Paycheck, schmaycheck.

It's been more than a year since I've had a "career job" and I'm getting desperate. R-E-A-L-L-Y desperate. And even though I live in the most expensive city in the country in the middle of the worst recession in a century, I recently accepted an (cough, unpaid, cough) internship to help beef up my resume for a good portion of the jobs that I've been applying to, which all have that inevitable "a year of related experience is preferred" line near the end of the "qualifications" section. Preferred my ass.

So I'm currently an intern at Skyhorse Publishing, which is a small, independent publishing house that opened its doors in 2006.

Now everyone who's ever worked with me has heard my "don't work for free" schpeal. However, I'm breaking my own rule because I've been at Skyhorse for two weeks now, and the first 20 minutes of my four-hours-a-day, three-days-a-week internship was filing work.

The rest has been real work, and it's awesome. I've proofread unpublished manuscripts, copy edited books set for print, Americanized a few books, learned indexing, and submitted reader's reports to tell editors whether I think they should publish a book and why. It's all right up my alley, and I do really enjoy the majority of the work.

So, essentially, I'm getting paid in hands-on experience, which I'm hoping will pay off down the road. Fingers crossed!

If you know where your pants are, then why would they still be in the lost and found box?

"Erika, um, I think there's a guy in the store with no pants," is what I hear just minutes into my long-anticipated and well-deserved dinner break at the coffee shop.


Since I'm the boss the majority of the time I'm at the coffee shop, that means that I was going to have to deal with whatever didn't have pants on in public. That's when I knew it was going to be yet another "fun" day at my job - like pretty much all of them have been lately.


When I haven't been arguing with my colleagues - even the ones whom I consider friends and hang out with outside of work - or dealing with one or more of them who is in a pissy mood, it's my boss riding my ass, customers complaining or being rude, or, apparently, guys coming into the store in - hopefully - just their underwear.


Regardless of what it is, it's all pretty much been crappy lately. My time at my job has definitely run its course, crossed the finish line, and kept right on going for some reason.


But because I'm still there, I'm the one who has to get up from what was supposed to be MY 30 minute break (my colleagues know only to talk to me to tell me that the store's on fire) to go out in the lobby and confront the guy supposedly exposing himself.


Turns out that, luckily, that he was indeed wearing pants - or shorts, to be more accurate - but they were essentially cut-off scrubs that would have made Daisy Duke blush. But when I approached him, he told me it was OK to be wearing them because he was waiting for some CAT scan results to come in from across the street at the hospital and we shouldn't worry that he won't get his pants back because he has a receipt to pick them up whenever he wants to from the lost and found box over there.


Had I the energy to attempt a rational conversation with this old man with white hippie hair jamming to an old-school CD player who in all liklihood was in dire need of said CAT scan, I might have asked him why "right now" wasn't a good time to take his receipt to the lost and found and get his pants back. But I did my job - I confirmed that he was wearing some semblance of clothing around his groin, and that was good enough for me.


I was just steps away from getting back to my dinner break when I then had to deal with drunk guy. Had I not been able to plainly ascertain that he was slurring his speech with his eyes darting wildly around as if he was expecting a wild animal to attack him at any minute, I would have smelled the alcohol on him a block away. Here's a little snippet of our conversation:


"Hey, I'm trying to get to East 60th Street," drunk guy asks me while clutching a very brightly-colored bouquet of daisies with a plastic "Get Well Soon" sign sticking out of it.


"You're almost there - 60th Street is right around the corner, but we're on the west side, so you just have to turn right onto east 60th Street to get to the east side," I explain.


"Oh, OK, because I'm trying to get to NYU," he says.


"Wait a minute," I interrupt. "NYU isn't on 60th Street. It's downtown, and you can get there if you just head downtown on the 1 train."


"Oh, OK, so I should just go downtown to get to 60 East 9th," he slurs.


"Wait, now you want to go to 9th Street?" I ask. "That's even further downtown, but if you have the address, my advice is to just get in a cab and tell the driver the address and he'll get you there safely. Just get in a cab, OK?"


"Yeah, OK... Look at these flowers. I think someone just gave me these flowers. Weird, huh? You want them?" he asks me while holding them out to me.


"Um, no thank you," I say. (Uncertain of exactly what to say next to get drunk guy away from me, I say,) "You should keep them and give them to someone who needs to get better soon."


"Oh, OK, so how do I get to 60 East 9th again?" he asks.


"Just get in a cab. Seriously, they'll take you to where you need to go," I say, impatient now and ready to be done with this ridiculous conversation.

"Oh, OK, so I'll just go around the corner to 60th Street then. Thanks," he says while clomping out of the store.


The plan had been to deal with these people, and then enjoy a sandwich while reading a magazine, but my already-too-short dinner break had pretty much already ticked away. Oh well. After seeing way too much of no-pants guy and smelling drunk guy, I had pretty much lost my appetite anyway. Sigh.

