This is a throwback post from an old blog - originally from December 20, 2010
Enjoy.

Earlier this week, something terrible descended upon the small little state of Delaware. Something disastrous, menacing and murderous.

Snow.

Now, just for clarification purposes, the lovely residents of the First State are a pretty resilient and hearty group of people. Delaware is beaten up by hurricanes, floods and the occasional rogue tornado. A little rain never hurt anyone... but when the stuff freezes the whole state goes into a emergency frenzy.

It all started on a chilly day earlier in the week. It was just below freezing outside, (which of course sent my coworkers into a frostbitten panic and everyone was piling on scarves, goggles, mittens, waterproof earmuffs, thermal underwear, arctic gear and boots, wondering how they would ever survive) and there were “rumors” of flurries later in the afternoon.

Having spent the past four years of my life in the mountains of central Pennsylvania, snow doesn’t even cause a glimmering hint of excitement or even a reaction at all. I spent so many days and nights lugging my butt around in 12 inches of snow uphill both ways that I considered building snowshoes out of my roommate’s tennis rackets or crafting a sled out of cookie sheets to get myself to work.

(There you go, kids. I just proved that it IS possible to walk uphill both ways. So HAH!)

Anyway, snow doesn’t stop me. I will push my car out of that snowbank the mean plow truck driver created around my car. I’ve done it once dammit and I’ll do it again.

So I did not give it a second thought when it started to snow lightly outside the classroom window.

I knew something was terribly wrong when I stopped by the office later in the afternoon to find several frantic parents demanding to take their children home early.

Expecting to see apocalyptic blizzard conditions outside, I rushed to the window to see… light flurries.

Confused and annoyed, I finished my day at work and we dismissed the children at regular time. 

HOWEVER, many of the buses were “stuck in severe traffic” and weren’t even at the school yet. I snuck out the side door expecting, once again, the apocolypse blizzard I kept hearing about and found… flurries.

About 1/3 of an inch of snow had accumulated on my windshield. I was pissed. This was no fun at all.

But I had no idea the fear that the 1/3 of an inch had struck into the little hearts of the Delawareans.

First of all, no one in Delaware has ever heard of road salt. Dear DelDot, if you ever read this: Salt MELTS snow! It’s really cool. If you put in on the road it will make the snow go away and stuff. It even makes ice melt too! You can drive on the road again and its probably a lot cheaper than all those costly sled dogs, sleighs and flying cars you were considering as solutions. It’s a really brilliant invention.

After driving 0.4 miles an hour to get out of the parking lot and onto the main road, I decided that I was adventurous enough to drive uphill in the apocalyptic blizzard. WRONG! A man in an SUV had tried the hill, panicked, blocked the road and got OUT of his car. So I did the only reasonable thing: I spun my car around and tried the other way.

The next few minutes were filled with sheer terror as drivers slid all over the road, losing control and hitting curbs and innocent recyclable bins. For some reason as soon as the rain froze into snow, people who have been driving for 20+ years turned into intoxicated teenagers. It took me 20 minutes to make the corner to get onto the main road. At times I considered getting out of my car and knocking on windshields to show people how to get their cars off the sides of the street.


But it was nice and toasty in my car so I turned on Top 40 radio and daydreamed about Christmas.

The flurries continued to fall and the drivers of Delaware continued to panic. As we crept along Route 41 at 3.12 mph, I watched Mercedes’ slide into ditches and BMW’s skid into yards. A man going the other direction lost control of his vehicle and slid completely around in a circle (He thought he was hot stuff and tried to hit 4 mph). People got out of their minivans and pushed other cars back onto the road. People started walking home. People started pulling over and calling for other transportation (sled dogs, probably). The air filled with smoke and the smell of burning rubber. All adherence to traffic signals was lost (RED LIGHTS??? WE DON’T USE RED LIGHTS IN THE APOCALYPSE BLIZZARD!!!!!!! WE DON’T NEED TURN SIGNALS ANYMORE!) and children cried for their mothers.*

It took me 2 hours to get home. It normally takes me 20 minutes with traffic.

The last bus pulled out of the school at 6:10 PM. School dismisses at 3:50.

Lesson of the day: Road salt solves a lot of problems. Delaware is only 37 ft wide by 429 ft long so if we all donate about 5.3 cents the cost should be covered.

At any rate, I’m going to go drink some tea and review survival skills for the real apocalyptic blizzard.

*NOTE: I didn’t see anyone get hurt. This wouldn’t be funny if people got hurt.

