Vortexes, Shimmies, and Corkscrews

After a very unhealthy weekend of deliciously thick clam chowder, goat cheese and avocado grilled cheeses and more vodka than my liver can probably handle post-college, I returned from a birthday weekend in Boston, Massachusetts feeling bloated and hungover.

ON A SIDE NOTE: My friends and I are not allowed to travel long distance in the same car. If you follow this blog you remember the multiple tire catastrophe en route to and from Baltimore. This trip was a different driver and a different car and yet we still managed to get ourselves into a fender bender. Trying to catch a 6:30 ferry out of Port Jeff, our chauffeur, MB, slowed down to get off the exit and was rear-ended. We were completely unharmed, my first thought at the bump in the back was a blown tire of course, but the other driver lost control of the car and pummeled through a Long Island Expressway sign. After MB got out of the car to swap insurances and we found that the young girl was physically unharmed, we all inappropriately broke out in hysterical laughter since the automobile Gods obviously think it's funny to torment on our road trips.

And back to the purpose of this post.

On Mondays nights for the past month my mother and I have been attending a Hula Hoopdancing class at St. Mary's Church on Ponquogue Ave in Hampton Bays. At first I laughed at the idea thinking hula hooping was only a pastime of five year old girls and probably cheerleaders, but a woman I work with  swore to me she left the class sorer than any day at the gym.

So Monday night at 6 p.m., we waltz into the bland beige rec room at St. Marys. It hardly seemed like a place to work out; there's no sound system, no mirrors, and no crazy gym rats ballistically pumping themselves up in the corner (I can live without the latter). Despite the bad lighting and children's artistic interpretations of Jesus, their was a vibrant sparkle coming from the corner of the room; a mix of the hand-crafted multi-colored weighted hula hoops used during class and the inviting smile of the beautiful instructor: Jami Goleski.

This petite woman, with not an ounce of body fat might I add, greeted us with such enthusiasm and energy, I handed my $15 without even realizing it. Hoop dancing is a relatively new workout to seize the interest of fitness-minded women. Unlike other cardio-oriented aerobic classes where you follow the instructor's every move for the entire class, hoop dancing merges instruction with individual practice. Its a class for beginners and advanced hoopers alike.

During the first class, I picked up my hoop, placed it around my waist, gave it a spin, and watched it swivel around me right back down to the floor. Next time I put more emphasis into my hooping "technique" which probably mimicked a person about to have a seizure.

After we stretched with our hoops, Jami explained power points to us, either being your belly button and small of your back or either sides of your waist; when the hoop hits those points you give a little push for it to gain momentum. Plus the motion in itself gives your abs a workout that is less painful and just as effective as simple old crunches.

After the first class I had waist hooping down to a perfection...so did the five year old girl in the pink spandex to my left. Since the class envelopes all levels of hoop dancers, Jami teaches more advanced moves for those who are ready or eager to learn. She puts herself in slow motion. She explains hand placements and shows us how to move your whole body in order to gain more velocity for off the body moves. She then gives us the second part of the class to work on what we have learned and she hoops around giving us personal assistance.

Watching Jami hoop dance is like watching a piece of art. It looks so simple, as if the hoop is not a plastic plaything sold in Target but an extension of the body that moves with fluidity and grace. Its more than a just prop, its like another limb. Jami left her profession as a teacher to pursue a rewarding career as a mother. She said she taught herself how to hoop dance through YouTube videos. After 6 months of bruises and pure dedication, she has created Hip-Mama Hula Hoops. She teaches her own classes and creates custom hoops for her students, always with a smile on her face.

Each week we work on the skills we have already mastered and attempt to conquer the next step to becoming a hoopdancing guru, and each week I drive home with pretty purple bruises on the backs of my hands and happily aching abdominals.

Golf Looks Way Easier on Television

I would rather get a root canal then watch the US Open or the Masters, which is saying a lot since I'm petrified of the dentist. As a football fanatic, golf in comparison seems just plain uneventful. Its a group of typically wealthy older men wearing loud checkerboard pants with ostentatious sweater vests getting carted around acres of pretty scenery. They don't even have to do any of their own leg work! They have a young kid (or a homeless man if you're Happy Gilmore) lugging around a golf bag that usually weighs more then they do. After a "long days" work, the winner of the US Open last year took home a check for $1,260,000. Even the person is 60th place took 17,000! All of this money, to get a small white ball in a small round hole.

