Stress Factor Part 5

I survived the attack of the giant truck. He’s behind me now gesticulating rudely in my direction resembling an angry deaf person. I pretend to be an angry blind person and ignore him. I’m only a few kilometres from home and things are looking up.

I think I’m one of those people who function well under stress. My mind clears and becomes ready to make quick decisions, like out-manoeuvring oncoming trucks. I am so pumped with adrenaline that I envision myself in a Wonder Woman costume driving in a reasonably priced car on the Top Gear track with The Stig nodding in approval at my driving expertise.

Saturday:
I heard through the grapevine that a casting director for a soap opera is in town. I had to do some serious networking. I planned to meet the casting director at 10h15. After doing some serious facial panel-beating at 6h00 in the morning and applying a whole tube of Preparation-H on the bags under my eyes, I headed out to town. I was tired. My age was showing. I have had late nights performing and rehearsing all week. I decided to arrive early at the casting studio, because I had a class to teach at the local university at 11h30, which is on the other side of the city. I arrived at 9h30. Nobody was there. The building was still locked. It was cold outside.
Stress factor level: High
Cause: 1. Lack of sleep.
2. Not knowing how long I will have to wait.
3. Worrying about being punctual for my class.
4. I’m freezing. Isn’t it supposed to be summer?
Solution: Breathe.

Meanwhile young girls started to arrive. Each one, on arrival, looked at me as if I was from another planet. (Okay, so I am, but that’s not the point.) One girl even asked me if I worked here. Honestly! At last, at about 10h10, a production assistant arrived. She looked at me with a quizzical expression.
“The casting director is running a little bit late, but we are only casting women between the ages of 25 and 35.”
“I’ll wait.” I replied confidently. Why did she give me the age run-down? Do I look old?
“But…” I did not wait for her to finish and followed her into the building, followed by the gaggle of hopeful twenty-something auditionees.

The casting director arrived at 11h00. I had half an hour to get to the university and have not met with anyone of importance yet that could be beneficial to my career.
Stress level: High
Cause: 1. I knew I was going to be late for my class and then
2. My students will think that I am not coming, and being students
3. They will leave, and then
4. I will be in trouble with the HOD, and
5. My contract for next year might not be renewed, and
6. If I drive too fast I will get a speeding fine, and then
7. My whole day will be ruined.
Solution: Boefie get a grip! None of this has happened yet. Focus!

Eventually I saw a gap and took it and found myself in front of the casting director. The evil assistant gave me another dirty look. Time was tight, but I needed to do this.
“Hi, I’m Boefie Bronkhorst, sorry to barge in like this, but here is my business-card and if you want to have a look at my CV you can call my agent, or call me, my number is on the card, but I have to go now because I am teaching a drama class at the university and my class starts in ten minutes. Bye!”
I dashed off, dove into my car and did some serious low-flying all the way to the university.

Stress factor level: High
Cause: Time
Solution: Don’t anticipate. You cannot predict the future and once you stop to smell those proverbial roses you will find that you can be master of your own destiny and find solutions. I sound like Sophocles, but then again, maybe our destiny is in the hands of the gods…or maybe not… Just be prepared to carry the consequences of your choices.

While speeding along the M3 I phoned the head of the Art department. “I’monmywaypleasetellmyclasstowaitsorryI’mrunninglate!”

My class was waiting for me when I got there. I love them!

As I drive into my drive-way, I feel my stress level subsiding. I survived the traffic! I’m home at last. Stress can be destructive. At one stage I contemplated murder, but not having a lethal weapon in my car, only a cigarette lighter, I found myself contemplating arson. I quickly snapped out of that fantasy as I visualised myself getting arrested for something as silly as arson, and then being forced to wear an unflattering orange prison overall. Orange is sooo not my colour.

After the class I drove back to Planet Gorgeous, exhausted, I had to get into costume and make-up for the 21st birthday party gig with Belg. But that’s another story…

Stress factor level: What stress?
Reason: I live on Planet Gorgeous.

Stress Factor Part 4

Traffic. Still. I switch on the radio. Maybe the DJ will play a happy song! Maybe he will be funny! No. He’s playing an intelligible pop song. “Boom boom boom!!” What is this? Have they run out of vocabulary? Oh, wait! This next bit sounds like actual English words. I identify “chickens jackin’ my style”. What? I don’t understand this. What does this mean? “yalstu n super 8 shit… lofistupi apeshit…ionat HD fat?…flat…Boom Boom…” I’m confused. New language? New jargon? New technology? Is this song written in a code that only Robert Langdon can crack? I’m stressing out! Have I missed a generation? Where have I been? Does everybody talk like this? I suddenly feel old. No wonder nobody understands the younger generation. I doubt they understand each other, and they say “shit” a lot.

When did people stop speaking the Queen’s English? When did things become so complicated? I can now understand why some of the stress symptoms include weight gain and substance abuse. I’m in my car, stuck in traffic, listening to a song I don’t understand with a fast tempo that makes my heart palpitate. I need a drink! I need chocolate!

Thursday:
Performance day.
When I arrived at the theatre, the stage manager was still running around looking for furniture to dress the set, the actor playing my husband was stuck in traffic and I only have one ‘daughter’ now instead of two. The little rubber thingy of the heel of one of the shoes I was supposed to wear as part of my costume broke off, which resulted in having to walk with a noisy limp.
Stress factor level: High
Cause: 1. No time to get new shoes due to
2. Costume malfunction.
3. Late ‘husband’.

Solution: The show must go on. Aaaaargh!!!!!

My ‘husband’ arrived at last and we could do a run-though. While Feral was giving us last comments and bits of final direction, the television crew arrived and started to set up. The film director gave Feral directions on how the play will be filmed, which he in turn gave to us.

New challenge: Play to the audience as well as the cameras. We had new marks to hit and new angles to work into our stage performance – which has become a film performance as well.
Stress factor level: Low
Cause: I love a challenge!

Wait a second! Let me think about that…

Stress factor level: High
Cause: 1. Not sure how I’m going to pull this off.
2. Do I ‘underplay for the camera?
3. Should I play to the audience and look like I’m overacting for the camera? 4. I might be wearing too much makeup.

“Feral!” I screamed, totally confused, “What are my priorities?”
“Just act for your audience. The film-crew will do close-ups afterwards.”
Stress factor level: Medium
Cause: 1. Close-ups!
2. Hooray! I love close-ups!
3. I’m ready Mr. De Mille!

The traffic is moving steadily now. At last it looks like we’re making congestion progress. Thinking about stress is stressing me out, but so far this week I have managed to handle stressful situations by smiling, communicating with people, having time out (drinking champagne), being positive, and enjoying what I do. Those little foxes nipping at my heels can be kicked in the mouth. So far so good.

Friday:
Rehearsal with Belg Droller for a 21st Birthday party gig on Saturday.
Stress factor level: Medium
Cause: 1. Not giving a shit what 21-year olds think about two aging performers strutting their stuff.
2. We may be old, but we are still getting gigs.