Are you ready for some FOOTBALL!?!?!?

I have apparently decided that my 1,264 extracurricular activities aren't enough, so I was recently easily persuaded to join a touch football team.

Ever since I could run, I remember playing two-hand-touch football in my parents' backyard with my siblings and my Uncle Chris - who conveniently lives next door to my parents - as quarterback.


So I am relatively competent as a receiver and do well on defense. (I can count to "5-one-thousand" like a champ!)


I already play basketball for Zogsports, so when my gym buddy, Janine, told me how much she wanted to play, I suggested that we join a Zog football team. And since my basketball buddy, Matt, wanted to join as well, the three of us signed up and are now members of "Thought You Meant Soccer." Hahaha!


Our first game was this past weekend, and our starting quarterback and safety were out of town. So we got walloped by the team we played - which, in our defense, had played together for six years and the girls were wearing matching shorts that said "Really Tight Ends" on their asses.


But it was more fun than I thought it would be, since I was anticipating a group of hard-core guys who would yell at me if I dropped a pass. Apparently guys who care that much stay somewhere out of the realm of this casual, weekend football league. But I will say that although I didn't drop anything, I did have this sweet, diving catch that got us a first down (two completions or crossing the 50-yard-line equals a first down; three first downs allowed per drive down the field or you overturn the ball).

Plus, as promised by yet another member of my basketball team who's played football on the same team for two years, footballers are way more into drinking after the games, as evidenced by the fact that we all walked (minus two guys, who hobbled after getting a sprained ankle and strained knee, respectfully, during the game) to the nearest bar after our painful loss, though it was just 1 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon.

Extracurriculars rock, man.

Next time you try to hussle me, maybe I shouldn't be able to see the 10 of spades sticking out from beneath the brim of your hat.

I may not be too street-smart, but I've learned a lot in my short time here, and I could just sense this one coming.



I was working at the coffee shop the other day when a guy strolled up to my register almost too casually, like he was consciously trying to seem casual. There was just something about him that unnerved me a bit, which immediately sent red flags up.


Nonetheless, I put that on the back burner and asked him what he would like to drink. He asked the price of a drink, I told him, and he responded that it was too expensive. So I suggested something similar, but less expensive, and he said he'd take that, and handed me a $20 bill. And, like I always do, I counted the change to myself as I pulled it out of the register, then counted it out loud to the customer as I was handing it back to him (there were three $5 bills, two $1 bills, and some change.)



Then I made the mistake of looking away for a second. ONE SECOND. These guys are good. The next time I looked at the guy to wish him a good day, he had just the two $1 bills in his hand as if he was confused as to why I would hand him two singles as his change for a drink when he paid with a $20.



That's when I knew there was going to be a problem.



On my end, there was no confusion. I know I handed him the right change - there is no doubt about that. On his end, he waited until I looked away to use slight of hand (I watch magic shows. I know how it's done, and it continues to amaze me) to make it seem as if I "forgot" to give him the other $15 in change.



So of course, he asked me for the rest of his change.



My response could go two ways: stand firm or cave. The timid country girl who avoids confrontation like rats on the subway wanted to cave. But the slowly-but-surely-gaining confidence city girl in me wasn't going to let this guy hustle me out of $15. Especially when he was probably unaware he was advertising the fact that he was a liar and a cheat because I could see the 10 of spades peeking out of the brim of his hat. So I explained again that I gave him the correct change and wasn't going to give him more.

Unfortunately, he also stood his ground.

Luckily, the assistant manager was there, so together we went to do an audit on my register so I could prove to him that it wasn't over by $15. Which it wasn't. But by that time, the hustler had been there for longer-than-anticipated and started getting desperate and, therefore, confrontational.

"You owe me $15! Give me my $15!" he repeatedly yelled to me and the assistant manager.

But we stood our ground - him more than me because at the point when a customer is yelling at me, I let my superiors handle the situation. I'm not paid enough for that. Plus, when someone is yelling at me for something I'm not going to give him, I stand my ground, but am usually shaking uncontrollably, like I was by this point.

But I tried as hard as I could to move on and help other customers until the guy realized he wasn't going to win. So he took our store manager's business card (Hmmm. Wonder if he's going to call that number.) and turned to me to hiss, "Bitch. I hope you enjoy that $15."

Dude. I don't know if you realize this, but I was raised a country girl and live in New York City. Do you even think for a second that I'd gladly take an emotional beat-down from a street hustler just so I could swindle you out of enough money to take a taxi about 10 blocks?

You sir, apparently, have no idea who I am.

Why we don't need to have a baby right now...

... because apparently Brent thinks we already have one.

Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more, no more, no more, no more... but I know you will. Jackass.

