Get Inked

The buzzing sounds like an incessant mosquito resting on my eardrum. Most say the noise is the worst part. The common cliche of mind versus matter runs through my head as I wait my turn. The noise rests only for the slender needle to gather more liquid ink. Instead of sucking blood, this tool punctures the skin and drags vibrant blues, greens, and oranges transforming the boring tan color of flesh into an artistic masterpiece. After 45 minutes of perfecting my idea, I roll up my T-shirt, lay on my side and inhale as deeply as possible, trying to create as much space between my rib cage and the tender thin skin that protects it.

For those of you who know me, you are well aware that I am very fond of tattoos and so is my father. He has seven while prior to last week I had two. He has his religious leg displaying an intricate Christ head, a cross wrapped in a "In Memory of Mom" banner and "In Memory of Dad" intertwined through a rose-cross hybrid.

His other leg has less of a theme, but if I had to pick one I would say it his Tribute leg. He has my name as well as my brother's in thick cursive letters, a giant horse with protruding muscles standing tall on its hind legs, and the multi-colored Autism Awareness Ribbon.

Not all people like tattoos, in fact my mom thinks his legs look like comics strips but beauty is in the eye of those who can take the pain. Tattooing is truly an art form, a honest expression of self and the amount of detail and complexity that goes into forming these epidermic showpieces, looks like they were created with a fine tuned pencil rather than a bobbing needle.

All of my father's tattoos have special meaning to him as do mine. He took me for my first tattoo on my 18th birthday, I guess you can call it one of the ways we bond. My first tattoo was the polychromatic ribbon my father has above his ankle. I remember walking into this tattoo parlor in Sayville, NY my stomach twisted up like a carnival pretzel. I signed a waiver and watched as this burly man with hair almost longer than mine, sanitized the entirety of the room. He cleaned and covered everything from the tools he was using to the phone cord that hung on the wall. He shaved my hip, cleaned the area and geared up the machinery that would permanently paint my flesh. Maybe it was the spot of my tattoo, but it didn't necessarily hurt. It felt more like he was rubbing a piece of sandpaper on my hip.

Seventy-five dollars and twenty five minutes later I walked out an addict.

Less than a year later I was ready for tattoo number two. My friend had a cousin who was a tattoo artist, so on a steamy summer day we went together, both getting secondary pigmentations. I repeated the cleansing process this time on the inside of my foot and gripped the chair so hard I put holes in the bottom. There was more fatty tissue on my hip, more flesh to absorb the needles' wrath. Flexing my foot, I felt like he had stabbed me with a blunt object and was literally dragging it through my tendons. After five minutes, which felt like five days, I limped away painfully content with "Monti" branded on my left foot forever.

I vowed to myself I was done. Two sounded like a good number and nothing else really moved me enough to paste it indelibly on my body. The Autism Awareness Ribbon was a tribute to my 17 year old brother who has autism. The intermingling puzzle pieces decorated my hip and reminded me of every struggle, lesson, and journey he has taken my family on. It may just be a pretty ribbon but it represents the open-mindedness, selflessness and patience Nicholas singlehandedly instilled in me; it might just be ink on skin but it symbolizes that baby steps for some can be leaps and bounds for others. To me, it personifies the real meaning of sacrifice.

There are only three Monti women in my entire family, one in each generation. I have Cohen cousins and DeSalvo cousins, but I am the lone female Monti. Thanks to tradition, if I ever decide to engage in that whole marriage idea, it will erase Monti from my license, my bills, and the last name scribbled on my future children's math tests. My brother is the only other Monti in our generation and I have a strong feeling he probably won't be saying "I do" before a priest anytime in the near future. We cant even get him to accept the "cookie" on Sundays, let alone get him into the church and the closest he has come to a relationship is carrying around a decrepit picture of some girl in his class that he tore out of his school yearbook. So if I do decide to take part in the sanctity of marriage, even though my last name will legally change I'll always have it with me.