Why is this bloody truck trying to push its way in front of me? Honestly! Do they own the road? I did not see this coming because I was multitasking: driving; listening to disconcerting pop songs, trying to analyse the lyrics; thinking about stress (and becoming more stressed out by the minute); and lighting a cigarette. I’m female. I can multitask. Maybe I should focus on not getting killed by this truck, though. Maybe.

To be continued…
END OF PART 4

Stress Factor Part 3

Still in traffic. The old lady eventually changed lanes, but decided to stay in first gear. I wondered about her stress levels. Is her life brimmed with meetings, bills and family crises? Do her children visit her on weekends? Does she need a hip replacement? Does she know that she cannot drive? Is she aware that the man in the car behind her might lose his mind and kill her?

Calm down, Boefie! The traffic is getting to you! I have to focus. I’m talking to myself. Am I experiencing symptoms of stress?

Now what happened on Tuesday? Oh, yes…

Tuesday:
Production meeting with Feral Beast regarding the play we are doing. Feral is directing. I am acting. We’re performing on Thursday and a television crew will be filming the production. We still had to finalise the set, props and costumes and one of the girls playing “one of my two daughters” fell ill. Where do we find a replacement at such short notice? Should we change the script?
Stress factor level: High
Cause: 1. Possibility of having new lines and stage directions to learn on short notice.
2. We are performing in two days time!

My stress levels seem to be increasing by the minute as motorcycles weave their way though the standstill traffic. Hey! Biker! Don’t scratch my car! Why aren’t we moving?

Okay Boefie, think. What are the symptoms of stress? Headaches? No, I don’t have a headache, but I’m sure I will have one soon, as all this thinking about stress in the traffic might be the onset of one major migraine. Muscle pain? Yes! I’ve been sitting in the car now for half an hour. Depression? Not yet. I hope not. No, never… Am I causing my own stress?

I want to be at home, but I can’t get there. Oh…at last…we’re moving…slowly…

Wednesday:
Play rehearsal. The actor playing my husband did not know his lines. We also might be getting a replacement for the sick child actor. Big “might”. Feral was trying to stay calm.
Stress factor level: High
Cause: 1. Worrying about Feral, he seems on the verge of cracking.
2. Possibility of having new lines and stage directions to learn on short notice.

After the rehearsal I had to do a gig with Donnyo, so I got dressed in full costume and make-up and rushed to the venue.
Stress factor level: Medium
Cause: 1. Unfamiliarity with the type of person that will make up the audience.
2. Possibility that there might not actually even BE an audience.

Thank Goodness it was a full house and of course the audience loved us.
Stress factor level: Low
Cause:
1. Adoration
2. Attention
3. Compliments from strangers
Reason: There’s no business like show business.

Oh, no! They closed a lane because of roadworks! We all have to squeeze into two lanes and some people are just not courteous. Selfish bastards! Hey! Male chauvinist pig! I need to get in a lane!

I think I’m experiencing other symptoms of stress: Irritability, anger and negativity. What is happening to me? You won’t find these symptoms on Planet Gorgeous, only in traffic or the workplace or when you peruse your bank account or when your daughter comes home with a stud in her tongue …

I calmly, and with a smile, indicate to the young man in the car next to me that I want to go in front of him. Oh, thank you kind sir ((Massive batting of eyelashes)). Thank god I’m blonde and gorgeous and he’s young and impressionable.

And then Thursday happened…

To be continued…
END OF PART 3

Stress Factor Part 2

Monday:
I spent the morning running errands in order to facilitate smooth operations on Planet Gorgeous. I couldn’t find parking close to the bank and shouted at a man in a delivery van holding up the traffic in the parking area. “Use the loading zone you senseless man with box!” (Translate to Afrikaans for the full effect.)
Stress factor level: medium.
Cause: 1. Time wasted looking for parking.
2. Idiots.

Standing in the queue waiting to use the auto teller, I became a bit anxious because it started to feel like I was standing there for an eternity…aging rapidly…so I eventually went inside the bank to get out of the gale force wind, where I was greeted by the friendly faces of Sillon and Dhirley, the Forex people. As I had no transactions regarding their department, I chatted for a while and then went back to the auto teller to draw some money.
Stress factor level: Low.
Cause: Unexpected smiling.

When I got home I worked on learning my words for a play I am doing directed by Feral Beast.
Stress factor level: Medium.
Cause: 1. Inability to remember lines due to
2. Menopause
Solution: 1. Patience.
2. Wait for memory to return and hot flush to disappear.
3. Do something creative, like
4. Hang fairy lights in front of the windows, and
5. Restyle hairpieces.

Later that afternoon I rehearsed a few songs with my brother, Donnyo, for a show we were going to do on Wednesday night.
Stress factor level: Low.
Cause: 1. Self-medication in the form of
2. Champagne.

Monday wasn’t so bad. Smiles from friendly people, champagne and handling menopause can alleviate stress.

Inching slowly forward in the traffic, my train of thought was abruptly broken. Cars were hooting. Drivers were shouting obscenities and gesticulating inappropriately. An old lady in a big car was trying to change lanes. I could see the stress on the people’s faces. I could feel their fear. These motorists probably all have jobs, family, financial and social pressures. All of us in the four lanes of sardine traffic wanted to get to our planets as quickly as possible, but we are stuck in a situation beyond our control. I smiled at the angry man in the car next to mine. A brave gesture on my part, because he could be the one with the baseball bat in the boot or the loaded pistol under his car seat. He looked at me for a few seconds and then looked back in front of him. No reaction. Oh, come on! I wasn’t trying to pick you up, asshole! I was just trying to alleviate your stress level! Sheesh.

To be continued…
END OF PART 2

Stress Factor Part 1

Kiet and I were having one of our “Ladies who Lunch” afternoons. Kiet is an award-winning journalist, and a fabulous blonde, and when we walk into a restaurant we usually make an enviable entrance. Waiters rush towards us vying for our attention in order to seat us at their stations. Male patrons stop conversations in mid-sentence to ogle us and female patrons jealously want to be us.

Once seated, our conversation went something like this:

KIET (frantic)
Sorry I’m late! The traffic is terrible and there are road works everywhere. The meeting was hectic and my phone keeps ringing… I need a prawn salad!

BOEFIE
Don’t worry, I only just got here too. I couldn’t get my false eyelashes on straight without my glasses on.

KIET (takes her glasses out of her handbag, puts them on)
They’re straight. We need lip-gloss.

KIET BOEFIE
I can’t cope… Saw myself on video…
…with all these… …yesterday…
…deadlines… …and nearly died…
…and then I have all these… …I did not even…
…functions… …recognise myself…
…it’s just eat and drink… …my roots are…
…all the time… …grey…
…not good for my… …have to go to…
…ulcer and… …the hairdresser…
…figure… …before I do…
…and I have no… …the shoot…
…time to finish my article for… …for a TV series…
…next week. Hectic! …next week. Hectic!

And then, taking a breath while sipping elegantly on a glass of chardonnay, she asked me: “Boefie, how do you cope with stress?” To which my obvious answer was: “I live on Planet Gorgeous, darling.”

On my way home, feeling totally stress free after our lunch, stuck in the five o’clock traffic, I started to think about it.