At least in football it seems like those players earn their multi-million dollar salaries. Contact, violence, fumbles, fancy thoroughly thought out plays, fights; its exciting to watch. No wonder America, the most desensitized nation in the world, is the only country to have this brutally addicting game. Nonetheless, I plop myself on the couch every Sunday to watch grown men rip through running backs and linebackers try to rip off a quarterback's cranium. Despite the barbarian nature behind the sport at least it seems like there's some skill involved. Whether it be Ladainian Tomlinson dancing his way to a first down or Hakeen Nicks makes a one-handed catch through double coverage in the end zone, this is a sport I can appreciate.

My father, being a sports fan in general, loves golf. He wakes up at 5 am on a Saturday in 30 degree weather (wearing shorts) to enjoy this so called game. So one Monday morning (at 8 not 5 thank God), he extended the invitation to play 18 holes with him at the Baiting Hollow Country Club, and by play he meant chauffeur. So it was either drive a golf cart around and hit a few balls or hang out with the cleaning lady that was coming that morning. Even though I'm not the game's biggest fan, I dislike the smell of ammonia even more.

We get to the club and order some breakfast. I got an egg white omelet with peppers, onions, and swiss cheese and my dad got a tower of french toast sticks that looked like they should model in a food magazine, we were off to the driving range to warm up. We stretched and I watched him hit a few balls. Psh simple. I get up there, pretend I'm sitting on a bar stool as my father so hysterically says I should know how to do, straighten my left arm and bend my right. I wind up and swing. Whoosh! I completely miss the ball...again and again and again. By the 10th try I think I must have sprained a muscle in my ribs and a blister is taking over the bottom half of my palm. Discouraged, I get back into the cart.

Golf looks way easier on television.

So on to the first hole we go. My dad makes me stop at what look like metal plates in the ground that have numbers engraved in them. As he using his feet to measure the distance between his ball and those plates, he spits out mental math like a savant. He checks where the hole is on the guide in the cart and carefully chooses his weapon. As we sail over to the green, I get out in an attempt to putt. This has to be easier than the driving range I think to myself; I'm a pro at mini golf. Well there are no clowns heads or secret passages here. Just getting a small white ball into a small round hole, seems easy enough. Guess again.

Golf is a game of opposites. If you try to lift the ball up in the air, it will line drive. If you pull your club back too far to putt and stop short to avoid it catapulting across the green, it will hop over the hole and down the ruff like its desperately running away from you. It's not a game of brute force and strength. It's a game of patience and finesse.  In this game you cant plow down a field simply because you ate more Yodell's and weigh more then the next guy. Its about strategy and delicacy, which is harder to translate through a TV screen than spin moves and 80-yard passes.

At the 14th hole, my father found himself in the sandpit which was positioned slightly underneath the putting green with the hole being on the opposite end. He made his way through the dwarfed desert, multitude of clubs in hand and took his shot. I watched the ball pop up out of the sandpit like a pop-fly at a baseball game, bounce onto the green and slowly roll right into the hole. I never saw that on TV and that was one of the few holes he had gotten a birdie (one stroke below the number of strokes allowed to complete a hole). At the end of the day, he shot a 79, the first time he got below 80 on that course, which I now understand is really difficult to do for the average human being.

Now I'm not saying I'm going to become the next Michelle Wie, but now when the Masters is on the television I won't storm out of the room. I can now watch it through different eyes, ones that have failed miserably at a game I never took the time to understand. I mean I would still choose to watch Justin Tuck flatten Tony Romo like a tortilla, but now I can root for Phil Michelson not just because my dad tells me to. Plus, I found a new way to enjoy a beautiful fall day even if I do wake up the next morning feeling like I've been kicked in the ribs by a donkey.

