the seasoned enthusiast. And my friend (who goes by the name "Canadian Diva") is a contributor to the blog... and no, that's not a plug.

Different Devos

Recently, the Tips from the Disney Divas & Devos blog published a story about the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue, a long-running dinner show that is performed nightly at the Fort Wilderness Campground in Florida's Walt Disney World. The story gave a brief overview of the show, mostly as a helpful "should we do this on our trip?" summary for folks who are planning a visit and may not be aware of this sensational offering. Considering that the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue (or "Pioneer Hall Revue," as it is officially known) has been staging three shows nightly since its debut in 1974, it is surprising that even the most knowledgeable Disney traveler hasn't heard of it. I admit, when it was first proposed to me, I had never heard of it. But "Disney Magic Diva's" blog post got me thinking and I realized that I had a decidedly different Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue experience almost four decades ago.

The theme song for my senior prom was "Do You Know Where You're Going To? (The Theme from Mahogany)" by Diana Ross and a more fitting song could not have been chosen. When I graduated from high school, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I really didn't want to waste my money on a college program that held no interest for me. (My parents had already informed me that they would not be contributing a dime towards college tuition, if I chose to go.) So, while all of my friends went off to college, I worked as a cashier in a women's clothing store while I figured out my life. I saved my money and when the first summer after my friends' freshman year loomed ahead, we made plans for our first trip without our parents. My pals, Alan and Scott, campaigned for Walt Disney World, the then ten-year old East Coast counterpart to Walt's successful California theme park. I was set against it, opting to convince my friends that Fort Lauderdale was the place for us. I heard sorted tales of the streets overflowing with beer, girls and more beer... and that's where I wanted to be. I didn't want to be in an amusement park going on rides and rubbing elbows with a giant mouse. We debated and argued until finally, it was two against one and I lost. Resigned to the fact I was going to Walt Disney World, we began to plot out our trip. Since this was 1980 and Al Gore had not yet perfected the internet, we consulted a local travel agent who detailed and arranged our week-long adventure. We were booked into a room at the International Inn, a multi-story hotel dead center in the bustling, 24-hour party that was Orlando's International Drive. We also finagled a car rental, carefully skirting the "over 21" rule. We were told by Fay, our maternal yet shrewd travel agent, to "play dumb" if and when the rental agency asked our age. Our park passes were secured and, as expenses mounted, the three of us realized we needed a fourth to bring the costs down. After mulling over our options, we settled on Wayne, a friend of Alan's that Scott and I knew, but were not particularly fond of. However, his inclusion brought our individual price tag way down, so Wayne was welcomed. We continued our planning, talking to people who had actually been to Disney World and finding out what there was to do, besides rides. One of Alan's parents' friends told us about the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue, an Old West dinner show that featured singing, dancing, comedy and all-you-can-eat food and all-you-can-drink alcoholic beverages. BINGO! Now, I was interested in this trip. For the somewhat exorbitant fee of $21.00, this all-you-can-eat-and-drink deal could be all-I-can-eat-and-drink! We were told that the event fills up pretty quickly and that reservations could be made thirty days in advance, by phone... and not a day sooner. With all of our arrangements wrapped up, we ticked off the calendar and  soon gathered around Alan and his telephone exactly thirty days out from the commencement of our trip. Alan dialed and spoke to someone who was actually in Walt Disney World. We got reservations for the latest (8:30 PM) seating. As Alan replaced the big receiver into the cradle mounted on his kitchen wall, the excitement grew.

Home away from home.

We landed in Orlando (my first ever plane ride) and found our way to the airport car rental desk. Not only wasn't our age questioned, but they inexplicably allowed us to rent a brand new Chrysler Cordoba, the same car that Ricardo Montalban seductively promoted on television, enticing the viewer with its "rich Corinthian leather." We would make sure that the rental agency regretted this decision for years to come. We loaded our luggage into the spacious trunk and followed the complementary map to International Drive. As Scott guided the luxury vehicle past the first of several IHOPs that dotted International Drive, we spotted our hotel just ahead... directly across the street from a 7-11 that sold beer. As a matter of fact, it seemed every store sold beer, a concept foreign to those of us from Pennsylvania, the land of steadfast and antiquated liquor laws. We stopped at the 7-11 before checking into to our hotel and stocked up for the week. Eventually, we settled in at our hotel only to rush out again to get a taste of vacation.

