My sister, Neelsie, and her boyfriend broke up. With the alarm bells of her biological clock going off and the pitiful amount of eligible men available, this circumstance is a slight glitch in the glamorous mode de vie of Planet Gorgeous.
Now, obviously, ladies of a certain unmentionable age, breaking up or getting divorced might make you feel less sensational than you are. You feel rejected, ugly, worthless and then you start doubting your virtues and excellence. Ask any girl who did not get a rose on The Batchelor and they will tell you that it sucks.
Poor Neelsie immediately became the queen of denial after the self-involved egotistical bastard dumped her and she promptly changed her name to Cleopatra. “How could this be?” she asked her cat.. “Maybe he was just having a bad day”, she tried to convince herself in the mirror. “Maybe I did not fully understand what he was saying?” she petitioned her pot plants. “This is not happening!” she howled at the moon. “I feel fantastic!” she eventually shrieked at her gardener.
No, darling, he’s gone. Go and rule Egypt on your own.
Realising that Smallshortsman is not going to change his wardrobe or ask one of his friends to kill him with a sword, she became angry. Screaming: “This is so unfair!” and throwing things, she felt a little bit better. Of course she sobbed her heart out while trying to glue the vase back together…
And then she started bargaining. “If I can fix the vase I just shattered against the wall, maybe I can fix the relationship?” Cutting her finger with a shard of glass and bleeding all over the carpet, she realised that the vase was beyond repair, but still thought of ways to change herself so that Smallshortsman will want to take her back. She went to her therapist, hairdresser, personal trainer and facebook friends. She sent Antony a message that she had killed herself, and died while mumbling his name, and waited in the monument for him to come running back to her. No, that’s not true. I’m having Shakespeare moment.
Not long after spending a fortune on new carpets and vases, depression set in. Smallshortsman did not kill himself and died in her arms.
She cried a lot. (Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.) Ignored everything Dr. Joshi prescribes for a healthy diet, and became miserable enough to make Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave sound like ABBA.
At last she accepted the situation when she looked at her dwindling bank account through her puffy bloodshot eyes. “My desolation does begin to make a better life”, she whimpered melodramatically while trying to keep the cucumbers from falling off her face.
On Planet Gorgeous we have our own way of dealing with life’s drama. After break-ups and divorces we put on a tiara and have a glass of champagne. Then we think about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Eddie Fisher, Nicky Hilton, John Warner, Richard Burton, Larry Fortensky, Michael Todd, Richard Burton, Michael Wilding and Richard Burton, and say: “Next!”
This act of survival deals with the denial stage of loss. In fact, just like being in denial about our age, we deal with these little hitches on Planet Gorgeous by being in a constant state of negation. The other steps of anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance give us wrinkles and cost us money. It’s good to be the Queen!
Neelsie is fine now, ruling Egypt with renewed verve and vigour and not an asp in sight. Welcome back to Planet Gorgeous, Neelsie!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
I am Birthday
31 December 2010
Tuscany, Italy
It was New Years Eve and my birthday! I was in a tiny Medieval village in Tuscany, freezing, but surrounded by friends and my beautiful daughter, Blommie.
We decided to make a reservation at Ristorante Galletti in Crispiano for dinner, as we dined there a few days ago and had the best pesto pasta ever.
There were seven of us and one rented car. After numerous failed attempts to squeeze our seven bodies into the car, we decided to put Autumn Leaves in the boot as she was the smallest.
Belg and I decided that we would go inside the restaurant to make our booking while the others explored the village. At the restaurant we were greeted by the owner. With my Italian phrase book in hand I attempted communication.
“Buongiorno, Reserv…no…pre...prenota... shit this is hard...zione. Sette.”
I was holding up seven fingers.
The owner said something in Italian. I paged frantically through my phrase book. He was talking too fast and I could not decipher anything, much less understand.
“Scusi?”
Off he went again at an enormous speed. I was stressing. I resorted to mime. I showed him seven fingers again. I mimed cutting food and putting it in my mouth. I chewed. I pointed at my watch. I was not wearing a watch. I was pointing at my sleeve. I am an idiot. I started to sweat. I pointed to the clock on the wall. I swept my arm across the restaurant.
The man shook his head and called his wife. Their discussion was heated and punctuated by volume and wild gestures. “Comprendere” and “non” featured in their confabulation.
“Eat. Tonight. Seven.” I endeavoured again in English with the appropriate hand gesticulations. My English was deteriorating fast and I sounded like a dog trainer telling the dog to ‘sit’, ‘stay’ and ‘roll over’.
She then put a newspaper down in front of me and showed me an advertisement for a New Years Eve Dinner. I nodded.
“Sette”, I repeated.
She shook her head: “No!”.
“Si!” I rebutted.