STRESS.

Is stress a serious condition? Is it critical? Why do so many people suffer from this? Is it a disease? Is it medical? Is it social? Do we create our own symptoms or do other people cause it? Is it inevitable or do we have a choice in the matter? Is it the champagne talking or am I suffering from a chemical reaction caused by the layers of make-up I have on?

I started to review my week in order to analyse the situation and gauge the stress levels in my life. Stress on Planet Gorgeous? Mmm…let’s see….

To be continued…
END OF PART 1

Hello?

Remember when you actually had to dial a number on your telephone? You know, put your finger in a little round hole, move it until it couldn’t go any further, break a nail, and then wait patiently for the rotary to return to its original position before you can dial the next digit? It took time. It was an event. The question “Where are you now?” did not exist, because you could assume that the person you were calling was at home. Because that is where they kept the phone. Singular.

In the eighties, the era of Betamax and banana clips, touchtone phones and answering machines with cute, miniature tapes appeared. At last you could go out, because you knew that the little red light would be flashing when you came home, and you wouldn’t have missed anything.

In the nineties I bought a fax machine, a cellular phone and I got an email address. The new technology was exciting and overwhelming. I had to buy a bigger handbag in order to transport my fancy, new, 3kg cell phone, which I kept having to replace because it kept getting stolen. And the numbers of the five people I knew who also had cell phones at that time were gone forever and I had to go back to my little black book next to my touchtone telephone and leave messages on their answering machines because they were also out replacing their stolen cell phones. Locating the damn thing in my new giant handbag was just as big of a problem, and I kept having to call it from my landline in order to find it.

Now, ten years later, I have a small, sexy, touch screen cell phone and a smaller handbag. My technologically advanced communication device makes me look modern and hip, but I am completely baffled by it. First of all, I do not understand half the messages I receive. Oh, and all the new techno-speak and acronyms I had to learn to be able to operate it was like learning a foreign language. SIM card (SIMple SIMilar SIMultaneous SIMper SIMmer)? Flight mode. (What?) PIN (Punch In Number Put In Neutral PINion PINnacle)? Bluetooth? (I had mine pulled years ago.) Setup Wizard? (Harry Potter? Abracadabra!)

I only recently realised that a written message on my phone is not an S&M, but an SMS. Either way I have no idea what to do. (Gr8 2 c u. r u. Plz ph asap 4 2morrow’s d8 tx). Do I add up the numbers because I just received a math equation to solve? Are vowels now as obsolete as VCRs?

Another thing that blows my mind is that I can actually take pictures with my phone… and then email them to myself… from the same device…so that I can see what I photographed because the screen is so small that I cannot for the love of St. Isidore of Seville identify the people in the picture without my reading glasses. Amazing. I have no use for my digital camera, my alarm clock, my diary, my calendar, my CD player, my computer or my television, because I have a cell phone. My index finger has become useless while my thumb has the same muscle strength as one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biceps.

Also, the touch screen is freaking me out, because every time I answer my phone my earrings seem to spontaneously connect me to the Internet.

Everyone has a cell phone and everyone seems to be using it incessantly. Socialising with friends has become a short-term memory exercise, because someone’s Amy Winehouse ringtone keeps interrupting the conversation. The witty anecdote I’ve been waiting to share all night is drowned out by the cacophony of modern technology. “Excuse me while I take this…” has become the catchphrase of the era.

The strange thing is that I am getting used to it…and now I want more. Is it too much to ask for a machine that can connect me to my beautician/hairdresser/plastic surgeon as soon as I am having the initial thought that I might need my roots done/a facial /a tuck?

I want a device consisting of a lightproof enclosure having an aperture with a shuttered lens through which the image of an object is focused and recorded onto film, so that I can experience the thrill and anticipation of waiting for my prints. I need a sound-reproduction system that uses two or more separate channels to give a more natural distribution of sound, so that I can identify the horn section in a musical arrangement. I want to watch a sequence of rapidly projected photographs creating the illusion of motion and continuity on a large, distant screen that emits a series of transient visible images so that I can lounge on my comfortable couch while drinking champagne.

Is it too much to ask?????

Oh.

Wait.

I think I already have all those things.

I better call someone to tell them about it before I forget.

Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops.

My brother Donnyo and I are busy setting up lights and sound equipment for a gig at a venue in a nearby seaside town. As I am fighting with the cables, lights, speakers and microphone stands, and trying my best to look cool, and not break a nail, the manager of the establishment’s wife walks up to us with a quizzical expression on her face.

“Are you both in show business?”

Without missing a beat we break into song.

“There’s no business like show business like no business we knowwww!!!! Everything about it is appealing! Nowhere could you have that happy feeling! When you aren't stealing that extra bowwwwww!!!”

Question answered, but not appreciated, she stalks away, muttering something under her breath. It was a stupid question anyway. I don’t go around asking her if she’s an audience member. It’s obvious.

Donnyo and I have an unwritten script we perform by - even when we are not on stage. We don’t make small talk when we meet outside of rehearsal, we recite dialogue and lyrics from movies and musicals.

A conversation might go something like this:

Boefie: Wilkommen, Bienvenue, welcome. In here life is beautiful.*

Donnyo: “Hi, Boefie! That’s quite a dress you almost have on.” **

Boefie: “Dignity, always dignity.” ***

Donnyo: “You know, I think you are the only girl in the world who can stand on a stage with a spotlight in her eye and still see a diamond inside a man’s pocket.” ****

Boefie: “There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl’s complexion.” *****
Donnyo: “It’s astounding. Time is fleeting…”

Boefie: “Madness takes control…”

Donnyo: “But listen closely…”

Boefie: “…not for very much longer…”

Donnyo: “I’ve got to keep control.” ******

Boefie: “Why? Did you get the contract for the new show?”

Donnyo: “Yes. The party of the first part shall be known in this contract as the party of the first part. How do you like that? That’s pretty neat, eh?”

Boefie: “No, that’s no good.”

Donnyo: “That’s in every contract. That’s what they call a sanity clause.”

Boefie: “Oh, no. You can’t fool me. There ain’t no Sanity Clause.” *******

Donnyo: “At last I can start suffering and write that symphony.” ********

And then Donnyo will grab his guitar, hand me some sheet music and we will start rehearsing for the next show.

Now you may exclaim: “Surely, you can’t be serious!”
But I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley. *********

*Cabaret
** An American in Paris
***Singing in the Rain
****Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
*****Breakfast at Tiffany’s
******Rocky Horror Picture Show
*******Night at the Opera
********Singing in the Rain
*********Airplane
(Title quote from Arsenic and Old Lace)

The Great Caruso

I love the theatre. I love theatre buildings, auditoriums, backstage, dressing rooms, the lights…hell, everything about it. But I love the stage with its promise of perfection the most.

Getafix and I went to a performance of a very famous local singer renowned for his vocal gymnastics and chameleon-like reinvention of his image with every show.

When we arrived at the arena I could feel the anticipation and excitement of the audience in the air. The auditorium was packed to the rafters. I could hardly contain myself and nearly fainted when he appeared on stage dressed in a white jacket, black pants and silver tie with diamantè pin that caught the light every time he moved. Very classy. True to his reputation, this new image is very different from the gold shorts and feather boas he wore when he started out about ten years ago.

