It’s Friday night.  I’m sitting on my couch with a glass of red wine catching up on last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  In a few minutes I will transfer to the BF’s couch, where we will eat ordered-in food and watch more TV.  Last night I watched TV on my couch with the fabulous B and we ate ordered-in sushi.

Am I in a rut?

I did get off the couch one night this week to go to dinner with AC.  Where did we go, you ask?  We went to the Olive Garden.  In Times Square.  We weren’t trying to be funny or ironic.  We weren’t working on an article for the Times (blech) about top tourists spots in the city.  We just really love soup, salad, and breadsticks.

It sounds like a rut, doesn’t it?

I mean, here I am in New York City, capital of the WORLD (just ask the U.N.), and I prefer couches and chain restaurants to crazy nights out.  Either I’m in a rut, or I’m becoming a boring grown-up.  The thing is, the city becomes home because of the people with whom you share your life here.  It’s not what you do, but who you…wait, that’s not right…suffice it to say that the people who are my home here are so important and grand that sitting on the couch or at Olive Garden is enough because they make up the difference.

If this is a rut, I like it.  I think I will stay.  Let’s go to Bed, Bath and Beyond and pick out some curtains for my rut!

I will add, though, that New York leaves its mark on even the generic.  For example, on the way to 47th and Broadway and the ‘Garden, I walked behind this senior citizen:

And AC and I wouldn’t have walked out of an OG in Bama to be met with the opportunity to buy Obama condoms.  Which, at 3 for $10, are (as their peddler put it) cheaper than diapers.  And I doubt I would have sat on my couch in Birmingham discussing hot guys and Celine Dion with a dude friend.  And as for takeout with the BF…no one ever came close.

New York has a way of making all of life original.

(With that, I’ll let you know that I’m leaving this fair city for a week to traipse around California with the BF.  Don’t know how often I’ll get to a computer but can’t wait to tell the stories when I get back.  Until then, remember that you’re never to old–or too man–for a pink tweed sport coat.)

There’s nothing like running into a U.N. blockade to get your day rolling.

That sentence alone speaks volumes about the life I lead now as opposed to a few years ago, when the biggest hindrance to getting to work on time was a slow cashier at the McDonald’s drive-thru.  Now I’m walking up 2nd Avenue, noticing that these iron barricades sure are becoming more frequent and organized and what was that I heard on the news this morning while I was jiggling that toilet thing to make it stop running?  Something about the president speaking at the U.N. today?  And then I notice that the barricades have converged at 50th street creating a No Entry situation, and the resulting scene is this:

It turned out I would not be crossing 50th street until the president and his motorcade crossed on their way from the U.N. to the Waldorf-Astoria.  And I was enraged.  ENRAGED, I tell you!  Because of the empty patient schedule that I would now get a late start on?  Because of the coffee that was now further away?  A little. But mainly because the NYPD was throwing a huge rock in my path and it was annoying.  And there’s something about plans being disrupted that really gets to me…

When it became clear that no amount of huffing and puffing was going to blow these barricades down, I settled in for the show.  Which, as it turns out, can be fun once you get over the personal affront called the World Spinning in a Direction I Did Not Expressly Command.  I laughed as a shirtless dude rode his bike right up to the cops at the intersection, they yelled at him to turn around, and then they all looked at each other saying things like “Huh?” and “How did that happen?”  (I sincerely hope that the NYPD has a different unit in charge of combatting terrorism.)  I listened to the conversations around me, people calling in to work to explain their lateness and frustration.  I turned with everyone else to watch the motorcade that one cop said always reminded him of Coming to America:

Then the moment was over, the barricades were lifted, and the people went about their regularly scheduled programming.  I walked toward my waiting coffee and empty schedule humming the “Soul Glo” commercial and thinking about how the best moments are sometimes interruptions, and that life isn’t just what happens in between them.

I was walking to work Saturday morning when I looked to the sidewalk ahead of me and saw something very exciting: a dead leaf.  A brown, crunchy, dead leaf.  It was steps out of my way, but I veered to the right and hopped to land on top of it.  I heard the satisfying crunch, along with the laughter of a girl behind me who was probably half my age.  But it’s all good because fall is here.

Autumn in New York (the season, not the crappy Winona Ryder death movie) is my favorite.  You’ve got the crunchy leaves on the ground, along with the orange ones in the trees.  Central Park in the fall is a golden rainbow.  The air has just the right amount of chill in it to keep you (but not me) from sweating while walking around the city.  The effects of KFC meals (more later) are easier to hide under trendy H & M jackets.  Football season has started, which in New York involves alumni watch parties at various bars and running into people you haven’t seen all year (though maybe for a reason).  It all just feels like a new beginning, even if you don’t know what’s next.  But something about fall makes that uncertainty fresh and exciting.

