"Oh Oh Oh, Listen To The Music"
For the first time ever I went to an RPM class. That's basically a trademark name for "spinning" or "cycling". It was totally intense. I rode on a stationary bike, increasing or decreasing the resistance, pedaling away, sometimes standing up or sitting forward in "aerodynamic mode".
What I thought was absolutely hilarious is the way the instructors (I also noticed this with my dance aerobics instructors yesterday) love to sing along to the music that they are playing and make comments along with it. Here are some examples...
Today, pedaling to Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy":
"I hope you guys are having the time of your lives!
Ha ha ha! Bless your souls!...
'Cause you're about to go up a hill!! Stand up!!...
I think you're crazy!!
I think you're crazy for going up another hill!! Wooo! Stand up!
No you're not crazy for working out this hard!!
And you guys wont definitely die when you're done!"
An example from yesterday's class was when Timberlake's "SexyBack" played and they both yelled,
"Come on ladies! You gotta bring sexyback! Yeah!!
You're bringing sexyback, and back and back four more steps! Yeah"
All in time with the beat and music. Both classes came with the mantra: "Listen to the music, feel that beat and move to it!"
I thought it was great, and my sore legs can prove it.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
This is not a part of the "Hellhole That Is August" series...
I grew up in the Bronx's east side.
Here, maybe this will help a little. See the picture? See the buildings on the right hand side, right over the school bus? Now see the brown building and the little row of pink-ish ones? I lived in the first of the pinkish ones, lowest on the hill, right beside the brown one.
My brother and I would walk to the bottom of the hill, round the corner on Carpenter Ave. and head over to school and back again. Everyday, on the way home from school, we would pass the same street cart, right at the corner of the mechanics shop, across the street from Our Lady of Mercy Hospital.
The smells coming from that vendor's cart were mouthwatering. It was the typical New York street cart with the umbrella casting a shadow over the man, the aluminum cart with wheels and compartments that stored boiled hot dogs and the condiments. But it wasn't the hot dogs we were tempted by. It was the smell of grilling onions and peppers. The cart vendor sold kebabs.
We'd walk by and I'd eye him slyly to see where that smell came from and what it was. I heard someone ask for a "kebab" and saw the vendor pick up a skewer with onions and peppers and meat on it, dripping with juices. Now, we were brought up on a diet of Filipino goodness full of soy sauce and salt and hot rice. We also knew french fries and hamburgers well. We often had mom's style of shish kebab, which was basically, marinated pork cubes, skewered and grilled. But we never had onions and peppers mixed into it, and certainly not beef or whatever that meat was...
So, one day, my brother and I discussed the possibilities of perhaps sampling this cuisine and decided to buy just one, to share, along with two cokes. We pooled our money, walked cautiously toward the vendor, pointed to one of the sticks and the cokes. He extracted a kebab from the pile, rolled it in some foil, handed that and the cans to me.
I can't remember how much it was. But I do remember the disappointment of bland, tough, meat and undercooked onions and peppers.
From then on, we were cured. Never again would we fall for those smells. We did buy an occasional boiled hot dog (I hate boiled hot dogs) and soda. We went back to chips and soda or just whatever was waiting for us at home.
I have, since then, created my own shish kabobs, cubes of marinated steaks, skewered along with peppers, onions and sweet cherry tomatoes. Served on a plate of rice pilaf makes it perfect.
At least the sodas were always cold.
Me.
I grew up in the Bronx's east side.
Here, maybe this will help a little. See the picture? See the buildings on the right hand side, right over the school bus? Now see the brown building and the little row of pink-ish ones? I lived in the first of the pinkish ones, lowest on the hill, right beside the brown one.
My brother and I would walk to the bottom of the hill, round the corner on Carpenter Ave. and head over to school and back again. Everyday, on the way home from school, we would pass the same street cart, right at the corner of the mechanics shop, across the street from Our Lady of Mercy Hospital.
