back on track (m)

Sitting on an Amtrak train, headed to New York.  The train is bouncing around at high speeds and I feel nauseated.  I try to pass the time by getting back to blogging, but am having a hell of a time getting the cursor in the exact spot with all the jostling.

My weight is down since last we spoke but, honestly, it's been like the stock market.  Up, down, up, down.  Today it is down and I feel re-committed to the program after a bit of a hiatus this summer.

I took H to school this morning, came home, did a laundry, made the beds and ate an egg-white omelet.  Packed my bags, then packed a lunch for the train ride--turkey, tomato, lettuce, a smear of avocado, a smear of mayonnaise (not the reduced fat kind....I'd rather have nothing than that).  One Macoun apple.  On track, baby.  Literally and figuratively.

I'm excited about this trip to New York.  Sam initiated it as he is on mid-term break and job hunting for summer.  Would I like to meet him in the City?  Absolutely.  I'll do anything to spend time with this kid.

Business class on the Acela is tolerable except for the constant swinging of the train from left to right.  Just when I was thinking I wanted a bottle of water, an attendant (!) comes by with a cart of products for sale....drinks, cheese and crackers (can't have that), chips (ditto), candy (ditto).  I get the water and am grateful I didn't have to walk the two car lengths to get it.

Arrive at the Trump Hotel Soho at 3 p.m.  I have the rest of the afternoon and the whole night ahead of me.  I'm on my own and free.  So many choices.  Lyn calls and suggests I do spa things since it's spa week in NYC...lots of deals.  I do need a pedicure since I destroyed my last one by putting my shoes on early and the polish smeared all over my toes.  It's been that way for a month.

Get to a spa in Soho.  Place looks run down even though the website said "top rated."  I get taken to a room that looks like the basement of my mother's house.  An old Chinese woman is there to do the reflexology on my feet (50% off).  She doesn't speak a word of English and points to a basin that looks like it's full of dirty water.  I shake my head.  She points more emphatically.  I won't put my feet in it.  She summons one of the guys there.  He tells me the basin is full of "Chinese medicine."  I tell him I only signed up for reflexology, not a foot detox.  He has her empty the basin.  She's pissed.

I think about leaving, but she grabs my feet and plasters them with generic brand Vaseline.  Then she begins the reflexology.  I feel my sinuses clear.  Heaven.

After that, we do the manicure/pedicure.  I bring my own polish.  The woman (different one...younger) goes to massage my hands with some sickeningly sweet peach/lavender lotion.  I shake my head "no."  She sighs and gets the unscented lotion.  Much better.

She notices the smeared nail polish on my feet from the previous pedicure and forbids me to put my shoes on.  I have to buy a pair of bamboo thong sandals.  $3.  In a size smaller than what I take.

I leave the salon in the flip flops and try to flag down a cab but am not fast enough given that the too-small-bamboo-flip-flops are constraining me.  I feel like a rickshaw driver.  I get to Thompson  St. where I buy baby gifts for my friend's daughter's baby whom I am seeing in the morning.

I see Spring Street (amazingly, since I have no clue where I am) which is where the hotel is located.  I am happy I can walk to the hotel and not have to deal with a cab.  I'm still wearing the flip flops.  I stop at a nearby restaurant that has a very European feel to it.  I peruse the menu and see salad and fish.  I go in and order  a simple green salad with grapefruit and Chilean Sea Bass.  First, I ask the waitress if the fish is skinless, boneless, headless, tail-less.  She's says yes to all of the above.

A basket of bread comes.  Uh-oh.  I have a piece, ask them to remove the rest and the butter and ask for a little olive oil.  No problem.  I ask for unsweetened ice tea.  It's ridiculously sweet.  The waitress insists it's unsweetened.  I drank it anyway but there's no way that was unsweetened.  The salad was fine.  The waiter takes away the salad plate and spills the olive oil all over the paper table cloth.  The stain is quite prominent.  It's the tablecloth equivalent of the Scarlet A.  They change the tablecloth for me.

The fish arrives.  I am stunned.  The tail is sticking up like Cameron Diaz's hair in There's Something about Mary.  Is this a joke?  Am I on Punk'd?  I try to ignore the tail and start to cut a piece of the fish.  There's skin on the underside.  I call the waitress over.  "I thought we talked about this," I said and reminded her of the specs.  Now she's telling me there's no skin on the fish (now I know there was sugar in the tea).  I tell her I can't eat it that way.  She takes the plate away rather abruptly and asks what I want.  "The check," I say.  She slams the check down on the table sans the sea bass cost.  I pay, leave a tip and walk out.

I go to bed hungry.

So much for my big night out.