The leaf was the first sign of the turnover.  Then yesterday I sat up on the BF’s roof while he manned his fantasy football empire inside.  After about thirty minutes and a turn away from the sun, I started to get cold.  At 3 pm.  Then we went to church (where we were reminded of a God who, for our sakes, cannot be controlled.  Welcome back, Tim!).  When the service was over and we walked outside, we were greeted by darkness.  No more summer 8 pm sunsets.  And then, on the walk home, there was this:

This is the Park Avenue restaurant that changes its name, menu, and decor with each season.  Since it is a super nice and expensive restaurant, I’ve only been once–last summer when some cousins were in town (and paying). Then, the awning was yellow and the dining room was white.  We had chilled soup and lemonade cocktails.  It was not dark outside.  This is one of those Only in New York places, and even if I can’t afford to eat there I love that it exists.

A few steps later, we looked to our right and had another Only in New York moment when we saw this:

WTF?  A bunch of ceramic sheep sitting on the grassy median of Park Avenue.  Since I roll with Jesus, I (sometimes inconveniently) believe there is a reason for everything.  But New York, like God, isn’t always immediately forthcoming with reasons.  So I settled on remembering that we’re all God’s sheep and need him as our shepherd so that we don’t end up looking as out of place as a lost sheep on the streets of  New York City.  Then I remembered that’s exactly what I am most of the time, and I laughed because my Shepherd has a sense of humor.

So the reason that the BF and I were walking down Park Avenue is because he had gotten some coupons in the mail this week.  Some KFC coupons.  Specifically, one for a $15.99 meal for four.  Since the proper response to this is, “Hell yeah!” followed by a googlemaps search for the nearest KFC, that is what we did, which took us to 42nd and Madison on our walk home.  And we brought our bucket of fried chicken (grilled is nasty and who goes to Kentucky FRIED Chicken for that anyway?), tubs of mac and cheese and mashed potatoes, and FOUR biscuits to the couch and paired them with a lovely Cabernet.  And by lovely I of course mean a $7 bottle from Trader Joes’s.  We ate the chicken that, for about a fifth of the price, was far superior to the entree I had at Freeman’s last week.  And we switched back and forth between the Cowboys/Giants game and the Emmys.  New York, Jesus, sheep, fall, KFC, wine, TV and the BF?  Sounds like a great beginning to me.

You have got to be kidding. I was doing my last-minute purse check before heading out the door to work yesterday when I noticed that my bag seemed light.  Too light.  I reached inside and felt around.  No wallet.  I checked my gym bag.  No wallet.  I checked the floor around the purse area.  No wallet.  I checked my phone.  Two missed calls, a text, and a voice mail from the BF all to inform me that I had left my wallet at his place.  Apparently it had fallen out of my $19.95 H & M bag (you know the one–it has its own post here).  SHUT UP I HATE THIS SHUT UP I HATE THIS WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS.  These were the thoughts running through my head.  Imagine if an actual problem had occurred.

Because here’s the deal:  it wasn’t a big deal.  I worked at NYU yesterday, which is five blocks from my apartment.  Which means I didn’t need my wallet to buy lunch because I come home for lunch on my NYU days.  Which means that all I needed my wallet for that day was one thing.  One vital, life-giving, thing.

COFFEE.  (Or coffe, if the above picture is to be believed.)

Being a New Yorker, I don’t have loose change lying around.  If I had, I would have already spent it.  On coffee. So short of tracking down the Soup Man and asking him for 81 cents, I was facing a scary prospect:  a morning without coffee.

Except…that’s not the whole story.  The whole story is that I wasn’t really facing the prospect of a morning without coffee.  This is because NYU provides free coffee to its faculty.  But said coffee is on the basement level and requires an additional few minutes out of my way.  As opposed to the coffee truck that IS on my way.  And I was already running late.  And the free coffee is not very good. And this was turning into A BIG DEAL.

So I hoofed it to the school and went to get my coffee.  And ALL THEY HAD WAS DECAF.  I was about to have a Serena-esque breakdown until I remembered there was another coffee machine on the third floor.  So I went there.  And I got my coffee.  And it wasn’t that bad.

Take all of your so-called problems…better put them in quotations.

