New York luxury

We spent yet another rain-drenched weekend in New York, watching the cat paw at Chinese Checkers and ogling over the Real Housewives of Orange County on my sister's HD tv. We battled our way to a cozy restaurant and a delicious dinner in the Village, huddling under our flimsy umbrellas, hoping that those thin little wires would hold just long enough, and pointing to all those other abandoned umbrellas - we must have seen at least 40 or 50 the whole weekend - that littered the street. Why do we always choose the worst times to go? It just seems to work out that way. The rain was spottier on Sunday. We got out in the morning, to a museum in the Park, through the afternoon, before catching the bus back to Philadelphia. It's the third time H has been to the New York since living in Philadelphia, and the third time the sky has cracked open over the Big Apple and pummeled us with heavy city rain. Eventually we'll catch a nice weekend. Until then, I suppose we'll satisfy ourselves with the decadence of sprawling out on a New York couch and not going out. Because there is something so sumptuously luxurious about it, isn't there?