“No! Otto e mezza!” She was clearly agitated with me, because she threw her hands in the air, turned around and disappeared into the kitchen with her husband.
There we were standing alone in the restaurant. I nervously glanced at Belg. He shrugged. Something was getting lost in translation.We were seven (sette! Dammit!) not eight (otto)!. Back to the phrase book. What the hell is a “Mezza”? And then we got it. Half past eight! I was arguing with the wife about the amount of people and not the time.
At last the wife returned with her son. I directed a final and desperate attempt at booking our table to the young boy.
“We...sette...arrivare...tonight...si...sono...compleanno?”
The son nodded.
We left.
“What did you say to them?” Blommie asked on the way back to the car. “They seemed very confused and upset.”
As Autumn Leaves climbed back into the boot of the car, Belg said: “Boefie has just made a booking from a newspaper advertisement for a ten course meal at a restaurant two hours drive from here for eight and a half people.”
Mio zio ha un asino verde.
Tuscany, Italy
It was New Years Eve and my birthday! I was in a tiny Medieval village in Tuscany, freezing, but surrounded by friends and my beautiful daughter, Blommie.
We decided to make a reservation at Ristorante Galletti in Crispiano for dinner, as we dined there a few days ago and had the best pesto pasta ever.
There were seven of us and one rented car. After numerous failed attempts to squeeze our seven bodies into the car, we decided to put Autumn Leaves in the boot as she was the smallest.
Belg and I decided that we would go inside the restaurant to make our booking while the others explored the village. At the restaurant we were greeted by the owner. With my Italian phrase book in hand I attempted communication.
“Buongiorno, Reserv…no…pre...prenota... shit this is hard...zione. Sette.”
I was holding up seven fingers.
The owner said something in Italian. I paged frantically through my phrase book. He was talking too fast and I could not decipher anything, much less understand.
“Scusi?”
Off he went again at an enormous speed. I was stressing. I resorted to mime. I showed him seven fingers again. I mimed cutting food and putting it in my mouth. I chewed. I pointed at my watch. I was not wearing a watch. I was pointing at my sleeve. I am an idiot. I started to sweat. I pointed to the clock on the wall. I swept my arm across the restaurant.
The man shook his head and called his wife. Their discussion was heated and punctuated by volume and wild gestures. “Comprendere” and “non” featured in their confabulation.
“Eat. Tonight. Seven.” I endeavoured again in English with the appropriate hand gesticulations. My English was deteriorating fast and I sounded like a dog trainer telling the dog to ‘sit’, ‘stay’ and ‘roll over’.
She then put a newspaper down in front of me and showed me an advertisement for a New Years Eve Dinner. I nodded.
“Sette”, I repeated.
She shook her head: “No!”.
“Si!” I rebutted.
“No! Otto e mezza!” She was clearly agitated with me, because she threw her hands in the air, turned around and disappeared into the kitchen with her husband.
There we were standing alone in the restaurant. I nervously glanced at Belg. He shrugged. Something was getting lost in translation.We were seven (sette! Dammit!) not eight (otto)!. Back to the phrase book. What the hell is a “Mezza”? And then we got it. Half past eight! I was arguing with the wife about the amount of people and not the time.
At last the wife returned with her son. I directed a final and desperate attempt at booking our table to the young boy.
“We...sette...arrivare...tonight...si...sono...compleanno?”
The son nodded.
We left.
“What did you say to them?” Blommie asked on the way back to the car. “They seemed very confused and upset.”
As Autumn Leaves climbed back into the boot of the car, Belg said: “Boefie has just made a booking from a newspaper advertisement for a ten course meal at a restaurant two hours drive from here for eight and a half people.”
Mio zio ha un asino verde.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
“I have very narrow feet, so I have to wear Ferragamo.” Mrs Grace Mugabe
In Hollywood you are only as young as your last visit to the plastic surgeon. On Planet Gorgeous age is not an issue. We function in a blissful state of Deterioration Denial. Our brains still tell us that we are youthful sprites, until our bodies bitch-slap us back to reality…
Then I choreographed a music video.
When the dancers arrived for the rehearsal I realised that they were all Hip Hop and Breakdancers. Hip Hop I can do. No problem. But the last time I attempted any form of Breakdancing was when I was in my… in my… uhm…younger. I know the Breakdance terminology and can instruct a dancer to do an Airbaby, Pike, Flare or a Rollback Handstand, but to physically do that…at my age…
My dancers were talented and energetic and executed my choreography brilliantly, but on one phrase I wanted two of the male dancers to do a combination of specific Breakdancing tricks. I explained to them what I wanted, but they just could not get it right and I realised that I had to demonstrate the bloody moves. I braced myself and thought “What the hell!” and did it, but coming out of a Kick-up and going into a Flick-flack, I realised – in mid-air – as I heard a ‘click’ somewhere in my lower body and saw stars (for a split second I did see Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but that was wishful thinking.), that I was just being stupid. I have to stop choreographing in heels!