The Day I Became the Cupcake Criminal

One of the strangest New York experiences I've had so far actually happened on my trip AWAY from New York.

I've heard sketchy things about the Chinabus, but I have always thought to myself "Hey, these people are spoiled and used to luxury. I can tough out a cramped bus ride for a few hours."

I have never been more wrong.

My adventure started out on a Friday morning as I got ready for work and packed my bags for my sister's birthday weekend - which I considered to be fairly light. I had a duffle bag, a pair of boots and a tray of 24 cupcakes. Alas - those cupcakes would be the first mistake of the day. I realized after stumbling through my apartment building that those little pink frosted delights were not going to survive the Friday morning commute through Grand Central - or I wasn't going to survive it - so I had to splurge and pay for a taxi to get to work.

By the end of the work day I had already decided that I would take a taxi down to Chinatown to catch my bus. Perfect plan! I had a whole hour to go a few minutes! This would be a breeze! Right!? Wrong. I could not catch a taxi at 5:00 on a Friday in Times Square if I had been Prince Harry. Why would Prince Harry ride in a yellow taxi? Oh I don't know - but if he wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to on this afternoon.

He wants a taxi.

After a few minutes of stomping around with a tired arm I finally flagged down what I thought was a shady black cab. I started to panic and jumped in the cab with my lovely cupcakes without fully assessing the situation (bad choice - young aspiring soon-to-be New Yorkers).

"Do you accept credit cards? Great! Broadway and Canal please. Chinatown"

"Okay," The taxidriver said. "That will be $40. Plus tip, but the tip is up to you, of course."

"What? Okay." I paused for a second. I set the darling little cupcakes down and realized what had just happened. I had gotten into a car with a random man and as he started to drive away, I suddenly came to the abrupt conclusion that something was very, very wrong.

"Sooo... why is it $40? It shouldn't be that much. Isn't that a little ridiculous?"

"It's all the way downtown, miss."

"Yes - but there is no meter running. All other cabs charge 40 cents per quarter mile."

"There is no such thing as a quarter mile in New York City, miss."

"Oh really! That's strange. That cab has those exact rates printed on the side. And that one! And that one over there! And every single other cab I've ever seen in Manhattan. Let me out of the cab. I'll get into one of those instead."

"Those are taxi cabs, miss." The taxi driver rolled his eyes at me in the rear view mirror. "You're in a Lincoln Limousine."

"WHAT!?" I yelled, starting to panic. "Why didn't you tell me that? I didn't want a limousine! Let me out right here! I'll just pay you for this block."

"You said 'okay', so I started driving. It's $20, please."

At this point, I really started to panic. We had traveled one block and I had $4 in my wallet. Angrily, I handed over my credit card. "I don't accept credit cards for less that $40, miss."

Really? I saw an out. "Oh! Well I guess you aren't getting paid then. Unless I run over to that ATM right there?"

The only time I can say an ATM machine saved me.

And for some for some strange reason that I will never understand, the angry little swindler of a driver let me out of that cab without a fight. He watched me drag my luggage and my cupcakes over the the ATM... and run into the pub next door.

"Can I help you?" asked the young hostess, as I ran burst through the door, panting and looking around feverishly for a back door.

"No! I mean - Yes! Do you know where an ... um... ATM is?" The restaurant had no back exit in sight - but the hotel next door did! I ran back out the door as the taxi driver started to honk and scream out his window. I looked back one last time, ran through the revolving doors of the hotel, pushed through the patrons and flew out the side entrance. Find me in New York City, jerk!

And off I was - sprinting down 42nd street like a deranged criminal in a white sweater and carrying 24 pink cupcakes.

Fifteen minutes later, after I had walked almost a mile and still couldn't flag down a taxi - it had become clear that the taxi driver had sent out a red alert to every cab in Manhattan. "WARNING! Do not pick up crazy blonde girl in a white sweater. She has a tray of cupcakes and is possibly dangerous." Finally, an off duty cab driver stopped for me, and then refused to take me downtown. "DUDE! Just let the lady in the cab!" some man yelled from another car as we stood arguing in the middle of the rush hour intersection.

This is the only guy that offered me a ride.

I finally pathetically waved down a cab and made it to the bus stop - with one minute to spare. At 5:59 I shuffled - cupcakes in tact - to the end of the bus line. The very... long... bus line. After setting down my things and catching my breath, I took a look at the line of people waiting for the bus. There were a lot of people. Too many people. All of us were not going to fit on this bus... and I was all the way at the end. Sadly, at this point there was nothing left to do but wait. So I waited.