Working at a coffee shop introduces me to a variety of interesting people.


First, you have the early regulars. Every day I open the store, I know that of the first five or six people who will walk in the door, Cliff, Craig, Joe, and Richie will be four of them. The other one or two will be a doctor or nurse on his or her way to work at the hospital across the street.


I've stopped asking them what they want to drink, because I already know (small medium-blend coffee; large, unsweetened iced coffee; two large medium-blend coffees, and small, bold coffee, respectfully). Instead, we talk about their jobs, family, the weather, or, in the case of Joe, the fact that he's wearing yet another New York Giant's T-shirt that I've never seen before. (He's always sporting the Giants belt buckle, earring, and tattoo, but his shirt changes from day-to-day. He's also shown me photos of his blue truck complete with a hood-sized Giants emblem and is going to bring in photos of the room in his house dedicated to the team. Talk about a mega fan.)


The group who overlaps the early regulars are the hospital workers. They come in at all hours of the day because the hospital is, obviously, open 24/7. One doctor, a surgeon, orders six shots of espresso in a cup, and drinks it in a single gulp. These guys are hard-core.


As the day goes on, the next big group who comes through the door are the students. John Jay College is two blocks away and Fordham University is one block away. Students come in to get breakfast at the coffee shop before heading to class, then between classes to get a refresher caffeine buzz. The student who I refer to as "my boyfriend" - mostly to annoy one of my colleagues, who can't stand him - is quite attractive, if I do say so myself.


A third group of people are the tourists. They're easy to spot because they're almost always holding NYC maps and usually ask for directions to the nearest subway in accents from all over the globe.


None of these groups bother me and in the case of the regulars, I look forward to talking to them every day. But, inevitably, I can't like everyone.


The next group of people are the homeless. They usually either come in right when we open or are in the store right before we close. During winter, they come in to warm up, and the rest of the time they're looking to sleep. But no matter what the season, they're always looking for hand-outs, whether it's from us or the other customers.


As the boss when I'm there, I'm always the one babysitting these people, and monitoring what they're doing, because it's inevitable - I'm going to kick them out for some reason. If they bother other customers, I have to tell them to leave. And they bother our customers in many ways - asking them for money or their leftover food, yell-preaching about God, occupying chairs that our paying customers want, or simply by the way they smell or what they're doing, like drinking beer at 6 a.m. and stumbling around. If they refuse to leave, I have to make the call to the police.


And If they're sleeping, it's my job to wake them up and tell them not to sleep in our lobby. If they fall back asleep, which 99 percent of them do, I have to then tell them to leave or call the police if they don't. I so do not get paid enough for this. Especially in the case of the other day with my interaction with a homeless person I've named Jack (as in Jack-ass, 'cause that's what he is.)


After telling Jack, whom we've banned from the store repeatedly for pestering our customers for money and stealing stuff in the past, to leave he actually stood there and ARGUED with me, demanding that I tell him what he did to get the boot. I told him I'm just following orders from the assistant manager. Jack's response? "He can't just tell you what to do." Um, yes he can. That's what the term "boss" generally implies, Sherlock.


I don't do well with arguments, especially with those dealing with an unpredictable, probably schizophrenic homeless guy, so I had a hard time both dealing with him during the encounter, and dealing with myself afterward because I'm not used to such confrontation on a seemingly regular basis.


In New York City, it comes as no surprise that everyone seems to have a Type A personality - including the bums. This frustrates me to no end, and I was upset with myself that I still am not equipped to handle such experiences, as pointed out by a friend and colleague, Amanda. She said, "Erika, it is so obvious that you're not from here. Your face plainly said, 'I have no idea what to do.'" Which I don't, really. I have no idea what I'm to do with myself as one person in this ginormous place of millions. It continues to be a problem.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy... when I'm on vacay!"

Ahhhhhh vacation. Sweet vacation.

Brent surprised the hell out of me a few weeks ago when he randomly (it's always random with him) turned to me and said something along the lines of "I have a week's worth of vacation days I have to use by the end of March. See if you can find any deals in the Caribbean or something."

If I remember correctly, I don't think he finished that sentence before I flew to the computer to Google "Caribbean vacations."

Though that would have been ideal, I couldn't really find a cheap deal in the Caribbean on the off-season away from spring breakers. We're so too old for that. Or at least Brent is. So we went for the next best thing when one is looking for a cheap vacation filled with sunshine, beaches, and, most importantly, lots of tequila - Mexico.

Viva la Mexico!

We were relatively flexible regarding the dates of our vacation and exactly where we would go, but were firm that wherever that may be, it must be at an all-inclusive resort where the food and adult beverages would not only always be available, but also be free. Hello Cancun!

Once we decided where we were headed, we started making plans for what to do on our vacation - or rather, made a plan for our vacation.

