Mohonk Mountain House

Into the foothills of the Catskills this weekend for an 80th birthday party (not mine, thank God) at the fabulous Mohonk Mountain House. We spent New Years there in 2000 and 2001 but hadn't ventured back.

It is so lovely there over the holidays with untold Christmas trees, fireplaces burning real logs, lovely decorations in a perfect Victorian setting. Little girls in velvet dresses and little boys in jackets. Adults in their finery, too. I wore my only winter dress, a black number that I actually wore there in 2001, but who remembered?

In fact at the host's table, everyone forgot what he/she had ordered, and the waiter kept passing stuff around, hoping, I guess, that someone would remember. Our table, not as aged, remembered perfectly well. One was grateful that the helpings were human sized and not for trencherman.

The party was lovely with lots of (mostly) short speeches and all the birthday boy's grandchildren on their best behavior. Good food, drink and company. Watching the youngest grandchildren dancing made me terribly sentimental, thinking of the year their father was born and how the decades had passed and all that had happened and how sweet the future looked. One can only hope for a good world for these little kids.

We didn't skate or x-country ski (too icy). My idea of winter sports is indoor stuff, like crossword puzzles before the fire and a nice conversation. Hated skating since the ice cracked under my skates on a frozen lake when I was all alone as a twelve-year old. Once bitten, twice shy. Never went back, after having been spared an icy grave. And then I got in trouble for getting home late and missing a Girl Scout event. So, no skating for Grapeshot and no skiing either. Summer is my season.

Yesterday morning, it began to snow, and we grabbed a quick brunch after a sort-of-late breakfast and headed out. Roads slicker than snot on a marble. Huge wrecks on I-84 East and sitting in the backup for two hours. Truckers on meth or something, tailgaiting, cutting in and out. Idiots speeding with no lights. Total traffic meltdown. So damn glad to get home.

Cats, as always, happy to see us. A Manhattan, a bowl of leftover goulash soup, and so to bed. I slept for over ten hours. Need that beauty sleep. Yup.

Onward to Christmas. Time to get the tree. The cats will be so pleased.

Grapeshot

Group Exercise and the Gossip Girl

Last week the low-impact aerobics/weight lifting class at my gym had a substitute while the regular instructor was on vacation. Naturally the sub had her own ideas about music and movement, and we did a bit of dancing, some step routines on the floor and worked hard with the weights.

A change in routine is always a good thing, because otherwise one’s muscles accommodate themselves to the regular routine and don’t get the workout they might.

There is one woman in the class I don’t like. Did not like her from the moment I set eyes on her. One of those natural antipathies. I don’t even know her name, but she is a gossip and a troublemaker and probably has been since kindergarten. “Doesn’t Sally have a dorky dress?”

Naturally, I wasn’t too surprised when I overheard this woman grousing about the sub. In fact, she didn’t attend the second class. This morning she went on her malicious rounds, trying to get one after another of the participants to bad mouth the sub.

You could sense her disappointment when most of the women had actually liked the sub. She just wouldn’t let it alone. Now I have to confess the sub is a fellow writer and a friend and I didn’t like this badmouthing of my friend at all.

There are as many exercise variations as there are instructors. I’ve taken water aerobics in Puerto Rico, a step class at Mohonk Mountain House, interval training in Tucson, and even a somewhat bizarre class in East Germany. All different, all enjoyable.

Lest you think I am Molly Muscles, it ain’t so. I just try to keep a minimum level of muscle tone and fitness.

Why are some of my sex like that? I can’t imagine guys doing this. Can you?