While attempting to regain my sight and consciousness and trying to locate the position of my legs, I disregarded this physical malfunction and carried on working. I’m a pro. The show must go on. Okay, I did limp a bit, but worked it into the choreography and took out the frustration of my pain by shouting obscenities at the production crew. Everybody usually shouts obscenities at crew, so it all seemed normal.
But after the rehearsal, as I stumbled out of the car and dragged my injured body towards the guest house I was staying in for the duration of the shoot, I realised:
1. that the brain and the body are enemies (They lie to each other.)
2. that I am only as young as my knees;
3. that middle-age is when anything new you feel is most likely to be a symptom;
4. that physical exercise does add years to your life. I felt ten years older;
5. that a slight limp actually looks sexy when you are wearing stilettos;
So, in conclusion: I am going to continue being in denial about my age. And after careful consideration (while reapplying an ice pack to my knee), I decided that I will continue choreographing in heels, because they make my legs look pretty.
Then I choreographed a music video.
When the dancers arrived for the rehearsal I realised that they were all Hip Hop and Breakdancers. Hip Hop I can do. No problem. But the last time I attempted any form of Breakdancing was when I was in my… in my… uhm…younger. I know the Breakdance terminology and can instruct a dancer to do an Airbaby, Pike, Flare or a Rollback Handstand, but to physically do that…at my age…
My dancers were talented and energetic and executed my choreography brilliantly, but on one phrase I wanted two of the male dancers to do a combination of specific Breakdancing tricks. I explained to them what I wanted, but they just could not get it right and I realised that I had to demonstrate the bloody moves. I braced myself and thought “What the hell!” and did it, but coming out of a Kick-up and going into a Flick-flack, I realised – in mid-air – as I heard a ‘click’ somewhere in my lower body and saw stars (for a split second I did see Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but that was wishful thinking.), that I was just being stupid. I have to stop choreographing in heels!
While attempting to regain my sight and consciousness and trying to locate the position of my legs, I disregarded this physical malfunction and carried on working. I’m a pro. The show must go on. Okay, I did limp a bit, but worked it into the choreography and took out the frustration of my pain by shouting obscenities at the production crew. Everybody usually shouts obscenities at crew, so it all seemed normal.
But after the rehearsal, as I stumbled out of the car and dragged my injured body towards the guest house I was staying in for the duration of the shoot, I realised:
1. that the brain and the body are enemies (They lie to each other.)
2. that I am only as young as my knees;
3. that middle-age is when anything new you feel is most likely to be a symptom;
4. that physical exercise does add years to your life. I felt ten years older;
5. that a slight limp actually looks sexy when you are wearing stilettos;
So, in conclusion: I am going to continue being in denial about my age. And after careful consideration (while reapplying an ice pack to my knee), I decided that I will continue choreographing in heels, because they make my legs look pretty.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
“A lady is one who never shows her underwear unintentionally.” Lillian Day
Attending various functions and events is a full time preening and primping job. Here on Planet Gorgeous I like to plan ahead as soon as I accept an invitation. The first thing I do is look at the Dress Code.
Formal: I love this little bit of information at the bottom of the invitation. I can dress up in full costume and make-up. I can bring out the Bling, the stilettos, the false eyelashes and the hair extensions…
Semi-Formal: This confuses me sometimes. How much Bling am I supposed to wear? One ring? Two? One false eyelash? One sequin? No glitter body lotion? Someone please help me! I usually arrive completely overdressed and gorgeous and then have to pretend that the other hundred people at the function did not get the memo.
Casual: No! This will never do! Who goes out looking casual? No-one I know. I usually do not attend these functions, but when I do it becomes a very intricate production. Designer jeans, silk shirt, Jimmy Choo sandals…do you know how expensive it is to look cheap? Do you realise how much make-up it takes to look natural?
Black Tie: What? If it’s a men’s only function, why invite ME? And what am I supposed to wear? Ties are disturbing little things. All these men standing around with modified nooses around their necks. Are they trying to tell us something?
Please, people-who-write-invitations, I beg of you! Make all events ‘formal’ and everybody will look gorgeous.
Last week I attended three functions. The art exhibition on Wednesday evening provided a bit of a problem. It was held on a wine farm out of town. Far out of town. So I had to leave fairly early from Planet Gorgeous in order to be fashionably late, but I was teaching a dance class at a university and got stuck in the five-o-clock traffic on the way home. The weather was not playing along either: Heatwave!