He sang some of his own compositions, opera classics, a show tune and even did a few numbers from his past life as a funky, electro-fusion performance artist. His anecdotes were funny and his band was brilliant. He even had a string section to complement his arrangements. Perfection. There’s no business like show business!

When he started to sing one of my favourite songs of all time, I was beside myself and started screaming, whooping and whooing like a teenybopper at a Jonas Brothers concert. Getafix was embarrassed and pretended not to know me. Even the people around me that I didn’t know pretended not to know me. I suppose it is not appropriate to “lose it” during a rendition of “Caruso”, but when he launched into “Te vojo bene assai, ma tanto tanto bene sai…”, I jumped up and joined in at the top of my voice only to realise during “che scioglie il sangue dint’e vene sai…” that I was the only audience member standing up and making a noise.

After the show I waited with thousands of fans for him to appear from his dressing room. I HAD to meet him to tell him how much I enjoyed the show, that he sang my favourite songs, that I love his new image, that the band was amazing, that I want to have his baby.

After about half an hour he emerged and I elbowed my way through the crowd, trampling on feet, pushing people out of the way, and knocking over old ladies. I was making headway and could see him looking tired but smiling and being polite and cordial to his fans, paying his dues as a performer should.

At last I was standing in front of him with an angry mob behind me and an army of security guards closing in.

“Eeeeeee!” I yelled while jumping up and down.

His eyes widened and his smile faded. He looked scared.

I dived on him and embraced him. The security guards were prompt, prepared and ready for action and pried me off of him. While they were restraining me I attempted another bout of communication.

“Ooo show great band autograph me songs new lovely!”

I think he understood.

As the security guards escourted me out of the venue, I caught sight of Getafix patiently waiting for me at the entrance.

“Are you okay?” he ventured as we walked to the car.

I paused, looked at him, took a deep breath and

“TE VOJO BENE ASSAI
MA TANTO TANTO BENE SAI
È UNA CATENA ORMAI
CHE SCIOGLIE SUNGUE DINT’E VENE SAI!!!!!!”

I think he understood.

Never Wash a Feather Boa

“I am giddy. Expectation whirls me round. Th’imaginary relish is so sweet that it enchants my sense.” (Shakespeare. Troilus and Cressida, Act 3 Sc 2)

I stood there taking in the beauty, the strength, the majesty, the well proportioned stature of the object of my newfangled passion. I was blushing, felt hot and cold simultaneously. Dare I approach and throw myself mercilessly at this vision?

After an enjoyable lunch one Friday afternoon, my friend and I decided to do some serious window-shopping. And that’s when I saw it. That was when I saw the most beautiful bed in the entire world. Yes. A Bed. A big, wooden, flamboyant, pretentious, ostentatious, gold bed. Just as Ru Paul is a true Diva, this bed is a true Divan.

I grabbed hold of a shop assistant and inquired about the price. Love does not come cheap. In fact, love is bloody expensive. Ask anybody who has been on a date or divorced. But when you are in love, reality, as well as the size of your bank account, becomes a figment of your imagination.

I bought the bed.

The shop-assistant assured me that the bed would be delivered within the hour. I rushed home. I was elated, euphoric, ecstatic, ephemeral. I’m in love. I feel like I’m in a Barry Manilow song.

As soon as my new bed arrived the delivery men disassembled my old bed. I saw it lying there, on the floor, in pieces, obsolete and venerable, and I realized it resembled the emotional state of all of my ex-husbands after divorcing them. (Now I love younger men. Their stories are shorter. And their longevity is, um, well…longer.)

Like with every new relationship you have to make a few changes. Some people call it ‘nesting’. I call it ‘exorcism’. So I started redecorating immediately. Luckily the gold curtains, lamé drapes, Persian carpet, gold framed mirrors, chandelier and mirror-ball complemented the bed beautifully, but I had to repaint the bedside tables and move some paintings around to accommodate the huge golden headboard. Darlings, listen carefully, size does matter.

Something was not quite right, though…I scanned the room carefully and located the problem: hanging there all limp, old and dusty, my once fluffy snow-white feather boa was looking very sad and grey with age. Memories of sequins, high heels, fishnet stockings and the smell of fresh false-eyelash glue and stage make-up came flooding back to me and I decided to attempt at resurrecting this object from my past with a little soap and TLC.

After lovingly and very gently hand washing it, I put it in the dryer, which I hoped, will fluff it up again and restore it to its natural beauty. Alas. It shamefully emerged from the dryer resembling a dead wet rat. No fluff, no grandeur, no stage presence. Just a mangled ball of manginess. I was grief-stricken. I felt like I was in a Leonard Cohen song.

I said a sad goodbye to my once beautiful costume prop and threw it, and my past career as a showgirl, in the bin.

Then I went back to my rehabbed boudoir, relapsed in my infatuation, and felt a bit like Joan Collins making her comeback on “Dynasty” after being a has-been for twenty years. My youth may be in the bin along with my feather boa, but I am still able to do a pirouette in high heels and sing “Copacabana”. I named my bed Lola.

Life is a low budget, disease ridden and special effects free cabaret, my friend

Every once in a while I venture out to other planets and then it hits me: Not everybody lives on Planet Gorgeous. And the scary thing is: the people residing on these other planets are totally unaware that they are not surrounded by beauty. They accept the ubiquitous unattractive, unpleasant and unappealing circumstances they are living in without any attempt to change it, and this makes me really sad.

Creating something beautiful, delightful and gorgeous comes naturally for those of us who live on Planet Gorgeous. Pursuing beauty: It is what we do. It is our religion.

My friend, Belg Droller, and I were commissioned by an art centre, about an hour’s drive from Planet Gorgeous, to showcase artwork, jewellery, textiles and accessories in a creative and ingenious way. We decided on presenting them with a fashion show without fashions. Talk about ‘thinking outside the closet’!

At the first meeting we were given the following information:
We get three rehearsals and one dress rehearsal before the show. (Are you serious? Rome was not built in a day. Rome was not even built in three days. In fact, Rome is still being built. As we speak, Roman construction workers are wolf-whistling women walking past scaffolding.)

The budget is non-existent. (What? No elaborate set? No pyrotechnics? No laser display? No dancing bears or singing monkeys?)

Because of H1N1, 70% of the models will not be attending the rehearsals, but should be better the night of the show, fingers crossed. (Wonderful! Choreographing and rehearsing without models will be like writing without a pen or attaching false eyelashes with breakfast cereal.)

The committee looked at us with nervous and expectant smiles on their faces.
“Can you do it?”
Can you stop inflation? Can taxis adhere to road regulations? Can Keanu Reeves act?

Belg and I looked at each other. Did I detect a hint of fear in his eyes?
“Where do you want to present the showcase?” I asked apprehensively, trying my best to disguise an impulsive menopausal hot flush. Belg was also sweating.
“We have a hall you can use, but there are no lighting or sound facilities,” declared a committee member bravely.