It wasn't until the last month of school when a saying stirred something inside me; put the way I view the world into words. My boyfriend, who has a tattoo of his own, had an idea for a new one: "Count life's blessings, not its problems." It struck me. My entire life I have been conditioned to see the brighter side of things. I have been forced to see the glass as half full, to look past the tribulations and see the silver lining even if it was buried beneath tears and trauma. Optimism has been carved into my brain whether I liked it or not.

I sat on the idea for a few months and finally a few weeks after my 22nd birthday I walked into the Devil's Rose in Bluepoint, NY with my hands shaking. Even though I already had two tattoos, that familiar buzzing dragged up my two vastly different experiences, fairly distressing and relatively traumatizing. The man that did my first tattoo left his first parlor in Sayville, and with a new partner, they started their own.

Typically when you walk into a tattoo parlor you are bombarded with skulls, pictorial half naked pin up girls and a sound system blasting screaming voices that never should have gotten a record deal, but Devil's Rose is different. Its somewhat vintage feel was less dark and intimidating than the other places I had been. There were random knickknacks on the walls, turquoise bar stools, and three rooms separated by old changing screens. Even though Devil's Rose is fairly new, it is inviting and friendly unlike many other tattoo parlors that try to fit that stereotypical dark and evil image.

I met with Eric, who had cut off all his hair since I last saw him, and after three drawings he perfected my next tattoo. I lay on the cold cushioned table and stretched my arm towards the opposite side of the room. Buzzing ensued and so did the torture. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be until that needle crept directly over my ribs.

Peaceful or about to die?

The fact that my arm cupped my ear was not only making me lose sensation in that shoulder but seemed to amplify the sounds I heard inside my body. It felt as if the needle plunged right through my flesh and I could hear it vibrating the bone. Every single one of my muscles tensed, ceased, and cried for mercy but I did not say a word. It was so worth it. 

Puffy and bloody :)

Whether it is one of those domino effect days where you wake up with a huge pimple, put sour milk in your cereal, get a flat tire on your way to work and then get there and realize its Saturday or when it seems like your being battered mercilessly by life and can not see the light at the end of that eternal tunnel, I can look down and always be reminded to count all the blessings in my life rather than to harp on all its problems. It can ALWAYS be worse. 

OH MY GOD ITS SANTA!

As I scoured every Chamber of Commerce website throughout the whole eastern end of the island for an engaging activity to take part in, I have come to the realization that the cold blistered hands of winter boredom are starting to suffocate the Hamptons. Its official…summer is just a cozy memory that is failing to warm up my tripled socked feet and stark white complexion.

As the hours of daylight dwindle so do the opportunities of things to do. I mean you can only indulge in a creamy greasy far from healthy dining experience so many times before you need to exchange your skinny jeans for maternity pants.

Going to the movies gets old when you repeat seeing flicks just because “its something to do” and the woman that rips your ticket starts recognizing you as the one that always gets peanut M&M’s.

I’m sure bars are remotely the same in any town but since the population here shrinks throughout the winter, there are less innocent by standers to help you avoid forced conversation with the girl that sat behind you in Mr. Broich’s earth science class junior year. No need to pay for a high school reunion there is one every Thursday night at Buckley’s in Hampton Bays.

I needed to engage myself in something different. Despite my love for the Hamptons and all the things it (usually) has to offer, I refuse to become accustom to the repetitiveness and uniformity that has become a Saturday night.

Problem: Monotony

Solution: Santa con.

Despite the fact that temperatures above 30 are no longer a possibility and it has already snowed twice even though the calendar keeps reminding me its still technically fall, this season has something very special to offer: Christmas! And what better way to start off the holiday season than with a Santa Claus convention.

According to the website, SantaCon is “a non-denominational, non-commercial, non-political and non-sensical Santa Claus convention that occurs once a year for absolutely no reason.” The night before the big event some mysterious Santacon leader posts about 12 starting points all over Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, and Hoboken. Commencing at 10 a.m. (college style) this anti-bar crawl (every time someone calls it a bar crawl a sugar plum fairy dies) begins a 12-hour drinking binge throughout one of the most entertaining and lively cities in the world.