The smells coming from that vendor's cart were mouthwatering. It was the typical New York street cart with the umbrella casting a shadow over the man, the aluminum cart with wheels and compartments that stored boiled hot dogs and the condiments. But it wasn't the hot dogs we were tempted by. It was the smell of grilling onions and peppers. The cart vendor sold kebabs.
We'd walk by and I'd eye him slyly to see where that smell came from and what it was. I heard someone ask for a "kebab" and saw the vendor pick up a skewer with onions and peppers and meat on it, dripping with juices. Now, we were brought up on a diet of Filipino goodness full of soy sauce and salt and hot rice. We also knew french fries and hamburgers well. We often had mom's style of shish kebab, which was basically, marinated pork cubes, skewered and grilled. But we never had onions and peppers mixed into it, and certainly not beef or whatever that meat was...
So, one day, my brother and I discussed the possibilities of perhaps sampling this cuisine and decided to buy just one, to share, along with two cokes. We pooled our money, walked cautiously toward the vendor, pointed to one of the sticks and the cokes. He extracted a kebab from the pile, rolled it in some foil, handed that and the cans to me.
I can't remember how much it was. But I do remember the disappointment of bland, tough, meat and undercooked onions and peppers.
From then on, we were cured. Never again would we fall for those smells. We did buy an occasional boiled hot dog (I hate boiled hot dogs) and soda. We went back to chips and soda or just whatever was waiting for us at home.
I have, since then, created my own shish kabobs, cubes of marinated steaks, skewered along with peppers, onions and sweet cherry tomatoes. Served on a plate of rice pilaf makes it perfect.
At least the sodas were always cold.
Me.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Light At The End of the Tunnel Turned Out To Be A Train
a.k.a. The Hellhole That is August (Part One)
So, as some of you know, Rich and I are looking around at potential towns and homes. We've driven hours and hours out of our way just for a piece of good earth where we can set our roots and grow a family. Some areas were actually not too bad and we based this on the scientific evidence known as "checking out the supermarket" and "driving around and seeing how bad the poverty is". Of course we drove past and through a number of trailer homes and mobile homes, some clean and over 55, some were a mess with cars on cinder blocks and people just covered in dirt. Literally.
Lots of people in pick-up trucks with heavy accents, toting the Confederate Flag, not once but twice or more. Of course there were the glimpses, the teases, of rolling hills and lovely, perfect homes, in the distance (literally and figuratively meant). There was poverty and there was opulence, sometimes just two blocks down from one another.
We changed our minds again and again, forgoing the acreage just for a nice little house with a backyard and back again. Nothing compared to a lot of the amenities that our current town offers, i.e. wide sidewalks or any sidewalks at all, proximity to places that we go all the time, and more than one supermarket...
So why not just buy into this town? Because of the crushing expense! To buy a one bedroom condo is already out of our home price range! And there are people here who are just so disgustingly rude, brash, cold, entitled. Yes, I hate to say it, but many are from north Jersey! I know, what a horrible thing to say! When I worked in a hotel, we would dread February because that's when "they" came and it was a month of complaints, of screamings and insistence that they get it YESTERDAY! Thank God Feb. is a short month. Man, you'd think that once they moved down south they'd relax a little. It's not that they are full of it, because that title goes to Texas... where everything is big, even egos, but they are full of s*it.
Yes I'm mad at them, they make my town unlivable and therefore make me want to leave and end up in a place that isn't picturesque, that doesn't invite one to go biking or rollerblading, running or just walking.
In conclusion, we may just rent another year here until we find something more suitable...
haha
It took me an hour to write this post because I got caught up on reading all the sites that hate New Jersey people. And we don't mean you people who live in south jersey. You're basically in PA or Delaware anyway.
Join me for part two, the hellishness of cars and their break systems, as my series on "the hellhole that is august" continues.
Me.