I don’t make a habit of quoting John Mayer, mainly because I think he’s a douchebag, but that line from the song “Say” bears repeating here.  My overreaction to The Coffee Incident of 2009 was due to a complex interplay of factors that ran the gamut from my hatred of losing things and being late, to the fact that George and Sylvester–my regular coffee truck guys–had been missing from their usual spot on 28th and 1st since last week and I was starting to worry.  I have long suspected that their coffee and bear claws were a front for some more sinister business, but I was willing to ask no questions as long as I got my morning beverage.  Since their disappearance, I had been forced to visit a nearby truck run by some amateur who did NOT have my order waiting for me when I walked up to the window.

In short, it had been a rough week.  So the coffee debacle didn’t help.

But it did show me some things.  Mostly things I already knew but needed reminding about.  Like, for example, what a brat I am about getting my way.  How rigid I am when it comes to my routine.  How one little deviation from my plan makes me feel like the whole day (week, year, whatever) has gone off the rails.  How utterly laughable that is compared to what some people face.

Guess I should write my coffee plans in pencil.  And maybe not depend on it so much (but it really is my lifeblood in the morning–what if I had to live without it?  It would be like going without a glass of wine with dinner!).  In the meantime, I will be thankful for those little dots of humanity on the sidewalks of this city, my morning oases.  And guess what?!  George and Sylvester are back!  I walked up to the window this morning and we greeted each other like long lost friends.  I didn’t ask any questions, and they didn’t have to ask me any either–they knew my order and we made the exchange.  People who say New York is cold and lonely don’t know what they’re talking about.  Home is everywhere here–the guys who get my coffee ready, the drycleaner downstairs who knows my name.  They just better not go anywhere without telling me.

Living in New York is so expensive that sometimes the only trip you can afford to take is a ride on the subway.  So the BF and I stuck close to home and had ourselves a little staycation for the Labor Day weekend.  The perfect weather demanded that we turn off Firefly and Friday Night Lights and walk somewhere other than Bed, Bath and Beyond.  So we hit a couple of parks (Madison Square and Union Square, six blocks apart–we are efficient that way), checked out the Green Market, escaped without maiming anyone in the obnoxious crowd, and stopped at our favorite wine bar (Cavatappo) on the way home for refreshments.  Wine, prosecco, prosciutto, and mozzarella.  Then we spent some time on the roof deck.  The one we were so excited about when he moved in and yet have ignored for the past couple of weeks because an eight-floor elevator ride is exhausting when the wine and remote are already right there in front of you.  Our spirits were so high that we even discussed the merits of having to stay in New York for another year.  Merits like roof decks and views and green markets and amazing restaurants.  Merits that will be forgotten the second I leave my apartment tomorrow morning for work.  (This is why I have planned a preemptive strike on negativity by loading my iPod with Jesus songs.  Soon as I press play the ball is in your court, Lord.)

Here is a picture of what our Sunday, and nature in New York, look like.  We ventured carefully west (the BF gets a little nervous in Chelsea) toward the High Line Park, a former freight railroad that now houses deck chairs, concession stands, and cilantro from the smell of it.  One of the best things about the High Line is its proximity to Chelsea Market, home of several bakeries.  After stuffing our faces with brownies at one such bakery, we headed to The Park, a local open-air bar/restaurant, for a drink.  (Apparently we have gotten into the habit of rewarding ourselves with alcoholic beverages any time we walk to a city landmark.)  Then it was time for a vomit-inducing cab ride to church and dinner at Rare with A.C., who made a valiant effort to help us finish off the fry sampler basket.

Labor Day.  Coney Island.  Wow.  Just…WOW.  Let me put it this way: Coney Island is a place you should visit by looking at other people’s pictures.  It is…gross.  And slightly creepy.  And dirty.  It’s a place with a constant soundtrack of funhouse music similar to what you’ve heard in several horror movies, right before someone gets killed.  It’s a place where you pay a quarter to use the bathroom and leave wondering what you would have had to deal with for free.  It’s a place populated by people like Donny Vomit and Serpentina and albino boa constrictors slithering on the grass.  It’s a place where people bring folding tables from home and set them up on the beach for a cookout.   It’s a place with the Cyclone, a roller coaster that is so rickety you want to write a bucket list and start apologizing to people you’ve wronged as soon as you step off it.  But it’s also a place with corn dogs and cheese fries.  So you power through the grime and carnies, knowing that at the end you will be rewarded with meat on a stick and an Only in New York Activity to check off your list.  And an alcoholic beverage, if you’re that kind of person.

Summary:  much like it’s easy to be cool with God as long as life is going well, I think it’s easy to decry gentrification until you have to pee at Coney Island.

So that’s how summer ends…with a whimper of the N train, not the bang of a plane landing.  But Federer is in the finals, wine bars stay open all year, the new TV season is beginning, and I never have to go to Coney Island again.  Let’s do this, fall!