Don't Be Afraid to Wiggle

It seems oddly inappropriate to sensually shake your hips and gyrate across the carpet of a library, but its perfectly acceptable every Saturday morning at the Zumba class at the Westhampton Beach Public Library. Zumba seems to be the new craze consuming the fitness world, a fusion of Latin and international music that creates a dynamic, calorie-blasting aerobic workout.

Skeptical at first, considering my hips don’t lie about my inability to hold any sort of rhythm, Zumba seemed like a class only suitable for those with dance experience or those with behinds that shake like Beyonce's. One of the waiters I work with is part time server, part time Zumba instructor and is always spinning me around the kitchen trying to convince me to take his class. I know he would be a fabulous teacher but Southampton is a hike and a half from Remsenburg especially if it’s just to go make a fool out of myself.

After perusing the library shelves for movies to soak up some of our free time, Mariela informed me her mother had signed her and herself up for a Zumba class that was only 30 dollars for 8 classes, which is such a steal especially in the Hamptons. I inferred, secretly hoping the class was full, but there were two spots left. One for me, one for my mother, sign me up!

So Saturday morning rolls around and I tear myself out of sweet slumber, throw on workout clothes, and inhale a Chobani Pineapple Greek Yogurt as we run out the door to our first class.

Checking in at the door, there was a wide array of women stretching in front of me; working moms, aged hippies, twenty-somethings to sixty-somethings, overweight and those with a negative BMI. The carpeted room was not nearly large enough to hold this Zumba army. I guess you didn’t have to be a young, fit, and Latina to partake in a Zumba. Taking a spot in the back of the room, I tried to maneuver my eyesight beyond brunette, blond and bald alike to focus on the extremely enthusiastic woman wearing the trademark squiggle on her neon tank top. 

As the music filled the small room, the instructor started with simple moves, tapping your toes, lifting your knees, nothing too complex. The class is a monkey see monkey do technique, stringing together dances steps, high kicks, arm movements and booty shakes, all in sync with the beats flowing from the stereo in the front of the room. It’s such a different experience then going to the gym and running on the treadmill until your legs feel like jelly or spending days in the weight room repetitively lifting and lowering those black rectangular blocks. It was invigorating, constantly changing and just plain fun. And I wasn’t the worst one in the room!

As we rapidly grapevined across the room to Nagila Hava and swiftly shook what all our mama’s gave us to tribal sounding African sounds, sweat surged from every pore my body possessed. Half way through, my shirt was clinging to my collar bone for dear life. My socks began to feel like I had taken them out of the washer before the spin cycle and my hair was wetter than when I get out of the shower. As your body undulates to the thumping and pulsing rhythms, the instructor reminds you: “Don’t be afraid to wiggle ladies!” Her bottom half looked like it was unattached, convulsing like it had it's own spine, its own mind. She was a prime wiggler.

After one of the best workouts of my life for basically $3.75, my mother and I walked back to our car and were distracted by the tops of white tents speckling the Village Green & Gazebo at the beginning of town. The Chamber of Commerce Arts & Crafts show graced the vibrant green lawn, showcasing artisans and vendors selling handcrafted art. There’s everything from stained glass and sculptures to wood furnishing, jewelry and metal work. I fell in love with a necklace made out of silk string and a gorgeous gold ring with turquoise gems.

Besides the breathtaking watercolors and interesting fiber work, the people that attend these shows are entertaining. It’s early enough in autumn that the weekends still create a rustle in the Hamptons, especially on a holiday weekend. From pooches in purses sporting Burberry jackets to burnt old ladies swiping their credit cards so frequently they're probably hotter then the temperature outside; the people are a separate show on their own.

Post-craft show, we continued down Mill Road to another Chamber of Commerce sponsored occasion, this one being weekly: the Westhampton Beach Farmers Market. Every Saturday morning from early April to mid December, the concrete parking lot behind the Fire House transforms into a sensory nirvana.  My best advice for attending this flavorful event is don’t come starving or with your credit card because you will definitely want to spend every last penny you own supporting the local famers. From Fat Ass Fudge to The Apotheca, the Farmer’s Market has enough products to satisfy any interest. Cheesecakes, homemade truffles, locally caught seafood, pickles, gluten-free potato chips, jams, jellies, flowers and more, all invite you to taste test and purchase.