I still had to do the ‘extreme make-over Planet Gorgeous edition’ and was running out of time. When I eventually got home and finished my titivations, everything I tried on was either too hot or just did not look right. You know what I’m talking about, Ladies. There can be no margin for error. The fit has to be perfect. If you contemplate the question “Does my butt look big in this”, it usually does. Underwear is supposed to provide the illusion of perfection, so use double sided tape to secure you bra to your low cleavage top. If your bra-strap is visible, I have one word for you: slut. Never wear white pants where red wine might be served – oh – let me rephrase that: NEVER WEAR WHITE PANTS! Never wear a short skirt if you have to sit down. And if you must wear pantyhose: never ever touch your legs if you are wearing rings and stay away from furniture.
So I eventually grabbed a little black satin number. It was thin and flimsy, but it had a petticoat. It was much too hot to wear a petticoat - and I resorted to discard it, slipped the dress on and finished it off with a pair of twelve-inch black stilettos with silver heels. Gorgeous.
Belg Droller came to pick me up, and as I was scrambling into his car I noticed a strange look coming from his direction. I did not dwell on his reaction. We were late and, knowing me very well, he did not make any comments regarding my couture.
We eventually arrived at the function, but had to park kilometres away from the venue. Why do these wine-farms always have parking areas in another area code? With gravel!
I leaned over to get my handbag and then I noticed it! The reason why my dress came with a petticoat. The one I decided NOT to wear. My pretty little satin number had two inch see-though chiffon strips along the seams…and I could see my underwear through the fabric…and if I could see my underwear, then EVERYONE will be able to see my Victoria’s Secret secret.
I looked at Belg. He looked at me. “Don’t worry, the lighting will be subtle, no-one will notice.” I was not so sure about that…
I teetered behind Belg over the gravel in my mile high stilettos to the venue, trying to hide my ‘problem with indecent exposure’ with my tiny handbag. Once inside, I decided to decline the drinks on offer. I needed my arms for camouflage. After about fifteen minutes of nodding and smiling self-consciously, I figured out that if I stand with my hands on my hips I could hide my unashamedly displayed underwear though the chiffon.
So there I was, standing in the shadows, with my hands on my hips, not drinking, not eating, my bra un-fashionably Madonna-in-the-80s-like exposed though a mist of satin and chiffon for the whole world to see, but my panty force majeure-ly covered by my Bling-adorned fingers.
Ladies, there is a lesson to be learnt here.
1. Always, always check yourself before leaving your planet.
2. Never rush your titivations.
3. Never allow the weather to dictate possible wardrobe malfunction.
4. Rather be late than dead…on time.
But on the up-side: I did meet a lot of men…
Formal: I love this little bit of information at the bottom of the invitation. I can dress up in full costume and make-up. I can bring out the Bling, the stilettos, the false eyelashes and the hair extensions…
Semi-Formal: This confuses me sometimes. How much Bling am I supposed to wear? One ring? Two? One false eyelash? One sequin? No glitter body lotion? Someone please help me! I usually arrive completely overdressed and gorgeous and then have to pretend that the other hundred people at the function did not get the memo.
Casual: No! This will never do! Who goes out looking casual? No-one I know. I usually do not attend these functions, but when I do it becomes a very intricate production. Designer jeans, silk shirt, Jimmy Choo sandals…do you know how expensive it is to look cheap? Do you realise how much make-up it takes to look natural?
Black Tie: What? If it’s a men’s only function, why invite ME? And what am I supposed to wear? Ties are disturbing little things. All these men standing around with modified nooses around their necks. Are they trying to tell us something?
Please, people-who-write-invitations, I beg of you! Make all events ‘formal’ and everybody will look gorgeous.
Last week I attended three functions. The art exhibition on Wednesday evening provided a bit of a problem. It was held on a wine farm out of town. Far out of town. So I had to leave fairly early from Planet Gorgeous in order to be fashionably late, but I was teaching a dance class at a university and got stuck in the five-o-clock traffic on the way home. The weather was not playing along either: Heatwave!
I still had to do the ‘extreme make-over Planet Gorgeous edition’ and was running out of time. When I eventually got home and finished my titivations, everything I tried on was either too hot or just did not look right. You know what I’m talking about, Ladies. There can be no margin for error. The fit has to be perfect. If you contemplate the question “Does my butt look big in this”, it usually does. Underwear is supposed to provide the illusion of perfection, so use double sided tape to secure you bra to your low cleavage top. If your bra-strap is visible, I have one word for you: slut. Never wear white pants where red wine might be served – oh – let me rephrase that: NEVER WEAR WHITE PANTS! Never wear a short skirt if you have to sit down. And if you must wear pantyhose: never ever touch your legs if you are wearing rings and stay away from furniture.
So I eventually grabbed a little black satin number. It was thin and flimsy, but it had a petticoat. It was much too hot to wear a petticoat - and I resorted to discard it, slipped the dress on and finished it off with a pair of twelve-inch black stilettos with silver heels. Gorgeous.
