"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.

Oh, city boys

As a small-town girl, I am more than familiar with many things farming, as I grew up down the street from a pasture of cows and several fields of corn and hay.


My knowledge was then increased exponentially by my months of working at Farm World magazine, where I was required to learn about unfamiliar farming concepts to accurately write about them.


So as I often do with my colleagues, who think it's funny, I was recently talking about being a small-town girl. I mentioned the fact that every year while I was growing up - and even on a recent trip home - my family and I would make our way to the small town of Erie, Michigan, to pick apples right off the tree, inevitably after a hay ride (or, as I have since learned, the more appropriate term would be a "straw ride." But that's a whole new blog entry... that I will not write.)


Response from a colleague, who grew up on Staten Island: "Oh, a hay ride! Isn't that fun when you get in that bucket they dump you in a pile of hay?"


What?


He went on to explain that his perception of a hay ride was from a children's book he once read, where there were descriptions of activities, and a corresponding photo of said activities. He said he matched all the descriptions with the photos except this foreign concept of a "hay ride." By process of elimination, he was left with a picture with some kids in a bucket-like contraption with wheels that was riding down a train-like track. So he said since then, his idea of a hay ride is riding in this bucket flanked by bales of hay where at the end you get dumped into a giant pile of the stuff.


After I explained the much-less-interesting fact that a hay ride is where people sit on bales of hay in a flat-bed, and are pulled along by a tractor, his face crumbled, and I almost wish I hadn't set him straight. Who wouldn't want to ride along in this roller-coaster-like contraption only to be chucked into a mound of yellow plant by-product? Sign me up!

"I'm not gonna write you a love song, 'cause you asked for it"

A few days before Valentine's Day, my darling husband looked at me out of the blue and we had a conversation that went something like this:

Brent: "So, um, you know we're not doing anything for Valentine's Day, right?"

Me, dumbfounded: "What?"

Brent: "Yeah. We're going on vacation in two weeks, so that's going to be our Valentine's Day gift to each other."

Me, still dumbfounded: "You mean we aren't even going to go out for dinner?"

Brent, adamant: "No. Maybe we'll get tacos."

Me, even more dumbfounded as to why he would randomly suggest tacos: "You mean you aren't even going to get me flowers?"

Brent: "No! I'm taking you on vacation instead. Doesn't that sound better?"

Me, thinking that while it does sound way better, I'd rather have some fun and act like I'm a girl and deeply care about such things as flowers on Valentine's Day: "I guess. But I DO like flowers."

So this morning, when I wake up at the God-awful time of 4:05 a.m. to get ready to start work at 4:45 a.m., I sleepily reach over for the remote to turn on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air so I can wake up, and I find a folded, hand-written love note from my husband with the words "Happy Valentine's Day" scrawled on the top.

Of course, being the girl that I am who actually DOES care about love notes on Valentine's Day, I started to cry while reading his heartfelt words about his thoughts regarding our first Valentine's Day as husband and wife.

So ignoring the fact that I try to not wake him up when I have to work early in the morning, I finished reading the note, then re-read it several times before bursting back into the bedroom, jumping on top of him snuggled under the covers in bed, and kissing him between saying, "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

After a few moments, he successfully pushed me away so he could roll over to go back to sleep, I then hear him mumble, "Now isn't that better than flowers?" Comments like those are so typical Brent and why I so desperately love that man!

It was a small bone, but a bone nonetheless

Apparently, the Gods of fate looked down on me after my last post and took pity. Just a short time after writing that post, I got an e-mail from a medical publishing company who wanted to interview me over the phone.

Even though I ended up not getting the editorial assistant position, just knowing that there was that possibility was enough to renew my energy and my spirits about this whole job hunt thing. I mean, I sent out my resume and cover letter, and this time it was enough that someone wanted to talk with me further. And no, it wasn't the perfect job for me, and I wasn't the perfect candidate for it (they preferred someone with an extensive science background) but it would have been a stepping stone and experience for something else.

And this interview was just before I got a call from the founder and CEO of the custom publishing company that I did a bunch of freelance projects for in the middle months of 2008. She was calling me for tax purposes, but then asked how I was, and where I was in my job search/career and mentioned that even though they are struggling with a lack of advertising right now, she still had me in the back of my mind for when times are better. And even though I have no expectations from that whatsoever, it's nice to know that other people recognize that I have skills and talents.

So apparently, the economy is the enemy. As I said in that last post, screw this economy.

Screw this economy

I know, I know. I haven't updated my blog in awhile.

But trust me - it's not like I haven't had time to update it.

That's the problem.

I've got all the time in the world.

Of all the reasons to get drunk, today would be one of them. I'm celebrating my one-year anniversary... of the day I started working at the coffee house. (Disclaimer: There's nothing wrong with the job at the coffee house and in this economy I know I'm lucky to have a job blah, blah, politically correct blah, blah, blah)


But it's not the job for me. I live in New York City. I live in Midtown Manhattan in NEW. YORK. CITY. As in, I walk my dog a single block away from my apartment and I pass Hearst Towers - home of Cosmopolitan magazine, Seventeen magazine, Marie Clair magazine, etc.