On the way home after the meeting, Belg and I decided to stop somewhere for a drink and after a bottle of champagne decided courageously: What the hell! Life is an adventure. If we can make this work, we can make anything work. It’s up to us, New York, Neeeew Yooork!

We had our work cut out for us. Swine flu swept through the cast and I was contemplating choreographing with a surgical mask. Michael Jackson would have been proud.

Some of the art work was still in the process of being completed, so I had no idea what I was working with and had to improvise. I asked for a smoke machine and I was informed that they don’t have a smoke machine at the art centre, but there is a vending machine with beverages I could use. “No, darling! Not a cigarette machine! Smoke! I want lots and lots of smoke to camouflage the flu ridden models that did not come to rehearsals and do not know the choreography.”

The lighting technician arrived half an hour before the show with two lights and a smoke machine and placed them on the stage. TWO lights to light a stage and a ramp! My life flashed before my eyes.
“Do you need help getting the lighting board out of your car?” I asked. But I was being optimistic. Or paranoid. Or maybe this guy is a genius. Maybe Nicole Kidman’s face is Botox free.

“No thanks” he replied surprised. “I’ll just get on stage during the show and switch the light and smoke machine on manually. When would you like me to do it?”

I had a small stroke. When I finally came to, and after the catatonia and hair loss cleared, I was surprised to still see him alive. Maybe I could just hurt or maim him a little?

“Belg!! I’m aging! Help!”

But Belg had his own problems trying to set up the powerpoint presentation for our spectacular multi-media fashion show, and just threw his hands up in the air summoning the seven muses for inspiration, while fighting a losing battle with cables, his laptop, an overhead projector, gaffer tape and an electronic screen that is supposed to go up and down during the show.

Showtime. The audience filtered into the auditorium in anticipation. Since we couldn’t afford a stage manager I prayed that the models were on standby backstage, as I could not see them from where I was sitting at the sound desk.

Opening number: Power point cue perfect. Belg is a genius.
Music cue spot on. I’m a genius.
Lighting cue: not much you can see with two lights.
Smoke: where the hell did the smoke go?

I rushed backstage. Someone had opened the stage door and all the smoke was being sucked outside. My red gels were disintegrating before my eyes. The two lights kept being kicked out of focus by the unrehearsed models.

But the show must go on. And go on it did, with only a minor hiccup here and there.

After the show we were congratulated on a wonderful and creative performance. Belg and I nodded and smiled and thanked the people for their compliments, no matter how drunk they must have been in order to enjoy the show.

Next time I’m going with dancing bears.

Animal Planet

On Planet Gorgeous we just love going to parties. The people are beautiful, the food is beautiful and the champagne cocktails are beautiful. On other planets parties can also be fun, because I get to see creatures in their natural habitat grazing, preening and hunting, and also learn a lot of behavioural patterns from species I might never encounter on my planet.

I was invited by friends to a birthday party held at a club in the city. As I entered the venue I immediately orientated myself by scoping out the lay of the land. Where is the best lighting? Where is the bar? Where can I position myself to observe the status quo?

I saw some people near the bar and joined them in order to catch up on the latest gossip, but the music was so loud that trying to converse respectably was like a listening to a record player needle jumping around on a seven single: “How. You. Pwzghjh. Where. Plant. Gxyngw. Truck. Cheese. Qmzks.” I could not understand or hear one bloody word anyone was saying. They might as well have been speaking Lithuanian.

Two young studs joined us and one offered to get me a drink. I know this because he was miming his offering. How gallant of him. Good looking and good manners! Maybe this party will be fun after all.

As he handed me my drink a wrinkle free twentysomething with legs up to her armpits appeared out of nowhere, grabbed him by the arm and coughed up something in his ear that sounded like ‘cougar’. He smiled at me apologetically and shrugged. She gave him a dirty look, frowned, and very subtly wagged her finger at me. What did this little charade mean? What just happened here? Have I been living on Planet Gorgeous for so long that I have become ignorant of certain societal rituals? I signalled to one of my friends that I needed to get some air and a cigarette.

As soon as we were outside, I braved my dilemma.
“Did you hear that giraffe in there say ‘cougar’?
My friend nodded knowingly.
“What does it mean?” I asked nervously.
“A cougar is a mature woman who scores with much younger men. Demi Moore is one. Susan Sarandon is one. And admittedly, Boefie, you are one.”

I did not know if this was a compliment or not. I decided to mitigate the situation.

“It makes me sound like a predatory feline who hunts, stalks, and imposes her attention upon some innocent, inexperienced young male. And believe me, these young men are not that innocent. The term was probably thought up by an insecure jealous twenty-five year old whose boyfriend was looking at a gorgeous older woman. Fifty is the new thirty! Wouldn’t you rather go out with a man that has a sixpack and only one chin? I would date Ashton Kutcher in a heartbeat. Tight ass, tight abs…”

“Boefie, calm down! You are ranting. I don’t understand your problem. You ARE dating younger men. Jealous women need to justify their emotions and feel better if they can label and classify their shortcomings.”

“Okay, so why do I all of a sudden feel like I am committing some heinous crime against society? I mean what about those awful lecherous old Sugar Daddies with arm candy draped like trophies? Shouldn’t they be called ‘lions’ or ‘cheetahs’ or ‘panthers’? Ooo, yes, let’s call them ‘cheetahs’, because they are all a bunch of predatory adulterers.”

My dear friend looked at me with an expression of ‘and your point is?’ I felt trapped. Do I need to justify my behaviour at my age? I have to accept the fact that it is the law of the jungle to survive at any cost.

So, my darling young gazelles, there is a cougar in your territory. Be careful.

Coming out of the Age Closet

“Oh my God, Saffy darling, help. I’m having a hot flush. I don’t believe it. It’s a hot flush. Feel my skin.”
“Mum, you’re standing too close to the kettle”
(Edina and Saffron Monsoon, "Absolutely Fabulous")

Sweat is dripping down my cleavage, making the underwire in my Wonderbra rust. My face is on fire, and I’m convinced that I’m spontaneously combusting. My perfect coiffeur becomes sentient and I look like I have been caught in a tropical rain storm. What is happening? Am I experiencing global warming up close and personal?

I’m sitting in a restaurant with friends trying to not only look cool, but be cool too. It seems, though that I’m fighting a losing battle against the prevalent climate conditions of physiology. I remove my jacket. It doesn’t help. I need to take off all my clothes. Now I know why some people call it a hot ‘flash’. I grab the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and press it against my chest. Aaaahhh! Bliss.

“Boefie, are you okay?” my date, Getafix, whispers concerned.
“Yes, fine. Just a hot flush. It’s over now.”

The rest of my friends look at me as if I have just danced the fandango on the table in army boots. After an eternity of uncomfortable silence, Getafix, a healer, offered to bring me magic potions to ease me through…gasp…MENOPAUSE.

There! I’ve said it! I’m out of the closet. I feel totally liberated. I now have an excuse for being a total bitch, because I suffer from menopausal mood swings. I’m vindicated from crying for no reason and losing my temper at incompetent waiters, clueless shop assistants, lazy film crew and precocious children. I can finally stop feeling guilty and thinking I’m a horrible person in need of therapy or a personality change.