Belg Droller came to pick me up, and as I was scrambling into his car I noticed a strange look coming from his direction. I did not dwell on his reaction. We were late and, knowing me very well, he did not make any comments regarding my couture.
We eventually arrived at the function, but had to park kilometres away from the venue. Why do these wine-farms always have parking areas in another area code? With gravel!
I leaned over to get my handbag and then I noticed it! The reason why my dress came with a petticoat. The one I decided NOT to wear. My pretty little satin number had two inch see-though chiffon strips along the seams…and I could see my underwear through the fabric…and if I could see my underwear, then EVERYONE will be able to see my Victoria’s Secret secret.
I looked at Belg. He looked at me. “Don’t worry, the lighting will be subtle, no-one will notice.” I was not so sure about that…
I teetered behind Belg over the gravel in my mile high stilettos to the venue, trying to hide my ‘problem with indecent exposure’ with my tiny handbag. Once inside, I decided to decline the drinks on offer. I needed my arms for camouflage. After about fifteen minutes of nodding and smiling self-consciously, I figured out that if I stand with my hands on my hips I could hide my unashamedly displayed underwear though the chiffon.
So there I was, standing in the shadows, with my hands on my hips, not drinking, not eating, my bra un-fashionably Madonna-in-the-80s-like exposed though a mist of satin and chiffon for the whole world to see, but my panty force majeure-ly covered by my Bling-adorned fingers.
Ladies, there is a lesson to be learnt here.
1. Always, always check yourself before leaving your planet.
2. Never rush your titivations.
3. Never allow the weather to dictate possible wardrobe malfunction.
4. Rather be late than dead…on time.
But on the up-side: I did meet a lot of men…
Friday, December 3, 2010
Boefie-isms 13
Old dance injuries: (adjectives + plural noun) Pretty accurate weather predictors.
Plastic Surgeon: (noun) A deity among man.
Stilettos: (plural noun) An extension of the foot.
Tasteful: (adjective) A descriptor in reference to young men and more mature and sophisticated women in a relationship.
Treadmill: (noun) A machine that helps one go nowhere slowly.
Wonderbra: (proper noun) A device that facilitates the illusion of surgically enhanced breasts.
Plastic Surgeon: (noun) A deity among man.
Stilettos: (plural noun) An extension of the foot.
Tasteful: (adjective) A descriptor in reference to young men and more mature and sophisticated women in a relationship.
Treadmill: (noun) A machine that helps one go nowhere slowly.
Wonderbra: (proper noun) A device that facilitates the illusion of surgically enhanced breasts.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
“Climate is what you expect, weather is what you get.” Robert A. Heinlein.
I love travelling. No. I hate travelling, but I love visiting places, exploring foreign countries, meeting new people, getting food poisoning from exotic cuisine, getting lost in strange cities, unable to communicate with the locals and being ripped off by souvenir shop assistants and taxi drivers. But getting there to experience all these wonderful adventures is another story…
New York experienced one of its worst snowstorms at the end of 2009, but I had to get to JFK airport at 8h30 to catch the 10h30 flight to Dubai. Blommie and I got up at 4h00 in the morning to get ready to fight the hazardous elements to the train station. It is not a glamorous sight watching a middle-aged woman teetering on a pair of stiletto boots dragging a suitcase in the snow. Luckily at that time in the morning the streets are empty and I could stumble and fall my way to the station with only the unabashed sound of Blommie’s impervious cachinnation.
At Grand Central we had to take another train to “Jamaica” station in order to catch the sky-train to JFK. Luckily Blommie is subway-smart and got us on the right train. If all went well, I would be in time for my flight.
No train.
Lots of people.
9h00. Slight panic.
A man in a uniform eventually announced that, because of the blizzard, the train was not coming. Not delayed! Cancelled! Panic. They would try to send buses to transport the hordes to the airport.
Major panic set in and hundreds of people rushed, pushed and shoved their way to the street to wait for the promised bus to arrive. In a crisis like this there is no mercy. It’s every one for himself and to hell with old people and babies.
Blommie took my suitcase, as doing anything athletic – like running for a bus - in stiletto boots is like doing a Shakespeare play in nipple caps and sequins in Arabic. Interesting, but not pretty. So we scrambled our way franticly to the street and waited.
9h30. No bus.
Someone in the crowd announced that most of the planes were cancelled because of the blizzard. Extreme panic from the crowd. On cue babies started to cry and people simultaneously started to talk on their cell phones. Blommie joined the radiation emitting crowd and tried to get hold of Emirates. I texted Belg Droller in Dubai: Blizzard! Screwed! Don’t open champagne.
10h00. My plane was leaving in half an hour. I was stuck in a snowstorm freezing my ass off.
10h30. My plane was departing without me.