P.S. Countdown to the end of August: 10 days left!
a.k.a. The Hellhole That is August (Part One)
So, as some of you know, Rich and I are looking around at potential towns and homes. We've driven hours and hours out of our way just for a piece of good earth where we can set our roots and grow a family. Some areas were actually not too bad and we based this on the scientific evidence known as "checking out the supermarket" and "driving around and seeing how bad the poverty is". Of course we drove past and through a number of trailer homes and mobile homes, some clean and over 55, some were a mess with cars on cinder blocks and people just covered in dirt. Literally.
Lots of people in pick-up trucks with heavy accents, toting the Confederate Flag, not once but twice or more. Of course there were the glimpses, the teases, of rolling hills and lovely, perfect homes, in the distance (literally and figuratively meant). There was poverty and there was opulence, sometimes just two blocks down from one another.
We changed our minds again and again, forgoing the acreage just for a nice little house with a backyard and back again. Nothing compared to a lot of the amenities that our current town offers, i.e. wide sidewalks or any sidewalks at all, proximity to places that we go all the time, and more than one supermarket...
So why not just buy into this town? Because of the crushing expense! To buy a one bedroom condo is already out of our home price range! And there are people here who are just so disgustingly rude, brash, cold, entitled. Yes, I hate to say it, but many are from north Jersey! I know, what a horrible thing to say! When I worked in a hotel, we would dread February because that's when "they" came and it was a month of complaints, of screamings and insistence that they get it YESTERDAY! Thank God Feb. is a short month. Man, you'd think that once they moved down south they'd relax a little. It's not that they are full of it, because that title goes to Texas... where everything is big, even egos, but they are full of s*it.
Yes I'm mad at them, they make my town unlivable and therefore make me want to leave and end up in a place that isn't picturesque, that doesn't invite one to go biking or rollerblading, running or just walking.
In conclusion, we may just rent another year here until we find something more suitable...
haha
It took me an hour to write this post because I got caught up on reading all the sites that hate New Jersey people. And we don't mean you people who live in south jersey. You're basically in PA or Delaware anyway.
Join me for part two, the hellishness of cars and their break systems, as my series on "the hellhole that is august" continues.
Me.
P.S. Countdown to the end of August: 10 days left!
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Boogiefever
I love when my windshield wipers or my blinker keeps time to the music I'm playing...
"I still don't have the reason" blink blink
"And you don't have the time" blink blink
"And it really makes me wonder" blink blink...
When I was younger I'd drive with my brother around New York, I'd say, oh this is the kind of neighborhood for this type of music and I'd turn to the hip-hop station or the rock station (gotta keep it p.c.) and raise the bass, lower the windows and sing along or just nod to the beat. It was fun and a little wack-o.
Sometimes, here in Florida, I'd turn to the salsa y reggaeton station, lower the windows, crank up the bass and pretend to shake my booty, like I was Boricua or somethin', joo no?
The other day, I swear I saw A.J. from the Backstreet Boys, driving beside me, in his Suburban, singing to the same song I was singing to. Something by the Plain White T's.
I like to drive around listening to music.
The End.
Me.
I love when my windshield wipers or my blinker keeps time to the music I'm playing...
"I still don't have the reason" blink blink
"And you don't have the time" blink blink
"And it really makes me wonder" blink blink...
When I was younger I'd drive with my brother around New York, I'd say, oh this is the kind of neighborhood for this type of music and I'd turn to the hip-hop station or the rock station (gotta keep it p.c.) and raise the bass, lower the windows and sing along or just nod to the beat. It was fun and a little wack-o.
Sometimes, here in Florida, I'd turn to the salsa y reggaeton station, lower the windows, crank up the bass and pretend to shake my booty, like I was Boricua or somethin', joo no?
The other day, I swear I saw A.J. from the Backstreet Boys, driving beside me, in his Suburban, singing to the same song I was singing to. Something by the Plain White T's.
I like to drive around listening to music.
The End.
Me.
