The things people can do with their bodies around here!
I don't know who defies gravity more..the GOs from the Circus team or my darling Hedda Hair.
Hedda was a whiny little bitch last night, more defiant than ever.
I am too permissive with her..I've spoiled her rotten with all the money I spend on her and all the support I try to give her.
Last night I gave her extra conditioner, a gel that smelled like Heaven, and some quality air time where she could just veg a little behind the security of a couple of strong but gentle hair clips. I then gifted her with the warm breezes of a dryer and a flat iron.
She looked me right in the eye, right in that overly large mirror and had the audacity to promise to behave herself last night.
(I think she was literally Scared "Straight" over that cornrows threat)
She says, "I know how gorgeous that Mexican restaurant is. It's got a huge portrait of Frida Kahlo in the lobby and you want to be seen with Frida and the dining area juts out into the ocean, and best of all, it's only a five minute walk from where you're standing now, so I promise to be good. I will restrain myself. I will not go rogue on you when you're wearing the pretty new blouse Tami chose and I swear, if you say no to the cornrows, I promise I'll behave.."
That lying little weasel!!
She looked exactly like an actual weasel by the time we reached our photo op.
I am so done with you, Hedda Hair!
You disgust me! ..Go live with your Dad!
(This story was written with you in mind, Mona Getzes Cohen)
The restaurant served portions that would be better suited for a Barbie doll, but they were tasty and it isn't going to kill me to eat a small plate every now and then. I ordered as an app the Fried Pork Skin, and if I'm going to order something like that, I absolutely deserved what I got. It came on a miniature clothesline diorama, secured with a plastic clothespin where it dangled on the line like an ecru Malibu Barbie's beach towel.
This experience was more about ambiance than food, but this is neither a food nor an ambience journal, so...
Last night's Dress Code for me was: Tami Picked Out a Nice Comfy Blouse.
For everyone else, it was Club Med's traditional number 45 shirt, created in 1995 to commemorate the 45th anniversary of the resort's founding.
It was so popular and every guest wanted one, but now, I do not get a happy reaction when I see that shirt. I get the same reaction I get when I see someone in a MAGA hat.
(Ha! Autocorrect tried to make that "magazine"..I'd vote for a literal magazine to run this country before reelecting you know who)
Last night's Cabaret Show convinced me that circus performers must eat iron rich diets because they are human magnets.
I don't care what the hell my eyes insisted they were seeing, there was no way a man did a headstand on top of another man's shoe that was hoisted in the air without using magnets.
Or the woman who, prone on her back, juggled with her feet things like a gigantic backgammon piece and a life-sized Salt Water Taffy.
How do they move like that?
According to my friend Terri, my BRAIN moves like that..quickly darting all over the map to the point where the readers of this blog need to seek medical attention immediately after, but how do these people swing from a 20 foot trapeze by holding on with a pinky finger?
They sing--they dance--they practically fly.
My only talent is my unique ability to explain how my forehead bangs transform themselves into clothing hooks.
But I did get up for "Hands Up!" the theme song from Club Med that makes me want to keep coming back here. It's my happy dance in my happy place.
I used to groove to another Club Med favorite, "Blame it on the Boogie."
But after seeing the "Finding Neverland" documentary, I can't blame "it" on the lively dance or the green contents of a clueless person's nostrils..
I'm afraid that the accusations are probably true, and I just can't dance to MJ anymore.
As if what I do could accurately be labeled dancing in the first place.
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