We went to get tomatoes…just tomatoes. We left with raviolis, a homemade foccacia with roasted tomatoes and caramelized onions, fresh lavender and some vegetable I can’t pronounce that is in the broccoli family. On the way home, we realized we never got the tomatoes.  

Welcome to Wine Country

Sixty-eight and sunny, not a single cloud in the sky. Not even the remnants of a cloud. There are not too many days where the sky is so crystal clear it seems like someone took a larger than life roller, dripping blue, and painted the sky like a canvas, dipping up and down to avoid rolling over the lush green tree tops. It's kind of amazing, if you really think about it. Just pure blue, the gradient of color going from pale to deep like an artist's palette, trying to find the perfect combination. It's even more breathtaking when the entire week was washed out by raging rainstorms and the chilly reminder that it's fall. What better way to celebrate such a fabulous day than with some fermented grapes.

The North Fork of Long Island has a hidden treasure, only available for enjoyment to those of legal age. Amid all the hoopla that hangs around the East End, the North Shore shines as the lure of the Hamptons dwindles with the changing season. On Saturday morning, my boyfriend trekked his way across two thirds of the Tri-state area to spend some time with yours truly. Both being immature and ill-informed wine drinkers, we usually scoop up a bottle of $5 Sutter Home Cabernet at the local liquor store, a poor habit of a broke college student looking for a buzz, but now that we are older and wiser (college educated and all) we thought it would be fun to treat ourselves (and our tastebuds) to the glitz and glory of wine country. 

According to LIVineyardTours.com, the first vineyard to grace the north shore of Long Island was in 1973 when Louisa and Alex Hargrave pioneered an industry that has boomed and blossomed over the past three decades. This savvy couple had the prudence to see the potential in the north fork after research found the soil and climate to be exceptionally similar to Bordeaux's, a city in the southwest of France that produces some of the finest and most expensive wines in the world. Today, over 50 vineyards have sprung up on the north and south shores, but the majority of them wrap around the northern part of the island's jagged tail. 

Following my GPS' robotic voice to Rt. 25 in Aquebogue, we passed signs for roasted corn, pumpkin picking and hayrides to Paumanok Vineyards. As wine tasting virgins, we walked inside and waited behind a crowd of sweaters, swarming the counter like flies on a piece of left over fruit. Finally, a kind looking curly-headed woman named Ana tossed us a laminated paper listing the various flights we could chose from. 

As preferable red drinkers, we chose the second flight that consisted of a 2007 Barrel Fermented Chardonnay, the 2006 Merlot (which we liked so much that we later purchased a bottle), the 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon, and the 2007 Cabernet Franc. As the designated driver, I only took one sip from my petite glass then poured the rest of mine into Max's (no wonder he fell asleep at 9:00 that night). Then Ana pulled out the big guns. 

The 2000 Assemblage. Bless you Ana. This was the smoothest wine I had ever tasted in my life. As I sipped mine I saw Max's eyes become twice the size of his wine glass and I knew he shared the same satisfaction I was getting from this liquid paradise.

He bought us two glasses and we went to claim a seat outside to enjoy the day, the wine, and each other's company. One lesson we learned from our fellow wine tasters: bring food. People pulled out coolers of vibrant red and green grapes, creamy cheese and crusty crackers. Everyone looked so content. To our right were four girls munching on Cape Cod potato chips with they're feet up, giggling and taking pictures. To our left was an elderly couple, sharing a bottle, with years of love and experience etched into their faces and their intertwined hands. 

We sat beneath the sunshine for two hours and just talked, a simple act that many people often take for granted. It seems like everyone is always trying to fill up life with noise and things. Appointments, text messaging, to-do lists, television, technology; there is always some sort of distraction to disrupt the sanctitude of human interaction. I don't know if it was the soothing mixture of wine and sun that helped me conjure up this worldly epiphany about the beauty in simplicity, but don't worry my philosophical revelation was cancelled out by take out and Russell Crowe decapitating Romans, while Max slept on the couch with a hang over. 

our one cheesy couple picture