My brother, Donnyo, is optimistic about my condition. “So, will you be giving men a pause now?”

Another downside of this “change of life” is the sporadic bouts of memory loss. Learning monologues take twice a long as it did a few months ago. But I have become an expert at creative improvisation while saying my lines, convincing directors that the new lines are much more powerful than the original, especially due to seasoning the dialogue with a few frustrated expletives.

Shakespeare, once a source of perpetual inspiration, has now become a source of perpetual perspiration for me. Rehearsing a scene from Anthony and Cleopatra with my actor friend, Feral Beast, the other day went something like this:

Boefie as Cleopatra: “Your wife Octavia, all coy and…fuck!..ing shi..she is no match for me. But come, come, Antony.”
Feral as Antony: “What are you talking about? That’s not in the script.”
Boefie: “Just say your bloody line!” (cue simultaneous mood swing and memory loss)
Feral: (recovering and in character as Antony) “O, quick, or I am gone.”
Boefie: (on the floor holding the dying Antony in her arms) “God, you’re heavy! No, wait…how heavy…bloody hell…I knew this an hour ago…shit!... I feel a hot flush coming on…oh no…it’s here! Get off me!”

Getafix prescribed Memory Pills for me, but I keep forgetting to take them.

Other symptoms include:
Hair loss (but that could just be because I have been bleaching my hair for thirty five years resulting in permanent follicle destruction) (It’s true what they say about blondes…)

Difficulty concentrating (with all the knowledge accumulated these past fifty years I’m not surprised my brain is rebelling).

Brittle nails (I don’t know about this one because my nails are acrylic).

Dizziness (it could also be the champagne).

Sleep disorders (party all night so you don’t have to sleep).

Night sweats (like I said: party all night so you don’t have to sleep and then deal with another symptom, fatigue, with the excuse that you have partied all night.)

So, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go outside in the winter cold, naked and tired and scream obscenities at pedestrians.

Let's Get Physical

Gravity is a force to be reckoned with. Everything is moving south like those bloody swallows in spring. (Except for my boobs – thank you Dr. Price.) This calls for desperate measures. I’ll have to do Jim…sorry… gym.

I call Fernando.
“Darling, you are doing such a wonderful job with my sister Neelsie. Please do me!
Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie
If you put me to the test, if you let me try
Take a chance on me.”

“Are you quoting ABBA?”

Getting ready for my first session with my personal trainer, Fernando (can you hear the drums?) posed a bit of a problem. What to wear? Images of Jane Fonda in a leotard and matching leg-warmers flashed through my mind. So I did my nails, put lotion on my legs, teased my hair and put on a sweat band. Hmmmm. Too eighties? After an hour and about fifteen costume changes I settled on a sports bra and a cute pair of floral shorts.

Fernando arrived at the gym with his sculpted body, Colgate smile and a sports bag full of interesting exercise thingies. A physique like this should be mounted and framed. His muscles flex spontaneously even though he is standing still!

“Get onto the treadmill for a few minutes to warm up. Slow walk.”
“Be gentle, darling. This is my first time. Why don’t you take your shirt off and show me what to do. I’ll just sit on this little bench over here and watch you.”
“Boefie, you are paying by the hour. Get on the treadmill. No, that’s not the treadmill. Other one. No, left. My left. This one, over here.”

Ah, at last. I found it. All these gadgets look the same. I get on the TREADMILL. He switches it on and I start walking. This was easy. I was going nowhere slowly while Fernando unpacked his bag of tricks.
“Are we there yet?” I asked hesitantly a few minutes later as a small drop of sweat trickled down the side of my face.
“You’ve only been walking for two minutes.”
“It feels like I’ve been on this thing forever. Look! Sweat!” I pointed to my face.
“Let’s pick up the pace a little.” He came over and I watched a muscle ripple in his arm as he pushed a button on the panel in front of me. The machine started to speed up and my little legs were trying to keep up. This was not fun anymore. I held on to my bouncing boobs. I was sweating make-up. Waterloo – couldn’t escape if I wanted to!

At last it was over. “You can get off now.” Easier said than done, Adonis. I tried to take command of my legs, but they were out of control. They buckled and I collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“I’m paralyzed! Call the paramedics!” I caught a glimpse of my pathetic self in the mirror. “Call a make-up artist!”
Fernando picked what was left of me off the floor and handed me a pair of boxing gloves. Oooh, let the games begin! He put pads on his hands.
“Now, hit me.” So I hit him in the stomach. He flinched and gasped for air.
“No..ugh…hit… the…(gasp)…PADS!”
“Oh, sorry, but I can’t.”
“Sure you can. You can do this. This will get your arms toned in no time.”
“No, I can’t. When I hit you just now I broke three acrylic nails.”

Fernando tried to keep a brave face, while attempting to give me other exercises that will sculpt and remodel my body to that of a supermodel. With my amputated nails and shaking legs I tried my best. (“Every hour every minute seemed to last eternally,
I was so afraid…Fernando…”)

I accidentally dropped a weight on his foot; lost control of the rubber band while doing some arm exercise and snapped him in the face; and kicked him in the groin during a leg lift. When he asked me to lie down on a little mat for abdominal crunches, I went into the foetal position and started to suck my thumb.

After an hour of hard labour and excruciating pain, I stumbled to my car and threw myself on the bonnet. Incapable of driving home just yet, I took a few minutes to compose myself and waited for my hands to stop shaking so that I could get the key into the ignition. I felt and looked like I was out all night partying and had too many champagne cocktails.

I’m convinced Jane Fonda said: “Now that we’ve evolved into a more intelligent and humane society we no longer believe in torture as an accepted practice, though it is still necessary from time to time to pay homage to our forefathers by inflicting physical damage onto ourselves for the good of our own ego and for acceptance into the socio-cultural infrastructure.”?

Or maybe it went something like: “No pain. No gain.”

The Terminal

The devil himself had probably redesigned hell in the light of information he had gained from observing airport layouts.
Anthony Price


I get off the plane at Heathrow airport for a connecting flight from Cape Town to Chicago. I decide to walk around a bit and look at all the shops selling duty free stuff to people who want to get rid of their foreign currency. I’m not going to spend any money as I have to hold on to my foreign currency in order to spend it on my daughter in Chicago.

After about hour of covetous window shopping, I sit down at a coffee shop, order a choccochino and take out my itinerary to check my flight details. Flight number: check. Terminal: check. Departure time: What? No! This can’t be right. According to this I have to wait sixteen hours before my flight takes off. Sixteen! I feel myself aging rapidly. I call the waiter. “Please hold my table. I’ll be back in a second!”

I rush off to Information. “Darling, please help. According to this, (wave itinerary frantically in front of Information Man’s face), I have to wait for sixteen hours before my connecting flight to Chicago. Sixteen! Can you put me on standby for an earlier flight?” Information man looks at my itinerary. “Sixteen!” I repeat desperately. He punches in something on his computer. I try again, “Sixteen! I am so excited about seeing my daughter again that I misread the bloody time. I thought it was six, but it’s sixteen.”
“There is an earlier flight, but it’s fully booked. I can put you on standby but then you are not allowed to leave the terminal.”
“Yes! Thank you! I won’t go anywhere. Thank you!”