I felt like an actor in a Greek tragedy. Everything was going wrong and my fate was in the hands of the gods. Will there be a murder or tragic death? Probably, as the natives were getting restless, implacable, inexorable, relentless and ruthless. Will I eventually rip out my eyes and stab myself with a brooch? No, I’m not wearing a brooch.
At last, at 10h45 a bus arrived and all of us clamoured towards it. Too many people. Too little bus. Blommie and I battled the crowds and eventually made it to the door, only to be told that the bus was full and we would have to wait for the next one. WHAT!! There WILL be a death and it was not going to be me…
I lunged towards the bus-assistant and grabbed her by the lapels of her uniform.
“No! My daughter and I are getting on to this bus even if we have to attach ourselves to the bumper! My plane has departed! I am freezing! I am wearing stilettos, my hair is a mess and I need to touch up my make-up! You WILL let us onto this bus. NOW!”
I vaguely remember her nervously mumbling something as I pushed her out of the way and rammed my way onto the bus.
Sardined and claustrophobic, all of us impatiently hoped that we will get to JFK without being snowbound as the bus driver tried to navigate the overcrowded bus through the blizzard.
11h25. We arrived at JFK only to be dumped somewhere in the parking lot. I needed to find Terminal 4.
“Blommie, I’m going to run and find the Emirates check-in! Bring my suitcase!” I screamed as I scampered and scrambled my way through the crowds, pushing people out of the way yelling: “EMIRATES CHECK IN! EMIRATES CHECK IN!”
Exhausted I arrived at the desolate Emirates line of check in counters. @#$%! Then I saw a woman in uniform at the First Class counter.
“Dubai… snow…flight…heels…check…in…”
“I’m sorry the doors are already closed. There has been a delay because of the blizzard, but they have not taken off yet.”
“Get me on that flight! NOW!”
Taking her time she made a call and typed something on the computer in front of her.
“They will allow you on board. Just show you ticket to the security. I have alerted them about you coming. Luggage?”
I looked around and spotted Blommie lugging my suitcase across the terminal.
“One suitcase.”
“There is a pile of luggage over there,” she said nonchalantly, “just throw it on there.”
“Blommie! Pile! Suitcases! Over there!” I shouted while running towards the security gate. And then I suddenly remembered that I have to say goodbye to the fruit of my loins. I pirouetted, changed direction and sprinted towards my beautiful daughter and kissed her hurriedly where she was depositing my suitcase onto the pile of luggage in the middle of the terminal floor, turned around again flailing towards the security gate.
As I reached the plane they were reopening the door to let me in and without breaking my stride I scrambled down the aisle only to find that there was a woman in a burkah sitting in my seat…
Committing a crime crossed my mind once again.
Orson Welles once said: “There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror.” Oh, come on, Orson!
New York experienced one of its worst snowstorms at the end of 2009, but I had to get to JFK airport at 8h30 to catch the 10h30 flight to Dubai. Blommie and I got up at 4h00 in the morning to get ready to fight the hazardous elements to the train station. It is not a glamorous sight watching a middle-aged woman teetering on a pair of stiletto boots dragging a suitcase in the snow. Luckily at that time in the morning the streets are empty and I could stumble and fall my way to the station with only the unabashed sound of Blommie’s impervious cachinnation.
At Grand Central we had to take another train to “Jamaica” station in order to catch the sky-train to JFK. Luckily Blommie is subway-smart and got us on the right train. If all went well, I would be in time for my flight.
No train.
Lots of people.
9h00. Slight panic.
A man in a uniform eventually announced that, because of the blizzard, the train was not coming. Not delayed! Cancelled! Panic. They would try to send buses to transport the hordes to the airport.
Major panic set in and hundreds of people rushed, pushed and shoved their way to the street to wait for the promised bus to arrive. In a crisis like this there is no mercy. It’s every one for himself and to hell with old people and babies.
Blommie took my suitcase, as doing anything athletic – like running for a bus - in stiletto boots is like doing a Shakespeare play in nipple caps and sequins in Arabic. Interesting, but not pretty. So we scrambled our way franticly to the street and waited.
9h30. No bus.
Someone in the crowd announced that most of the planes were cancelled because of the blizzard. Extreme panic from the crowd. On cue babies started to cry and people simultaneously started to talk on their cell phones. Blommie joined the radiation emitting crowd and tried to get hold of Emirates. I texted Belg Droller in Dubai: Blizzard! Screwed! Don’t open champagne.
10h00. My plane was leaving in half an hour. I was stuck in a snowstorm freezing my ass off.
10h30. My plane was departing without me.
I felt like an actor in a Greek tragedy. Everything was going wrong and my fate was in the hands of the gods. Will there be a murder or tragic death? Probably, as the natives were getting restless, implacable, inexorable, relentless and ruthless. Will I eventually rip out my eyes and stab myself with a brooch? No, I’m not wearing a brooch.