Our destination was Disney property to check out the Lake Buena Vista shopping area, a quaint, quiet little oasis with cute stores and a few restaurants that has since evolved into the themed-heavy, tourist sponge Disney Springs. We discovered a lounge just inside the majestic Empress Lily, the faux steamboat/restaurant that was permanently docked shore side in man-made Bay Lake. Taking velvet covered seats, we ordered beers and watched a lively banjo player deliver American songs and corny banter to the delight of the small crowd. We stayed for a long while, basking in the early wave of what has come to be known as "chillaxing," a term that would not exist for another thirty years.

All you (or I) can eat

The week continued with our first immersion (of the allotted two) in the Magic Kingdom. We would make the most of our two-day passes (this was two full years before the opening of EPCOT). The night after Magic Kingdom Day One spent at the Luau on the beachfront theater at the Polynesian Resort. My friends and I ate and drank as a warm-up for the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue the next evening. I was pulled up onstage by a bevy of grass-skirted hula dancers who selected me, I supposed, based on my slowly failing physical coordination.

JPiC and
the "Oh, Shenandoah" Girl
(I think she's holding me up.)

Finally, our adventure reached its pinnacle. We drove out to the Contemporary Resort, fibbed to the guard at the gate that we were meeting some family members at the resort (at the time, Disney was very, very strict about allowing non-guests the use of their transportation system). We parked the Cordoba in the Contemporary's lot and made our way to the hotel's small marina. We boarded a water taxi (the first time I had ever heard that term) to take us to the Fort Wilderness Campground. We followed a dirt path to the rustic Pioneer Hall, a strikingly majestic structure built from logs (probably fake Disney logs). We checked in with the hostess at the podium outside the entrance. She was decked out in typical Western garb — overalls, flannel shirt, red bandanna, straw cowboy hat. We were granted admission and led to a table midway on the first floor, very close to the stage. Our table was outfitted with pewter place settings upon a cheery red tablecloth. A large hammered pewter vessel held great chunks of cornbread and another similar container was filled with a simple salad, glistening and visibly inviting (even for us non-salad eaters, a status that has since changed). Our waitress arrived, introduced herself and asked our beverage order. We requested sangria — one full pitcher each — with the added request to "keep 'em comin'." Our first round (of four thousand) of sangria arrived and we got to work drowning our cornbread and salad in sweet fruity wine. The show's cast arrived, barreling trough the hall's rear doors and explaining that they just got off the stagecoach, apologizing for their lateness. The cast of six was comprised of three pretty women, similarly costumed, but with enough differences to establish individual personalities — a sassy blond, a demure brunette and a spunky redhead all in color-coordinated gingham. The men were two ruggedly handsome, square-jawed fellows and a dorky guy tagged for comic relief. They all joined in on some rousing, crowd-pleasing renditions of Americana staples, including a riff on "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," while asking random guest from where they hailed. Then, the cast announced that "Mom" was out in the kitchen preparing a "mess o' vittles" that would be out shortly. A song or two later, our waitress was dropping (literally dropping) overflowing pails of fried chicken and barbecued spare ribs onto our table, along with corn, baked beans and some green vegetables that no one touched for fear it would cut into our fried chicken and spare rib capacity. As we stuffed ourselves, the brunette in yellow serenaded the diners with a soaring take on the traditional 19th century folk song "Oh, Shenandoah," her powerful voice shaking the (possibly) wooden rafters. The food continued to come out and we accepted the challenge, rising to the age-old test of every all-you-can-eat format restaurant — to make them rue the day they ever made this offer and to put this place out of business once and for all. We packed the food in as only 19 year-olds are capable. The chicken and ribs were doused with an overabundance of sangria and refills remained plentiful.

My very un-PC stage debut.