When I get back to the coffee shop my choccochino is cold but I drink it anyway. Things can only get better. Right? I decide to retrace my steps and visit all the shops again. What else is there to do in terminal hell? Images of impending death flashes through my mind. At the bookshop I buy a Vogue and a compendium of Sudoku puzzles. I try on designer clothing from the boutiques. I test eye shadow, lipstick, eye liner and blusher at the make-up counters. I buy a CD and a DVD. I buy a “Heathrow” postcard. And last but not least I buy a carton of cigarettes. So much for saving my dollars…

I go back to Information Man. “Any news?” He gives me a blank look. “Sixteen? Chicago?” I attempt in jogging his memory. He punches away on his computer again and without looking at me shakes his head. Disconcertingly I walk away from the counter. I have been here nearly four hours and have spent a fortune on shit I don’t need. My stilettos are killing me and my skinny jeans are cutting off the circulation in my legs.

I spot a small beauty salon sandwiched between Harrods and a car display and decide to go for a manicure. The manicurist is from Russia, and while she’s doing my nails we have a very nice chat about geography. By the time she’s applying my top coat I know everything about her and I can say Да, Нет, Спасибо and Мои гвозди симпатичны. (Yes. No. Thank you. My nails are pretty.)


As I walk past the make-up counters the shop assistants wave and smile. Yes, I’m still here. I go into the bookshop again and the cashier greets me like we are best friends. I feel like Tom Hanks. I go back to the coffee shop. “Another choccochino?” The waiter asks, as I sit down plonking the multitude of shopping bags on the floor. I’m exhausted. “Hit me with more caffeine please darling.” As he bends down to put the cup in front of me, I smell IT. The scent of a smoker. “You smoke!” He nods embarrassingly. “Where? I need to know! Where can I smoke in a smoke-free airport? Tell me now!”
“You have to go outside.”

Okay, this is a problem. I have been smoke-free now for about nine hours and not even the caffeine high is helping. I need to get out. I’m already stir crazy, screaming at waiters and considering learning Russian. So I try to find the exit. I think it was Douglas Adams that said: It is no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase “As pretty as an airport’ appear.

Heathrow is big. I get lost about five times and eventually end up in a line with about a hundred Japanese tourists who are about to venture into London armed to the teeth with cameras. After about an hour of slowly inching forward towards the counter and smiling at the extremely cordial Japanese tourists, I reach the Passport Check Man.
“Business or pleasure?” He asks, professionally bored.
“Oh no, I’m just going for a smoke break.”
He looks up at me with a ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ expression on his face.
“Passport.”
“I’m waiting for a connecting flight. Sixteen hours! I just want a cigarette.”
“If you leave the terminal, you will be in London. I need to stamp your passport.”
“But I don’t want to be in London. I want to be in Chicago.”
I’m close to tears, but I keep my pose. I’ve touched up my make-up about seven times already and I do not feel like doing it again. I give him my passport. He stamps it. “Have a nice stay.”
“No, I’m not staying. I’m just going outside for a…”
“Next!”

I take my stamped passport, pick up my shopping bags and enter London. As the fresh English air washes the smell of stale airport away, I tiredly wonder if one carton of Camels will be enough.

Youth is wasted on the young

A lady never reveals her age. As Oscar Wilde wrote in A Woman of No Importance: “One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who tells one that, would tell one anything.”

So, lie darlings! But then again, women have been lying about their ages for ages. Teenagers add years to get into clubs and middle-age women subtract years to feel younger in order to justify that they’re still clubbing. I don’t trust anybody who says “You look great for your age”. What does that mean? I go deaf when I hear “great” and only hear “your age”. Does it mean that I’m old? Does it mean: For an old hag at least you had your hair done?

I went for a costume fitting for a TV-series I was doing, and as I entered the production company’s reception area, the place was swarming with people. They were casting for something-or-other and I had to fight my way through pubescent male bodies to the costume department. The wardrobe queen was in a flat spin.
“Boefie! Good! You’re here! But you have to wait, because my assistants are on lunch, you know, union rules and all that shit, and I’m on my own and running late!”

So I headed back to the reception and proceeded to wait. There were lots of young men sitting and standing around with numbers and audition sheets, waiting their turn to be rejected. A man, older than the auditionees, came to sit next to me and attempted a conversation.
“What are you here for?”
“I came for a costume fitting. And you?” I replied respectably, because clearly he was not here for the casting. He pointed to a twenty year old with matted hair and oversized jeans hanging halfway down his butt, his underwear fashionably peeking out from underneath.
“I brought my son to the casting and it’s been a long wait. There are so many of them.”

The son sidled over, introduced himself and went back to join the others. Then both of us just sat there in silence looking at the crowd of hopefuls, but his son kept staring in our direction. What is this guy looking at? I turned around to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing behind me except a wall. Does he think I’m flirting with his dad? I pulled my skirt down over my knees, recrossed my legs, and pretended not to look uncomfortable. Luckily, about half an hour later, I was summoned to the wardrobe department and could escape this increasingly awkward situation.

“Carlos”, I said as I was trying on my costume, “am I showing too much cleavage today? Is my skirt too short? Do I have something on my face? Do I have a chipped nail? Because a young guy kept staring at me.”
Carlos, being completely overwhelmed, just rolled his eyes and kept mumbling obscenities under his breath, and sent me on my way.

I walked through the reception when The Older Man (TOM) approached me. Shit! They are still here!

“My son wants to ask you something.”
“Oh…okay…”
“Go on, Jason, ask her.” But Jason just stood there mutely still staring at me.
“Ask her!” He pushed his son towards me.

Not a sound from Jason.

“I have to go…?” I endeavoured nervously and started to move away. Who are these people? What do they want from me?

“My son wants to ask you out!” TOM blurted out.
“Excuse me?” I was completely taken aback. They just stood there expectantly waiting for my reply.
“My son wants to ask you on a date.”
Dumbfounded I looked at the smiling youth.

“Darling young man, I am flattered, but I think I am older than your mother, and if I have to lie about my age it will make my daughter illegitimate. It’s a general rule of thumb that I never date someone I could have given birth to. So, dear boy, few people have the imagination for reality, and the reality is: I am fifty. Fabulous, but fifty.”

They both looked at me as if I was from another planet.
Then the boy spoke for the first time: “So I guess it’s a ‘no’?”

I high-fived the secretary on my way out.

Mommy Dearest

Motherhood and Planet Gorgeous. Bit of an oxymoron, where I am the moron, but it happened. My poor daughter’s childhood was spent on film sets, dubbing studios and backstage, assisting me with costume changes, learning lines and reminding me which husband I am divorcing at what time. The two of us created a hobohemian lifestyle resembling a Hollywood Musical where dancing, an original score, elaborate interior decorating, extravagant costumes and make-up became prerequisites to our vicissitude.