Sanatacon is held in 179 cities in 24 countries but it only seems fitting that in New York City would you be walking down the street and look up to hundreds of intoxicated Santa Claus’ chanting inappropriate versions of Christmas carols and substituting milk and cookies for questionable beverages in brown paper bags and slices of pizza. 

My friends and I, sporting antlers and “Hi, my name is (insert reindeer here)” name tags, hopped on the 9:57 train out of Speonk with bagels and train libations. Even though we missed the starting point, Rudolph friend was receiving updates via twitter about the next bar sites.

Santacon was the epitome of social media. Whoever was posting updates managed to organize and usher hundreds of people all over Manhattan, all through a few 160-character displays. 

After the first pit stop (which we missed) the Santa tweeter posted the next destination to be Central Park. After sporadically spotting a few fellow Santas here and there on the subway, we screeched to a halt at the 77^th exit and followed a couple of guys dressed up in red suits and beards. As we got closer to the park, the color red started infringing on my line of sight. It was like Manhattan suddenly had a red, white and black nosebleed. 

It was like Santa was multiplying. Indian chief Santa, taco Santa, robot Santa, skanky Santa, male genitalia Santa, hockey Santa and World Cup Santa who was petitioning to have the 2026 World Cup at the North Pole converged from all directions. The Christmas spirit surged through the Upper East Side as a sea of red washed over Central Park. Camaraderie was established instantaneously due to a similar interest in alcohol and Santa suits.

But the outfits weren’t just limited to St. Nick copycats. Girls were wrapped up as gifts addressed to men from God, dreidels represented the Jewish community, and reindeer galloped through the park with snap-on snouts and artificial hooves. It was actually a true testament to creativity.

One of the best parts was the spectators that had no idea what was going on. On our way to the next bar, one thoroughly confused elderly woman stopped us. Somewhat agitated she wouldn’t let us proceed on our jolly crawl without informing her why she did not know about this Santa Claus convention. As we worked our way back through the subways towards the West Village little children’s faces lit up with excitement as hundreds of Santas stepped onto the platform. It was every five year old’s dream! Too bad for them the only gifts these men in red could offer were slurred words and empty cans.

When we finally got downtown it was bursting at its seams with Santas. Bleeker Street is renowned for its pub scene, all bars within walking distance of each other and one more fun then the next. And I’m sure that’s true, if we could get into them. We settled on a Mexican restaurant where the two bartenders looked a mix of extremely overwhelmed and slightly scared of these dollar flinging Santa Claus’ desperate to continue their Christmas buzz. Standing at the front of the pack, my friends and I waited a half hour without being served.

It was so ridiculously crowded the only place where we could quench our thirst was at delis and an empty restaurant called Café Espanol. Even McDonalds was over populated with reindeer and snowmen. We decided to escape the wild world of Santaland to an uncanny getaway: Times Square. We enjoyed the rest of our evening at the Heartland Brewery and singing “Rudolph the red nose reindeer” loudly for all to hear, as we were herded through 42^nd street. 

Its Just Hair

Webster's dictionary defines hair as
1. any of the numerous fine, usually cylindrical keratinous filaments growing from the skin of humans and animals
2. a filamentous outgrowth of the epidermis

TLC Style reported in an article about the physics behind hair coloring, that except for the few cells growing at the root, hair is, in laments terms, dead tissue.

So hair is actually pretty disgusting, biologically speaking, and I was sporting an obscene amount of dark brown dead tissues in strand-like form. But I loved my dark brown dead tissue.

Family photo (minus Nicholas) at my cousin Amanda's absolutely fabulous wedding.

