Would you like to wait at the bar?

If I were a cat, I'd have seven of my nine lives left, but the week is young.

Everything is wet!  

Every surface and piece of  expensive furniture doubles as  a drying rack for socks, shoes, and souls. 

Even 'though we have a deluxe room, there seems to be water everywhere and every time we use the sink, shower, or toilet.  I wouldn't be surprised if sink water was what killed my Synthoid, and all of this wetness occurred even before the non-stop torrential downpours.

Every path is slippery--like it's coated in ice but not cold ice.  It's like being in Rockefeller Center, and  I'm sure it's drier and warmer in New York than it is  here in Mexico.

We go to the wonderful Mexican restaurant in this  exclusive section, just after we heard a wet outdoor concert on the pool patio.  The rain was so loud that when Jim complimented the guy playing the saxophone, I  only heard  him say the "sex phone."

Anyway, we're in this gorgeous restaurant which I'm sure is even prettier when the sun sets, and the waiter tells us the meal will be served family style.  He brings us a plate of apps and warns us that the green sauce is  "little spicy." 

 I like green sauces..verde, tomatillo, pesto..

I dip just the tip of my fork prong into the sauce and I  was positive that someone would have to call 911. My heart exploded, my tastebuds caught fire. Liquid poured out of my eyes, ears, and every other place that liquid can possibly pour out of. I coughed like I was Patient Zero at the start of Covid.

That pepper cost me of of my nine lives, the soaked rug and patio of the Mexican restaurant cost me the second.  If you moved an inch, you were sliding..sliding right in to the Frenchman who had the gall to light up a cigarette right there in the threshold. 

 I begged the hostess for a towel, a dry-vac, linen napkins..anything to save our lives, but she was about as useful as the woman who manned the glass ice cream freezer.

To paraphrase Forest Gump:  "Life is like a freezer full of unmarked ice cream..you never know what you're gonna get."

Jim got the coffee flavor, which slid right off his spoon and down my shirt when I asked for a sample, and then my billowy  shirt flew up in my face because of that wind.

The guy that tried to kill me with the pepper told me he called for a tram that would take us to the theater to see the Michael Jackson show, but no tram came.  Just a chorus of, "I just texted him and he said five more minutes" and.."don't you just want to wait in the bar?"

No, I did not want to wait in the bar.  I wanted to talk to the manager.

The show was about to start when Jim volunteered to go on a rescue mission.  The lobby was the equivalent of maybe three city blocks from the restaurant, but it was dark and wet and cold, and he was blinded, and I was terried I'd be stuck there forever, subsisting on nothing but exploding peppers.

I'm super mad by this point, but the same woman who ignored my request to mop up the floor escorted me to the tram, where Jim was patiently waiting for me, like a knight in shining armor.

"I am totally reporting those people to the concierge, first thing in the morning.  This is unacceptable.  Club Med didn't cause this rain, but they should at least provide us transportation to our destination!"

Jim says, "Karen..why do you always gotta be startin' somethin'?" which, coincidentally, was the first song played in the show, which we didn't miss but had less than desirable seats.

This was the best show I've ever seen at any Club Med, or any all-inclusive resort, for that matter, so my anger emoticom was short-lived, soon to be replaced by the sad emoji when we learned the world lost a beloved star.

RIP, Andre Braugher..Thanks for Captain Holt.

I know I sound madder than a wet hen, but I'm really not.  I know how lucky I am to take vacations like this with my wonderful and hilarious better half, and even 'though everyone complains about the weather, nobody does anything about it.

I would if I could.