And I waited.

And ... I waited.

And .... I waited. For 2 hours.

At 7:45 our 6:00 bus pulled in and... for some strange reason... came from the wrong direction. Somehow my place in the back of the line became the front. And I was not going to lose that spot. Panicking once again, I threw my bag in the luggage section and, clutching my cupcakes for dear life, shoved my way onto the bus and crumpled into a sad heap in a seat.

I had made it onto the bus. There weren't enough seats. The last people to load onto the bus realized this and shuffled around the aisle like dogs with peanut butter on their tails. Admitting defeat, the angry bus driver herded them off the bus. We drove away, watching their sad eyes sniffle as we turned the corner as we headed towards Pennsylvania.

The sun was over the horizon and night had fallen completely. We went through the Lincoln Tunnel and I started to relax as the city skyline receded into the hills. I had made this trip before. I could finally relax and think about my sister's birthday. It would be a 4 hour drive and I would be late now - but I would still get there in time to meet her at the bar.

As we drove along the highway in New Jersey, I started to realize that I didn't recognize the signs. I didn't think anything of it until the bus driver pulled off the highway and did a u-turn onto the other side of the highway. No one seemed concerned, so I kept watching the signs. We were heading towards New York? That couldn't be right. We were just taking a different way.

Twenty minutes later, we made another u-turn. People started to notice. Where were we going? And another twenty minutes later, we were making another u-turn.

At this point, the people behind me started to panic. What was going on? Why were we going in circles? Why did that road sign just say "New York City - 10 miles"? As it turned out, we were traveling on the wrong highway for over an hour. There were a lot of disgruntled whispers. The bus driver finally pulled onto the right highway and everyone started to relax again.

Suddenly, the driver pulled off the highway.

And into a closed gas station.

And waited there.

Everyone gaped around the bus, searching for some sort of answer. "Is this some sort of rest stop?" "Are we supposed to get off the bus?" "Are we there?" "Let's just GO!" some guy yelled from the back seat. "Even if we wanted to get off the bus - we couldn't! This place is closed down and dark!"

After another minute, the bus driver started out on route 80 into the darkness - and in the wrong direction. We turned around again and headed off - again - towards Pennsylvania.

After what seemed like forever, the "Welcome to Pennsylvania" sign appeared on the side of the highway. If we had been on schedule, we would have seen that sign at 6:20. It was now past 10:30. More panic welled up in the bus. "We are SERIOUSLY only just now crossing into Pennsylvania? What is going on!" Phones were being dialed and friends and family were being notified.

We drove along in the night and things seemed to be alright. We were late but we would get there eventually. Just as everyone began to relax again, the driver slammed on his breaks.

As far as the eye could see into the distance were bright red tail lights. Stopped traffic. At midnight. I'm pretty sure at this point the person behind me was crying softly. Another person was curled up into the fetal position. I wanted to die.

I'm not sure how long we sat in traffic that night, but it was long enough for me to decide that I may not live to see my sisters birthday and that the girl in front of me definitely had the most annoying voice in the entire country. It was also long enough for the man behind me to admit loudly into his cell phone that it was taking every fiber of his being not to kill everyone on the bus. This made everyone very uncomfortable.

We finally got out of traffic and drove at a normal speed for about 10 minutes. In the middle of the dark Pennsylvania hills, the driver pulled the bus off the highway and into the parking lot of an old Red Roof Inn. The hotel light flickered sadly as the driver turned off the engine.

"Is this it?" a man asked in the silence. "Is this where they kill us now?"

No one laughed.

The bus was silent.

Two older Asian women stepped off the bus and into the parking lot of the Red Roof Inn. Without a word, the bus driver started the engine and started down the highway. I watched as the Asian women faded in the dark, carless parking lot. The sign flickered in the distance.

No one spoke as we headed towards (what we hoped) was our original destination. I got a strange whiff of fish sticks but assumed that I was just starting to starve to death and ignored it. But the fish stick smell started to get stronger. People started to look around and cover their mouths as the smell wafted towards the front of the bus. Passengers started to wake up from the smell and look confused. As the smell grew stronger, people started to cover their faces with clothing. Fish sticks? It wasn't fish sticks.

It was sewage.

The bathroom on the bus was backing up and there was nothing we could do about it. I put my knees up and covered my mouth and nose with my sweater. Men pushed on all of the windows but there was no way to open any of them. Someone walked to the front of the bus and pleaded with the driver to do something... so he opened the front door.