I've always loved my hair; we had a delightfully symbiotic relationship. It kept me warm through the blistery winter wrapping its thick sturdy strands around my neck like a botanical scarf. It was always in a magnificent mood but even when it was having a bad day it would still let me manage it by blasting it with hot air and sticking it between two scalding metal plates. It didn't get angry with my 14-year-old self when I ironed it; it patiently waited its turn after dad's jeans and mom's collared shirts. Lately it was long enough to cover up an exposed bra strap or too much cleavage. It was versatile and flexible, two qualities hard to find in people let alone hair. It looked good pin straight or in curls.

In return I would let it breathe on the weekends, free of product and hot tools. I tried to steer clear of my boyfriend's incessant need to pluck the poor white ones from its brothers and sisters. I thought I had a decent balance of natural oils and cleanliness, even though my parents probably beg to differ.

It boosted my self confidence. Sometimes I would pretend I was in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials; the ones where women would flip their long luxurious shiny hair back and forth as it cascaded down their backs like furry waterfalls. My hair wasn't just expired cells, it was my sexy blanket. Any time I had a zit the size of Lake Tahoe, I thought at least I have pretty hair. Whenever I felt like my love handles were big enough to have their own area code I thought to myself its okay at least people compliment my hair. Simply, it made me feel hot. (Wow I sound vain).

But it was that Webster's dictionary definition that I needed to repeat over and over in my head when I walked into Toni's Barber Shop on Mill Road in Westhampton Beach. People always gawk at me when I tell them I, a woman, get my hair cut at a barber shop. Well, for your information barbers no more than how to shape up side burns and give buzz cuts.

Toni's is this tiny building tucked tightly behind Westhampton Beach town and its overflowing with local culture, smiling faces, and wagging tails (Mildred and Bernie, Toni's two dogs are always happy to entertain customers). Toni's gives Westhampton a feisty undertone of authenticity. I feel like I'm walking into a friend's living room, its cozy and inviting and moderately priced. I'm sorry but it is absolutely ridiculous to pay $70 for a haircut and I've gotten some of the best haircuts of my life in this Westhampton Beach treasure.

I have been going to Toni's for over four years so the girls there understand how I am connected to my hair and how my father is as well. He told me if I cut my hair off he was changing the locks on our doors. This coming from a man that forbids me to tuck my hair behind my ear at the dinner table in fear of a strand being set free and making its way all the way across the table into his salad. I would assume short hair would be accepted by him, its less surface area he'd have to worry about but no, "short hair is for old ladies and Doris Day." (Not like I know who that is).

Well thankfully his opinion was busy picking up my brother from school and I took the first of our three appointments. That TLC style report was replaying over and over in my head, along with another realization I had conjured in the car.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner and I often feel that the real meaning of the holiday spirit gets lost behind toy trucks and cranberry sauce. I've always loved my hair and the way it made me feel about myself but there are millions of children that don't have the decision to wear their hair curly or straight, up or down. Instead they have to decide which cancer treatment will be the most aggressive or how to explain to their gawking classmates what alopceia areata is (AA is the medical description of unwelcome and involuntary hair loss from the head and body).

I got to enjoy my hair for 22 years, its someone else's turn.

So as Toni separated my hair into four braids I felt my legs start to quiver. A pit grew in the center of my stomach, the same familiar brick I get before I have to speak in front of a class or get on an airplane. I tried to keep my anxiety inside, I mean its just hair, at least I have the luxury of mine growing back. As she picked up those shiny sharp silver scissors, my hands went numb. Snip, snip, snip...I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, those four braids were lounging on the counter among the stuffed cars and tootsie pops, ready to be wrapped and shipped off to Locks of Love- a non-profit organization that creates wigs for financially disadvantaged children suffering from any type of medical hair loss.

I parted ways with my dark brown dead tissue and felt a warmness surge through my body, but this emotion wasn't one stemming from apprehension. This flutter came from serenity; I helped someone. I hopefully helped a little girl gain the self-assurance I felt when I had looked in the mirror. Hopefully I helped someone get through the day without having to shield themselves from ignorant stares. Maybe I made someone's day just a little bit easier.

And when I went home, my key still worked!

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