At last, at 10h45 a bus arrived and all of us clamoured towards it. Too many people. Too little bus. Blommie and I battled the crowds and eventually made it to the door, only to be told that the bus was full and we would have to wait for the next one. WHAT!! There WILL be a death and it was not going to be me…
I lunged towards the bus-assistant and grabbed her by the lapels of her uniform.
“No! My daughter and I are getting on to this bus even if we have to attach ourselves to the bumper! My plane has departed! I am freezing! I am wearing stilettos, my hair is a mess and I need to touch up my make-up! You WILL let us onto this bus. NOW!”
I vaguely remember her nervously mumbling something as I pushed her out of the way and rammed my way onto the bus.
Sardined and claustrophobic, all of us impatiently hoped that we will get to JFK without being snowbound as the bus driver tried to navigate the overcrowded bus through the blizzard.
11h25. We arrived at JFK only to be dumped somewhere in the parking lot. I needed to find Terminal 4.
“Blommie, I’m going to run and find the Emirates check-in! Bring my suitcase!” I screamed as I scampered and scrambled my way through the crowds, pushing people out of the way yelling: “EMIRATES CHECK IN! EMIRATES CHECK IN!”
Exhausted I arrived at the desolate Emirates line of check in counters. @#$%! Then I saw a woman in uniform at the First Class counter.
“Dubai… snow…flight…heels…check…in…”
“I’m sorry the doors are already closed. There has been a delay because of the blizzard, but they have not taken off yet.”
“Get me on that flight! NOW!”
Taking her time she made a call and typed something on the computer in front of her.
“They will allow you on board. Just show you ticket to the security. I have alerted them about you coming. Luggage?”
I looked around and spotted Blommie lugging my suitcase across the terminal.
“One suitcase.”
“There is a pile of luggage over there,” she said nonchalantly, “just throw it on there.”
“Blommie! Pile! Suitcases! Over there!” I shouted while running towards the security gate. And then I suddenly remembered that I have to say goodbye to the fruit of my loins. I pirouetted, changed direction and sprinted towards my beautiful daughter and kissed her hurriedly where she was depositing my suitcase onto the pile of luggage in the middle of the terminal floor, turned around again flailing towards the security gate.
As I reached the plane they were reopening the door to let me in and without breaking my stride I scrambled down the aisle only to find that there was a woman in a burkah sitting in my seat…
Committing a crime crossed my mind once again.
Orson Welles once said: “There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror.” Oh, come on, Orson!
Monday, October 4, 2010
“I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.” The Rocky Horror Picture Show
Belg Droller and I were invited by our good friend Marypoppins to perform at a 21st Birthday party she was throwing for her niece. The theme of the party was “Rocky Horror” and we had to perform numbers from the show. Because we love performing as much as we love our friend, we immediately agreed to do it.
And then reality bit us on our toned bums! This was a twenty-first birthday party. There would be twentysomethings – lots of them! We are, dare I say it: fiftysomethings.
What young, nubile twenty year old wants to see two aging performers strut their ancient booties at a party? It will be like watching your seventy year old grandmother do a pole dance.
Marypoppins insisted enthusiastically.
“My niece will love it and it will complement what I am doing with the party. Everyone’s dressing up. I made table and wall decorations. There will be fairy lights. There will be food and dancing...”
I sort of zoned out after I heard ‘fairy lights’, and visualised the deteriorating effects of our maturity camouflaged by the lighting effects.
We discussed the songs we were going to do and what costumes we were going to wear. But something was bothering me…
The afternoon of the party, Belg and I got together on Planet Gorgeous to get dressed in full Rocky Horror regalia. I got into character as Columbia and Belg as Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Belg was wearing the costume he used playing Frank-N-Furter on stage about fifteen years ago, but I had to improvise my costume.
Tiny black tight shorts. Check.
Sequined jacket. Check.
Bowler hat. Check.
Fishnet stockings. Of course.
Something was still niggling at my subconscious…
After about two hours of primping, preening, glueing, spraying, painting and slipping our half-a-century legs into fishnet stockings and creating another hole in the ozone layer with all the chemicals we used, we emerged unrecognizably gorgeous. Our confidence was growing. We both agreed that having no body fat and wearing lots of make-up, wigs and high heels we could pass as ageless showgirls and with the added bonus of enough cosmetic surgery between the two of us to make Joan Rivers malicious, our ages will be impossible to guess. In full costume and make-up Belg looked like his mother and I looked like the love child of Liza Minnelli and Riff Raff. But something was still not right…
As we left Planet Gorgeous it hit us right between the eyes. DAYLIGHT! We had to walk to the car, open the doors, get in and drive to the party venue before the sun has set.
Would we be seen by my neighbours?
Would passing cars crash into prefab walls?
Would children be run over by taxis?
Would we turn to dust?