Some members of the cast mingled through the dining room/show floor tables, greeting and chatting with families. They were also recruiting supplemental players (read: willing or unwilling audience members) for the next act of the show, a slapstick version of the Davy Crockett story. The brunette "Oh, Shenandoah" Girl daringly approached our table and, after a bit of friendly exchange, grabbed me, in my inebriated state, to portray a 1980, insensitive, politically-incorrect Indian (a part I cannot imagine is still included in current incarnations of the dinner show). I was hustled backstage, told to roll up my pant legs and fitted with a buckskin loincloth and a headband with a single feather. I was part of a group that included a young lady that was given a saloon dancer costume, a bald man who was forced into a tutu and translucent fairy wings, a little boy who had a comically giant cowboy had put on his head and an equally giant lawman's badge affixed to his shirt. We were all assigned a few lines of some simple stage instruction. Luckily, I was told to merely growl and grunt. This was good for me, since I was so filled with sangria that my attempt at memorizing complicated dialogue would have been disastrous. The skit started and I was pushed out onto the stage. I grunted and growled and tried to keep myself from taking a header into the front row of tables. The little boy in the giant cowboy hat approached me from the opposite side of the stage and fired off a couple of shots at me from his cap gun. As previously instructed, I hit the stage... but that would has probably happened in a few minutes anyway. The little play continued with the young lady doing an embarrassing dance to the whoops and hollers of her nearby family and the bald man uncomfortably flitting around the stage in his tutu. I, however, spent the entire length of the play (save for my brief "growling" bit) face down on the floor (and my friends had the pictures to prove it). At the conclusion, I was helped to my feet and escorted back to my table... where I unwisely consumed more sangria.

Acknowledgement of my performance

A very cute interactive song was performed by the troupe announcing the strawberry shortcake that would be served for dessert. Not being a fan of strawberries, I downed more wine until I was ultimately carried out of Pioneer Hall by my travelling companions. My friends dragged me down to the Fort Wilderness pier where they tossed me into a waiting water taxi before climbing in themselves. Then I was helped back through the lobby of the Contemporary and to our rental car then back to our hotel. (We did have a slight delay as we nearly turned into the entrance of the Florida Turnpike.) When we arrived at our hotel, Alan realized that we forgot to tip our waitress. We collectively (well, not me... I was passed out by this point) decided to return the next day and deliver the proper tip. We didn't want to be "those guys." With a pounding hangover, I forced a few pieces of toast into my mouth while my friends chowed down on a full buffet breakfast. We, once again, piled into our car and drove over to the Contemporary, then the water taxi, then the dirt path and right up to a calm (and closed-looking) Pioneer Hall. Alan tapped lightly on the huge wooden door a few times until it ominously creaked open. A woman stuck her head out and asked if she could help us. We explained that we felt bad about not leaving a tip for our waitress the previous evening, but we were otherwise occupied. With that, my friends all turned and shot me a collective dirty look. I shrunk sheepishly. The woman at the door popped her head back to summon our waitress. She was pleased and humbled by our return and happily accepted our generous wad of folded bills (actually more than we would have left the prior evening, had I not been a giant monkey wrench). We were thanked again and we left, looking for more vacation adventure... or trouble... whichever the case may be.

I returned to the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue on subsequent trips — on my honeymoon and several more times with our son (including a short-lived breakfast hour version of the show). By this time, my family and I no longer ate meat outside of our home, as we observed the laws of kashrut (keeping kosher). The folks at Disney were very accommodating, offering us extra helpings of vegetables and salad that were just as satisfying. And I no longer drink alcohol.

It makes me do funny things.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby what a big surprise

My wife and I just returned from a seven-day cruise to the Caribbean aboard the Carnival Breeze. But this story isn't about that cruise. It's about the events that led up to the cruise. If you want to read about a cruise, go here. If you want a story about deceit and intrigue and messing with family, then here we go.

A little over a year ago, Mrs. P's cousin Liv planned a family cruise to celebrate her 45th year of wedded bliss to her husband Peter. My wife is very close with Liv and her three children, Scoop, Veronica and Juniper. The children are grown, some with children of their own. Mrs P is close with that entire branch of the family, even though they live in Virginia Beach. Mrs. P often takes the six-hour drive to spend a weekend with them. I have made the trip, as well, when I could, but, honestly, they want to see Mrs. P, not me. When Mrs. Pincus found out about their cruise plans, she secretly booked a trip on the same ship, as a surprise. At the time, I was limited to vacation days from my job, so Mrs. P would be taking this trip solo. She planned to drive — alone — to the Port Canaveral launch destination, staying — alone — overnight along the I-95 corridor. Then she planned to board the ship as stealthily as possible and surprise the whole clan. Mrs. Pincus regularly speaks with Liv and Juniper, even visiting them over the past year, but she never breathed a word about her secret plans. Actually, she didn't tell anyone about her plans for fear of someone spilling the beans.... and in her family, there is an awful lot of bean spilling.