Here were were, barreling down the highway in a bus full of sewage, our mouths covered and our faces plastered to the windows.

I had completely come to terms with the fact that I may never make it to see morning, let alone my sister's birthday. It was now past one in the morning and we were unable to breathe, starving and not even sure if we were heading in the right direction. We traveled along like that for a while when an Asian woman in the front of the bus started to yell at the driver. They argued back and forth for a while, and the driver grew more and more irritated. As he angry yelled at this woman at a language I did not understand, he swerved the entire bus back and forth on the windy mountain road. I held onto the seat with the hand that wasn't covering my mouth as I watched our bus jerk closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. I was totally going to die.

She wanted to be let off at the Red Roof Inn.

The bus driver may have just thrown the Asian lady off the cliff, because I can't remember how the argument ended. But he did calm down and we did make it to our destination - nine hours later. After missing our stop and pulling into a tiny alley, we pleaded for the bus driver to just break long enough for us to exit.

I ran down the street to my sister's apartment through the hoards of drunk college students. A few boys approached me and peered into my cupcake tin. "What do you have there sweetie? Dessert?"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

I made it to my sister's apartment in time for the morning of her birthday. She loved her cupcakes.

To this day, my heart drops every time I see a Lincoln Town Car.

I'm sorry, but you're just not the "dodgeball" type. Maybe you should get a doll?

For some reason I can't explain, I have never been able to play any sport that involves a fast-moving ball.

Balls (you know, the sporty game kind) have always had this strange magnetism to my skull. No matter the game or venue, the ball will find it's sneaky little way to my head. In other words, I always get hit with the ball. Always. Hard.

I think it all started in elementary school when I first came to my sad realization that I would never become a world-famous dodge ball champion. It just wasn't in the cards for me. I would step onto the gym floor, my biceps clenching in my Limited Too T-Shirt, only to be pelted in the head by multiple dodgeballs at once. Stupid boys and their stupid ability to throw and dodge simultaneously.

Those first dodge balls hurt, but I was a resilient little pigtailed brat. I kept trying. I quickly learned that basketballs hurt when you catch the pass with your face. Baseballs hurt if they mistake the bat with the side of your head. I could not successfully headbutt a volleyball without falling over. And softballs? Contrary to popular belief, softballs are NOT soft.

Yes. I was THAT girl.

Elementary school came and went and I became a very un-sporty teenager who luckily found several un-sporty friends. We would run away screeching during our pathetic excuse for class volleyball tournaments and use our baseball gloves to fight sun glare as we chatted about dances. During football "games" we would stake out spots as far away as possible, fearing the pigskin's collision with our craniums. I didn't even have to be PLAYING the game in order for me to get injured. I just need to be within 100 yards of a soccer game or a football scrimmage to get bonked in the head.

One balmy night in college my friends decided to play a friendly game of frisbee. "Oh! Frisbee!" I thought, "I will surely be safe, for it is not a ball at all. It is a flat object that usually moves slowly." As usual, I was wrong. My last memory was talking to my friend about class when suddenly --- BAM!--- I felt a sharp thud on the back of my head. The next thing I knew I was looking at the boy who threw the speeding frisbee standing over me asking if I was okay (and hoping he hadn't killed me via frisbee).

I am not cut out to be the world-famous Ultimate Frisbee champion, either.

Years later I was walking down the hallway of my workplace, which just so happened to be an elementary school. Why yes, the very same environment where I first had my athletic dreams crushed. Just as I passed the gymnasium a dodgeball whizzed past my head and ---WHAM--- hit the wall next to me. "Sorry!" a boy called as he jogged out to get the ball.

I will always be that girl.

She gets it from her Mama.

It's not really a secret. If you know me, you know that I am

Clumsy.

Not even in that "wow look, lauren totally tripped while trying to catch public transportation" type of way. I'm clumsy in that tragic "oh no, lauren totally broke her toe while getting into the shower and then fell down the steps and busted her face on a towel rack and hit her head on the toilet on the way down"  kind of way. 

When I was a child, my family quickly became accustomed to my lack of motor skills and ability to avoid flying objects (i.e. balls). The sound of falling down the carpeted steps or screaming bloody murder over a stubbed toe became white noise in our whirlwind of a household. 

One instance in particular that always strikes me as a great example of my clumsiness happened while I was in 9th grade. Being the complete spaz that I am, I was flying around the kitchen and talking non-stop at my mother who I'm sure was using all her will-power not to knock me out with a rolling pin.