If I walk two blocks, I'll pass Random House. As in THE RANDOM HOUSE. For God's sake, if they opened the windows in their building, they could hear me shout, "HERE I AM JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE!" from my apartment.


This is the city of opportunity for someone like me - a total book nerd who would be in heaven to be working at a magazine or with authors and unpublished manuscripts, even if it was in an administrative capacity. I'd show them my value and I'd climb that ladder.


But the problem is that no one has let me pull myself up on that bottom rung. I haven't gotten the chance to show what I can do. I'm a college-educated woman who maintained a 3.9 GPA all four years of school with more than five years of writing and/or editing experience.

I've done it all - cold calls, journalismjobs.com, monster.com, and just went to my first career fair. There, I spent two entire hours surrounded by thousands of similarly dressed young professionals, but only got to talk to people at two of the booths for about 30 seconds each about two jobs I'm not exactly qualified for or excited about. The lines at these booths resembled those at the most popular ride at an amusement park. And as I was walking away, I saw them place my resume on a five-inch pile of other resumes.


So here I am, contemplating applying for a full-time, unpaid internship... one that lasts an entire year. Because that's nearly half the time I've been applying for jobs in this impossible city. That's right - this June will mark two years since I began applying for jobs here - with the number of jobs I've applied for well into the more-than-100 range.


But enough bitching. I've got to prepare for a night of binge drinking.

He's a banker. 'Nuff said.

Whenever anyone asks where my husband is, I reply with, "He's a Wall Street banker."

Here, that's 'nuff said.

Essentially New Yorkers understand that when you're a banker, that's pretty much all you are.

I ALMOST feel guilty for having a job that allows me to take a painting or knitting class or join a basketball team. Brent's days off - which are only sometimes Saturdays and Sundays are spent sleeping in and watching sports while eating breakfast and lunch before taking a nap that lasts until dinnertime.

So it's definitely a bonus when I can get Brent to actually want to leave the apartment to do something fun and New York-y with me. I often forget that he's usually not at home, and therefore enjoys being at home because that means it's time to relax.

But once a month, I can get him out to do our famous "one-night stand" where we do something together that we've never done before. In New York, that's easy to do.

Tonight's one-night stand was pretty bland and straightforward, but it was an excuse to get dressed up! I've often gone to a nearby wine bar, Bocca di Bacco, to sit at the bar and enjoy a glass of wine, but I've never tried anything on their menu. Brent suggested it at the urging of a colleague, and I was more than happy to oblige.

Unfortunately, Brent ordered the steak, and was unwilling to share more than a few bites. After taking my first one, I would have done the same thing because the pieces MELTED in my mouth. I like steak, and I can honestly say it was one of the best (bites of) steak I've ever had.

For me, though, my prosciutto-wrapped white asparagus with a poached egg and brown sauce stuffed me because it was so good that I didn't stop eating it until it was gone. And their wine, which takes up three pages on a standard-sized menu, didn't disappoint either, as it never does.

Afterward, we went on a walk down 57th street, which is a staple for Brent and I. Another staple is his asking me if I'm going to make it because when I dress up, I invariably wear high heels. And while I look good standing in them, it's another story when I actually attempt to walk in them. And living in New York City, the land of pedestrians, it was disappointing to realize that while every single one of my shoes is cute, not many are meant for walking longer distances than from the car in the garage to inside the house.

And I'd go shopping for shoes, but I live in NYC. Like I could afford them.

It's totally the ball, guys. You try playing with a women's basketball while you watch us girls dominate!

When it comes to basketball, I am an addict.

I actually feel an urge to play basketball, especially when I've not been able to play for a long period of time.

But since I live in New York and the gyms I can afford here are the size of my one-bedroom apartment, (if your gym has a pool or a basketball court, you can expect to pay $3,000+ a year for those benefits) I haven't been able to play IN A LONG TIME.

So when I came across an opportunity to sign up for a weekday, co-ed, after-work league last month, I couldn't sign up fast enough. Not only would I be able to FINALLY PLAY SOME BASKETBALL, but I also hoped to meet some really cool people doing so. This league is 3-on-3 and there has to be at least one girl on the court at all times.

The cool thing about ZogSports in the city is that you can sign up for virtually any sport, including softball, kickball, rugby, ultimate Frisbee, etc. as an individual, and they will place you on a team with other individuals who also don't know anyone and who just want to play.

After meeting with your teammates, you're supposed to decide on a team name and a charity to play for. If you win the championship game, a bunch of money goes to the charity of your choice. So far, ZogSports has raised more than $525,000 for charity, which just kicks ass.

After the games, which for basketball are in three elementary school gyms in Manhattan, organizers announce the official bar to go to afterward. Their slogan is, "We cannot force you to drink, but we can strongly encourage it."

Yesterday was our first basketball meeting and scrimmage. There are seven members of my team - four girls and three guys - and I met two of the guys and two of the girls. Everyone is super nice, and even though we only won one of our games (tied another one and lost two), I thought it definitely was because we don't know each other's playing skills well enough.

But I like Beth's opinion better: we're playing with a men's basketball, which puts us women at a fundamental disadvantage. Yeah, it's the ball.