Well, a year is a long time and, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Everything was planned perfectly. Mrs. P arranged for a hotel near Port Canaveral, Florida that included parking and shuttle service to the cruise terminal. She would leave on Thursday morning, leaving plenty of time for a Friday arrival. She would keep the trip on the down-low, so as not to arouse any suspicion. With these plans in place, Mrs. P visited Virginia Beach a few months ago for the first birthday of Scoop's son. She steered the conversation away from "cruise talk," only briefly and casually asking about their plans. Meanwhile, Mrs. P was gathering gifts and novelties to share with Veronica's pre-teen children who, most likely, would be the most surprised and thrilled to have the magical Mrs. Pincus along on their vacation.

With all the details and plans taken care of, all that was left was waiting for the date to roll around and the surprise to get underway. Then, a monkey wrench was thrown into the works. Without any warning, I was laid off from my job at the beginning of July, just five weeks before the cruise departed. Past experience had revealed that the job market was not exactly a welcoming place for a 58-year old graphic designer. Mrs. Pincus, however, was stuck with a laundry list of non-refundable charges and payments that had already been made. She felt horrible about taking a fairly pricey trip  — alone — while I stayed home and looked for a job. She suggested that, as long as I had the time, I should come along. She would check to see if I could be added to her cabin booking. She would also check for an open spot on the terminal shuttle. Calls were made and reservations were amended. This contradicted everything I stood for. I hated the idea of taking a vacation when I should be out looking for a job. I continued on the job search and, luckily, secured a new position just a few weeks after losing my job. At the interview, I explained that I had a previous obligation and I would not be able to start until the third week of August. My new employer was fine with that and I felt a whole lot better. With my conscience clear, we continued with our plans. Mrs. Pincus was actually relieved that she would not be taking the journey alone... although we were not convinced that our surprise presence would be welcomed by Liv and her family.

Mrs. Pincus chatted often with Juniper and Liv, answering their many questions based on our previous cruise experiences, but careful not to appear too enthusiastic. On Wednesday, the day before we (collectively) planned to leave, Mrs. Pincus told Juniper that we were going to take a road trip to celebrate my new job and to give our new car (purchased in September 2018) a chance on the open road. Juniper remarked "you should just come on our cruise with us" and Mrs. P nervously giggled and brushed the invitation off.

We left before sunrise on Thursday morning with a full car and no set destination for our first night. I joked to Mrs. P that this time tomorrow, not one member of her family would be speaking to us. We stayed in phone contact with our Virginia contingency who would be starting out later but picking up I-95 near Emporia, Virginia and, most likely, wind up ahead of us. We arrived at South of the Border, the infamous tourist trap in Dillon, South Carolina, just missing the Virginia convoy by a few minutes. They drove through the night, arriving in a pre-booked air B&B in Kissimmee, Florida with plans to hit Walt Disney World for a single day. We made it to a Hampton Inn in Walterboro, South Carolina, just under 80 miles from the Georgia state border. The next morning we would get to our Titusville, Florida accommodations in the afternoon and make innocent plans with Juniper and her parents for dinner at Disney Springs, the revamped shopping and dining area at Walt Disney World. Mrs. Pincus spoke with Juniper, who wondered what we were doing headed to Florida. Everyone knows how much my family loves Disney, so it really wasn't that out of the ordinary. Without revealing that we already had a hotel room, we met at Disney Springs and had a quick dinner at the Earl of Sandwich sandwich shop, then checked out the new stores and layout of the refurbished and reimagined entertainment district. We parted ways around 9:30 and wished them a great cruise, never alluding to where we were off to next.

The next morning, we drove our car to the Cocoa Beach shuttle and parked in a space near where the shuttle bus was loading. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in the Port Canaveral cruise terminal, waiting for our boarding time to be announced and hoping that Liv, Juniper and the family wouldn't arrive and spot us. Finally, we were able to board without incident. We entered the three-story lobby on the Carnival Breeze, marveling at the decor and excited by the thought of the week ahead. We also tried to gauge the reaction we would receive once our cover was blown. Would we be embraced or would we be reviled for muscling in on their cruise? We were baffled.

Almost an hour had passed as we stood conspicuously by the door through which all arriving passengers boarded. Suddenly, our Virginia cousins arrived.... and they were all smiles and bursting with laughter. It seemed that they booked the exact same shuttle service and parked their car in the same row in the parking lot. In addition, Veronica had a bag of trash to discard and she spotted my wife's Grateful Dead inspired license plate, as we were parked next to the trash can. She snapped a picture and exclaimed, "I knew it! I knew it!"

As they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

We had a great week that ended with everyone still on speaking terms. But next time, we'll try to better cover our tracks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com