"Get out of the kitchen now! You are driving me insane."

"Nope. Never! HAHA!" I said, doing a lap around the island, causing the steam coming out of her ears to become visible.

"Get out! Now! If you don't I'll make you clean up the entire kitchen."

Hearing this, I squealed, did a spin in the opposite direction, took two steps toward a sprint, felt the carpet slip out from under me, completely lost traction, hit my knee on the island, fell to the ground and hit my forehead on the barstool on the way down.


My mom sighed heavily. "Seriously, Lauren. I'm going to make you do the dishes."

My mother has no right to judge me.
Where do I get this monstrosity of a character trait?
I get it from my mom.

My dear mother is so accident prone that by the time she was 20 my entire extended family had already dubbed her "Calamity Jane." Interestingly enough, my friends call me "Hurricane Bill." I don't know why it's Bill. Please don't remind me that the nickname makes no sense. I'm sure it held some significance at some point. I'm sure.

When I was in second grade, I thought I would be a good idea to bring my mom in for show and tell. Bring in something you love? I love my mom! Awww! Great idea. Lauren is so darned sweet. Everyone else is going to bring in their ratty stuffed dogs and their drool-crusted blankets. I rock. You suck. Win.

The morning of my fantastic everyone-is-looking-forward-to-Lauren's-turn show and tell extraordinaire my mom went to the grocery store. Passing through the garden section, she stopped to smell a nice looking flowering plant. "Oh look," she must have thought, "a sweet flower for me to smell! It is so nice and harmless looking." That's when said plant unleashed its fury. 

After a trip to the ER, it was concluded that my mom had cut her cornea on the deadly spiteful grocery store plant. She was given some strong meds to deal with the pain and an eyepatch. That's right folks! A good old-fashioned strappy black eyepatch. 

Somehow, she still made it to my show and tell.


I think I still had the best show and tell that day. MY mom was the drugged up pirate.

UPDATE: Today I slipped crossing the road and a homeless guy laughed at me.

How to Grocery Shop on a (Seriously Sad) Budget

Well, at 6pm tonight that thing happened again. Dinnertime.

Considering I don't even have enough money in my checking account to buy a small pizza until pay day, I had to get creative with this one. Luckily I had leftovers in the fridge. Score!

I know that I am not the only young, aspiring New Yorker with this problem. So I've come up with a few tips for grocery shopping on a serious budget. It has taken a few years to balance the art of saving cash and eating healthy - so here it is!

1. Buy Grains in Bulk
You're hungry. You want carbs. The best thing to do is to buy pasta at the grocery store when it's on sale (my favorite whole wheat pasta usually goes on sale randomly 10 for $10 and I stock up). Places like Trader Joes sell whole wheat couscous by the giant box that lasts for weeks. Large boxes or bags of rice usually sell for less and last a while. Do not - I repeat DO NOT buy the single meal boxes of flavored pasta, couscous, and rice. These are packed full of sodium, preservatives and the cost of them really adds up after a while.

2. Buy Fruit from the Fruit Stands
You can't find cheaper fruit! Here's how to find one: Walk outside and spin around in a circle until you see a fruit stand. Walk towards it. Viola! Fruit! Yes, this fruit has been sitting outside for a little while, but whatever. Wash it off and put it in your fridge. The city is trying to fight obesity by providing us with easily accessible produce- so take full advantage of it.

3. Spices, Spices, Spices.
Okay, this is actually very important. These may break the food budget bank at first, but you NEED them for cooking - especially if you are buying plain grains. Some of the spices in my fridge are: salt and pepper (duh), cayenne pepper, red pepper flakes, cumin, ground ginger, thyme, basil, oregano, curry, garlic.

4. Beans are Your Best Friend. 
A bit cliche- but these add protein and fiber to your meals. I add kidney beans, garbanzo beans and any other beans that may be on sale to my rice, pasta and couscous. Did I mention that beans are ridiculously cheap?

5. Soup!
Soup is a wonderful thing because you can't really mess it up. What I usually do is cook a huge batch of soup or chili and freeze all of the leftovers. You can share with your roommates and still eat it for a week (but because it's frozen you don't have to eat it EVERY day for week). You can splurge a little bit on soup ingredients because you'll get multiple meals out of it. Some of my favorites are eggplant vegetable soup, vegetarian chili, lentil soup and black bean.