The plan: Do nothing.

And I think we made good on our plan because our days while on vacation went something like this:

At some point before noon: Get up, put on bathing suits, head to breakfast buffet, and stuff ourselves up to the point where we could still waddle over to two lounge chairs by the "relaxing" pool away from all the screaming kids and resort games to lay out in the sun. Ask waitress to bring us alcohol.

If we felt like actually getting up ever: Go to snack bar to get nachos, fries, or burgers and grab another drink at the bar on the way back to the side of the pool - OR - hop into the pool to cool off and glide up to the swim-up bar to get said drink. We had options.

2 to 3 p.m.: Mosey on over to the outdoor lunch area between the two pools and ask grill lady to make us fajitas. Eat until stuffed again, grab another drink, and move back to lounge chairs.

5 p.m.: Head back to the room to change out of bathing suits and nap before heading to the "fancy" resort restaurant for dinner. (Read: the place had a menu and wasn't a buffet.)

7 p.m.: Have a nice, relaxing dinner complete with their amazing flan or warm apple crisp and cappuccinos for dessert.

8 p.m.: Smoke yet another Cuban cigar and drink yet another margarita or beer from the minibar while sitting on our fourth-floor balcony that overlooks both the pool area and the ocean and discuss our life, jobs, problems we're having, our family, plans for the future, etc. for hours until we decide to head to bed to get some sleep so we'll have the energy to relax all the day the next day.

Unfortunately, one day I decided to throw a wrench into our perfectly fine plan of doing nothing when I suggested that we, well, do something because of an extreme and weird coincidence that was too extreme and weird not to do something about it. My parents along with an aunt and an uncle (my mom's sister and her husband) happened to begin their vacation on our last day of vacation, and were staying 45 minutes away from our hotel in Cancun.

Though Brent accused me of setting this up (and if I could have set this up, go me, because that would have been a hell of a lot of scheming and plotting), I can honestly say that I vaguely remember my mom telling me she and my dad were planning a vacation for the end of February but I didn't know where they were going.

As luck would have it, a tiny town called Puerto Morelos is a semi-central meeting town between our respective hotels, so through some luck of our own, Brent and I boarded the right bus both to get to downtown Cancun and the one that would drop us off on the main highway about a mile and a half from the seaside town.

Though I was looking forward to the nice walk, Brent was less enthused to be wandering down a looooooong, empty stretch of road flanked on both sides by ditches leading to swampland.

So to pass the time, we started to try to one-up each other while pretending to be Bear Grylls on "Man vs. Wild" trying to survive in the jungles of Mexico. While Brent was explaining how to cook and eat tree bark, I was telling him that I could build a jungle bed out of mere twigs and some large leaves.

Turns out, we didn't need to survive in the wilderness nearly as long as Bear does on his TV show because about 10 minutes into our walk, a taxi whose driver was wildly honking the horn screeched to a halt ahead of us. Brent started grumbling that the driver was going to offer us a ride, but then my mom and aunt sprang out of the taxi and started running toward us. My Uncle Tom had spotted us walking, and thought we'd appreciate a ride to the town. But since there were too many of us for the ride, the girls decided we'd walk the rest of the way so we'd have time to catch up.

Once we reached the town, we found the guys had saved us three girls exactly three nachos (not three each, but exactly three chips) and were on their second round of beers.

After they finished, we wandered around the town and did some shopping before having an excellent Mexican dinner, complete with live music, prefaced by the hugest margaritas I've ever seen or drank. Then, of course, we needed to get ice cream and ended the evening with coffee before this time taking a taxi to the bus stop because even Bear Grylls rests from his adventures in the evenings.

Though my parents' and aunt and uncle's evening was definitely over - it was, like 9:30 p.m., after all - Brent and I got back to downtown Cancun and boarded a different bus to get dropped off in the heart of where all things Spring Break happen. In yet another extreme and weird coincidence, Brent's friend and colleague, Max, and his girlfriend, Lara, were flying into town to also begin their vacation on our last full day there.

After Brent and I had been drinking at Carlos n' Charlie's for about an hour, his friends met up and then began a whirlwind of three more hours, three more bars, one funny hat, and a countless number of beer and tequila to the point where whenever someone (one of the boys) would order another round, I'd take a sip from my beer and wait until Brent was nearly done with his, then make the switch. I just didn't want to be one of the girls at the table next to ours who were dancing to the music in their bras waving their shirts in the air. Not that I would ever be, but I also wanted to be sober-ish enough to be able to find the bus back to the hotel.

And we did with no problem, but since the room was spinning quite a lot by that point, I called for room service at 4 a.m. and enjoyed a pizza with tea before taking some aspirin and crossing my fingers that I wouldn't be hung over for the entire trip back home.

Ahhhhh. Vacation. So sweet.