The search continues. Today during my lunch break, I popped out of my office to see an apartment right on Park Avenue South between 35th and 36th Street — centrally located, walking distance from my office and from Chris’s future office, and on Park Avenue — a yuppie’s dream. Yes, until I entered the building.

The gym, which would be an extra $25/person/month, looked like a cramped room where a bunch of treadmills, Stairmasters, and ellipticals were thrown in haphazardly; little space existed to get between machines, and no stretching area was to be seen. The one-bedroom apartment unit I’d seen in the photos was not what the realtor showed me today; this had about half the counter space. There also wasn’t central air conditioning or even AC units put into place.

“Where are the AC units?” I asked. “This building (which is pretty new) doesn’t have central AC or even units placed?”

The realtor smiles (See the pattern? They always smile when they know the question should have the opposite answer it does). “AC units are not included; they will need to be brought in and installed by the renter.”

Yeah, right. I’m not sticking an AC unit out of this window on the sixth floor. You people should be doing that for me at $3,995/month.

I pointed out to her that the counter space in the kitchen was not the same as the listing I’d responded to. This space was about half, which was not desirable for someone like me who loves to cook.

“But there are so many great restaurants nearby,” she laughed. “Who needs to cook when you have so many good options nearby?”

“I like to cook,” I responded simply. Then, I walked out.

This is why I can’t stand sales people in general. Know your audience, people. If I told you originally that I like to cook, why would you try to talk me out of that and insist all the good restaurants nearby would somehow take away my desire to cook? I may be a young urban professional, but I still like to cook. If you want to sell me something, sell me something I told you I wanted, not something you are trying to push on me quickly to get a commission from the management company.

This woman had no emotional intelligence and insisted she send me an application. Good luck to her.

The search for a new apartment may or may not go on, but this week, it’s definitely on. I have so many appointments lined up all the way until we leave for our trip this Friday. I’ve done three days of hunting and I already want to stop. Searching for an apartment in this city is the worst.

You know it’s really bad when you tell the real estate agent that you’d love an open kitchen, and what she ends up showing you, supposedly at a name-brand, reputable building in the low 60s on the Upper East Side, is a kitchen… that is situated RIGHT NEXT TO THE BEDROOM. I already have to close the living room door when I cook now. With the kitchen literally right next to the bedroom, it would be like roasting a chicken in bed. Who wants that?

People settle for the craziest crap in this city. Why do we settle for this?! Why?

Today, I visited an open house three blocks from our apartment of a penthouse for rent on the 11th floor of a luxury building. In this case, “luxury building” just means it’s a newer building with a doorman; there was no gym, pool, or lounge area to speak of. In fact, there wasn’t even a lobby with a sitting area like you usually see when you go into these ridiculously priced buildings. The apartment was going for $4800/month for a one bedroom, not-quite-one-bath (shower only; no bath tub) and boasted a huge wrap around terrace. When I stepped foot inside, I realized the terrace was the only bragg-able feature.

The living room was a living room/kitchen; the kitchen was a single wall with a deep sink… and only two burners on the half stove. The refrigerator, freezer, and dishwasher are hidden inside cabinetry for the all-white look the apartment was going for. “Where is the oven?” I asked the realtor. “Is that hidden, too?”

“No, there’s no oven,” he said smiling. “Just a stove and a small microwave oven right up here.”

That’s not a microwave oven. That was just a regular microwave. What is this guy, a total moron? Does he think a two-burner stove and no oven is real? This is worse than the crappy East Village apartments my former roommate and I looked at back in 2008 that had college-dorm-sized refrigerators. At least those places were cheaper and meant to be cheap; this is a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, and it has NO OVEN AND ONLY TWO BURNERS?

The terrace space was huge, though, and had views of downtown Manhattan. The terrace space was probably bigger than the interior of the apartment itself; perhaps even two to three times as large. What a stupid apartment. Whoever rents this place will be a rich idiot.

Chris had his first home-cooked meal for days at home today — my “chicken” garlic scape pesto quinoa rotelli. He already wasn’t that happy when he found out the rotelli was made out quinoa instead of wheat, but then he came across another surprise: the fact that the “chicken” in the pasta was actually not chicken, but Beyond Meat soy and plant-based protein cut into cubes.

“This pesto is very good…. The pasta is good,” he said as he chewed. “But why does this taste so healthy…? This is chicken…? Is this meat….?! Babe…..” He eyed me suspiciously as my face broke into a big smile.

So much for trying to incorporate more vegetarian meals into my husband’s life. I was going to tell him afterwards if he couldn’t tell himself…