If you're not much of a soup chef, or if you don't have a kitchen and a ton of time, canned soups can do the trick. I usually buy soups that are high in fiber and protein so that they keep me full and can call themselves a meal. Some good examples are Amy's Black Bean, Lentil and Vegetable and Tomato Bisque. These are a little more expensive but the cheap soups are full of gross stuff and will leave you hungry and spending more anyway.

 6. Dollar Stores Are Not Always Below You.
Sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Dollar stores are actually goldmines for things that won't give you awful food poisoning like crackers, chips and dry goods (we don't eat chips though, do we?!). What dollar stores are really great for are other kitchen and cleaning supplies. Soaps, detergents, wipes and cleaning sprays. Clean away! There are many money-saving treasures in there. So pull down your cap and go!

7. Plan Before You Go to the Grocery Store.
Having a plan guarantees that you'll spend less at the store, even if its on the walk over. Think about what you already have in your kitchen and what can be made with just another ingredient or two. This means you'll get the most out of the money you've already spent and you'll have less stress later. Plan a few meals and snacks. When you're at the store, check out the sales and think about whether or not you will eat the sale items in the next two weeks.

8. BE CREATIVE
You need to be creative to save money on food. Come up with combinations of your favorite ingredients. Experiment with spices. You will save money and become an amazing cook in the process! Some day when you can afford really good food all of the time, you will be able to impress everyone with your cooking skills and creativity.

Have a great night New York!

Brokers, Crooks and Thieves.

One of the hardest things I've experienced in New York so far is the horrible process called "Apartment Hunting."

Now, one would think that with over nine million people in this area somebody somewhere along the line would have come up with an adequate way to house ourselves... or at least a way to ease the process. No. Finding an apartment in New York City is about as difficult as finding your only other pink sock after laundry day or your soul mate in middle school. Terrible.

Basically the whole finding an apartment saga goes something like this: You scour endlessly over websites like craigslist, looking for ANYTHING that is somewhat close to your budget. After finally finding a few that sound absolutely wonderful, you realize that they will probably rent within 2 hours and 12 minutes so you are directed to call a mysterious number. The man on the other end of the number tells you he is a real estate broker and he will meet you on the corner of Creepy St. and Asshole Avenue.

You run to the corner of Creepy St. and Asshole Avenue (because the mysterious broker NEVER gives out the real address!) and look for someone who you hope looks like this:

But in reality, the stranger on the corner who announces he's the broker usually looks like this:

After having 21.4 seconds to decide whether or not this person is a serial killer, you follow him to the wonderful apartment he promised to show you. This can go several ways...

1. He completely lied about the location. The apartment you thought was in the beautiful Upper East Side is actually a first floor apartment in Spanish Harlem next to an old Taco Joint.
2. He promised you a wonderful spacious apartment and it's huge... but it has no windows.
3. He's actually a serial killer.

Most of the time, the advertisement shows pictures that look like this:

And the apartment ends up looking like this:

Our apartment search has been a tough one. I've had brokers try to convince me that a closet with plywood shelves actually counted as a bedroom (Hey! Let's make the bathroom a bedroom too! My sheets would go great with this linoleum tile!) and we've seen basement apartments with backs to abandoned lots with drug dealers lurking in them. We've walked to the top of a walk-up to find that the "broker" misplaced his keys. We've been shown rooms with no windows or air-vents. We've been stood up, lied to, and pushed around.

"Oh look!" my roommate exclaimed while looking at a particularly horrible layout, "You can brush your teeth and pee at the same time! You just don't see that every day." We then hobbled up the rotting spiral staircase and found our way out.

"I don't EVER pressure people but... this 8th story walk up with the mini fridge and the bookshelf separating the 'two bedrooms' is going to go really fast. If you don't pay me $8000 right now you're probably just going to be homeless for a year," says the broker as we escape to the next horrible showing.

"This is awkward," says another broker while we wait in the hallway for the tenants to "freshen-up" as the neighbors blast techno at a deafening volume.

Excuse me, New York. I'm paying thousands of dollars here. I want running water and windows. I refuse to pay this much money and live in an apartment that looks like it is below a butcher-shop in a 3rd world country!

At this point your budget goes out the window and you've accepted that you're just going to have to be flat broke unless you want to live in a dumpster behind Chipotle. I mean, they do have good burritos...

Moving on with the new imaginary budget - and the adventure continues!



On a lighter note - There is a bakery down the street from me that doubles as a tombstone store. Yes, they make tombstones. For dead people. But apparently they also make delicious bread because they had a sale today and I got a giant loaf for $1. It reeked like nail polish remover in there... I still don't know why.

Goodnight everyone!