I immediately pulled my bowler hat over my eyes and put on my sunglasses. Belg threw his velvet purple cloak Phantom-of-the-Opera-like over his head.
“Okay, go!” I shouted and we ran to his car as quickly as our platform shoes and thin ankles would allow.
Once inside the car other meagre problems surfaced. What do we do if the traffic light turns red and we are stuck between cars unable to make a dash for it if someone wants to beat us up for looking…well…like…p…different? What if we are caught by the traffic police for some arbitrary traffic violation and got locked up for looking like…well…t…unconventional? What if we are stuck in traffic on the highway and there is bus next to us…with tourists…with cameras…from Saudi Arabia?
“Belg”, I whispered after a while, as we were both crouching down under the dashboard of the car waiting for a pedestrian to pass, “one of us will have to drive.”
Belg peeked up though the steering wheel spokes: “I can’t. My wig is stuck on the indicator switch and my left heel is caught in the brake-pedal.”
So after about a minute of silence (we were both trying to figure out what to do next), I climbed out from under the dash and helped pry Belg loose from the clutches of the car. Belg fixed his wig and lipstick and reluctantly started the car. I got back under the dash. We were on our way…
As we sped along the highway I was worried that there might be a road block and we would be asked to step out of the car, spread our legs and be searched for concealed weapons. How do you hide an AK47 in a garter belt?
We arrived at the party unscathed and ready to perform. Haven’t we suffered enough for our art?
And then reality bit us on our toned bums! This was a twenty-first birthday party. There would be twentysomethings – lots of them! We are, dare I say it: fiftysomethings.
What young, nubile twenty year old wants to see two aging performers strut their ancient booties at a party? It will be like watching your seventy year old grandmother do a pole dance.
Marypoppins insisted enthusiastically.
“My niece will love it and it will complement what I am doing with the party. Everyone’s dressing up. I made table and wall decorations. There will be fairy lights. There will be food and dancing...”
I sort of zoned out after I heard ‘fairy lights’, and visualised the deteriorating effects of our maturity camouflaged by the lighting effects.
We discussed the songs we were going to do and what costumes we were going to wear. But something was bothering me…
The afternoon of the party, Belg and I got together on Planet Gorgeous to get dressed in full Rocky Horror regalia. I got into character as Columbia and Belg as Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Belg was wearing the costume he used playing Frank-N-Furter on stage about fifteen years ago, but I had to improvise my costume.
Tiny black tight shorts. Check.
Sequined jacket. Check.
Bowler hat. Check.
Fishnet stockings. Of course.
Something was still niggling at my subconscious…
After about two hours of primping, preening, glueing, spraying, painting and slipping our half-a-century legs into fishnet stockings and creating another hole in the ozone layer with all the chemicals we used, we emerged unrecognizably gorgeous. Our confidence was growing. We both agreed that having no body fat and wearing lots of make-up, wigs and high heels we could pass as ageless showgirls and with the added bonus of enough cosmetic surgery between the two of us to make Joan Rivers malicious, our ages will be impossible to guess. In full costume and make-up Belg looked like his mother and I looked like the love child of Liza Minnelli and Riff Raff. But something was still not right…
As we left Planet Gorgeous it hit us right between the eyes. DAYLIGHT! We had to walk to the car, open the doors, get in and drive to the party venue before the sun has set.
Would we be seen by my neighbours?
Would passing cars crash into prefab walls?
Would children be run over by taxis?
Would we turn to dust?
I immediately pulled my bowler hat over my eyes and put on my sunglasses. Belg threw his velvet purple cloak Phantom-of-the-Opera-like over his head.
“Okay, go!” I shouted and we ran to his car as quickly as our platform shoes and thin ankles would allow.
Once inside the car other meagre problems surfaced. What do we do if the traffic light turns red and we are stuck between cars unable to make a dash for it if someone wants to beat us up for looking…well…like…p…different? What if we are caught by the traffic police for some arbitrary traffic violation and got locked up for looking like…well…t…unconventional? What if we are stuck in traffic on the highway and there is bus next to us…with tourists…with cameras…from Saudi Arabia?
“Belg”, I whispered after a while, as we were both crouching down under the dashboard of the car waiting for a pedestrian to pass, “one of us will have to drive.”
Belg peeked up though the steering wheel spokes: “I can’t. My wig is stuck on the indicator switch and my left heel is caught in the brake-pedal.”
So after about a minute of silence (we were both trying to figure out what to do next), I climbed out from under the dash and helped pry Belg loose from the clutches of the car. Belg fixed his wig and lipstick and reluctantly started the car. I got back under the dash. We were on our way…
As we sped along the highway I was worried that there might be a road block and we would be asked to step out of the car, spread our legs and be searched for concealed weapons. How do you hide an AK47 in a garter belt?
We arrived at the party unscathed and ready to perform. Haven’t we suffered enough for our art?
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