Blommie (everybody calls her ‘Bee’) left home at seventeen to explore other planets, but with weekly phone calls and e-mails ten years later, she still reprimands me on my smoking, gives me dating advice, scolds me for swearing and often encourages me to replace chocolate and champagne with another food group, while my job has been reminding her that the world is her oyster, that she is amazing and talented and that I love her more than life itself. At least one of us grew up.

So, after years as a successful dancer in America, my wunderkind came home to visit Planet Gorgeous for six months. She immediately found a part time job, connected with all her friends, got a motorcycle, enrolled in dance classes, took up Poi, got a gym membership and crocheted in her spare time. Where did my baby go?

I tried waiting up for her when she went out at night (“Mom, you need your beauty sleep.”), tried to tuck her in when she went to bed (“Goodnight Smother Dearest.”), waited in the car to pick her up from her job or dance classes, attempted in brushing her hair in the mornings (“I can actually do this on my own now, Mother.”), stood in the driveway and waved goodbye when she drove off on her bike and made up songs, which I sang to her, obnoxiously and purposefully out-of-tune, in front of her hipster friends.

Attempting to be attentive and caring, I sent her to the dentist for a check-up, a chiropractor (she’s a dancer, she needs alignment), a gynaecologist (she’s a single twenty seven year old woman), a beautician (facial), a hairdresser (upkeep of uber-hip, asymmetrical hairstyle) and a psychologist (God bless her, but she needs it).

One Sunday at the weekly family luncheon my parents were cooing over their G & T granddaughter (no, not gin and tonic – gifted and talented), asking her questions about her life overseas, about her job, her dance shows and her friends.
Grandfather: “Are you considering moving back?”
Bee: “I still…”
Boefie: “There is so much for her to do still in the States and the opportunities there….”
Grandmother: “Have you acclimatized yet?”
Bee: “It took a…”
Boefie: “Yes, she is doing great! And the therapy really helps.”
Grandmother: “Why would you need therapy?”
Boefie: “It will help her deal with all her childhood issues. You know, all the step-fathers…”
Bee: “Mother, please, this is not about you. I might be vaguely sane, but you, dearest Mother, are sagely vain.”

Out of the mouths of babes…..

A Wrinkle in Time...

I’m sitting in an elegant restaurant, ordering dishes from a menu so expensive that it doesn’t show the prices, and sipping expensive champagne. The lights are comfortably low enough to take about five years off and the pianist is playing smooth jazz to complete the ambiance. My date is reminiscing about the eighties (wasn’t that yesterday?) while I have flashbacks of Jane Fonda as Barbarella and Warren Beatty as a sex god while humming “Mrs Robinson”.

“Duran Duran and (…and here’s to you Mrs. Robinson…) Gary Newman blended New Wave and Disco (…heaven holds a place for those who pray…) to produce the distinctly robotic style of hits like “Cars”…. Boefie, why are you frowning?” (…hey, hey, hey…WHAT!) I immediately refocus. Frowning? I feel a personal crisis coming on.
“I’m not frowning! Please excuse me. I’m just going to the ladies room.” I get up a little unsteadily, but as gracefully as I possibly can under the circumstances, head off to the Ladies. I hesitantly look into the mirror above the bathroom basins and there it is: The Grand Canyon etched topographically on my forehead. It is like looking at the Picture of Dorian Grey in the attic. I feel faint. I need to go home or kill myself. I comb my fringe over my forehead, add twenty layers of dark lipstick in order to direct attention to my lips and sashay back to my date.
“Please take me home, darling. I need to learn my lines for tomorrow’s shoot.” I feign aplomb and give him the ‘its-not-you-it’s-me’ look.

At home I frantically punch in Dr. Price’s telephone number on my phone.
“It’s Boefie! Help! Emergency!”
I leave fifteen messages and go to bed exhausted. I lie awake the whole night waiting for the consulting rooms to open. At 8h00 I haven’t slept a wink. I press 1 on my speeddail and hold my breath. Hallelujah! The phone is answered! “Rose, darling, sweetie, I need to see Dr. Price immediately! This is an emergency! I’m aging as we speak!”

I hurriedly get dressed into a long black T-shirt, black leggings and my skulls and roses Wellington boots. No time to waste! Time is fleeting…madness takes control!

I barge into the reception area looking like Mick Jagger and throw myself onto Rose’s desk. “Is he here? Is he running late?” I grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “Do I have to wait long?” Rose tries to clam me down with her soothing I-understand-voice. “Interesting outfit you’re wearing today, Boefie. I like you boots.” She’s trying to distract me! Just then Dr. Price enters the room with a file in one hand and a collagened female in the other. “Dr. Price!” I scream, “Shoot me up!”

He takes one look at me, turns on his heels and disappears around the corner. Where’s he going? No! This cannot be happening. “Rose! He’s running away!” A woman with a band-aid across her nose looks up nervously from her magazine. “Excuse me”, she mutters apprehensively, “did you buy your boots locally or overseas?”

As if on cue, Dr. Price appears with a camera in his hand. I am so happy to see him and have to restrain myself from French kissing him in front of everybody. “Make me beautiful!” is my last desperate plea.
As he escorts me to his surgery he asks to take a few pictures. I’m confused. “But I’m only here for a few life changing Botox shots.”
“Oh, no, not of your face. I want to take a picture of your boots for my daughter. She will love them.” And he proceeds to drop down onto the floor on his stomach and starts to snap away.

And here I stand: in a surgical office, aging, with a plastic surgeon literally at my feet. What more could a girl want?

Arts and Culture

Living on Planet Gorgeous I get invited to parties, product launches, openings of art exhibitions and random functions. I love dressing up and I make an event of going out in full costume and make-up and mingling with people from other planets. Hell, I’ll go to the opening of an envelope if I can sip champagne while being photographed for a social page!

My best friend, Belg Droller, and I were recently invited to the opening of an arts festival. The two of us are always invited to events because we are equally fabulous and people like to been seen with us. Belg is an artist, and together with my musician friend, Kabous Gouws, we can basically make up the entirety of an Arts and Culture programming board and are a threesome-force to be reckoned with. We arrived at the theatre fashionably late, but dressed to kill in appropriate high fashion black outfits. As we enter the pre-show cocktail party, we graciously accept the champagne offered at the door from a cute waiter in pants tight enough to enable a medical student to pass an anatomy exam. Photographers are taking pictures of the guests and I smile obligingly while being photographed with the Who’s Who of the entertainment industry. The journalists group faces together for perfect pictures and everybody looks like they are having the time of their lives with people they don’t know. Socialising is completely out of the question as the journalists and photographers dictate the ambiance and we happily comply while keeping one eye on the guests’ dates and their designer clothing. Somebody in charge announces that the play is about to start and we all filter into the auditorium to take our seats.

After the production we are escorted to the foyer where we are entertained with speeches, an art exhibition, finger food and wine. Wine? What happened to the champagne? I spot the anatomically correct, cute waiter.
“Darling, where’s the champagne?” I ask while looking at his quadriceps contract.
“The champagne was for the pre-show party. Red or white?”
“No, lovey, red and white are the colours of Switzerland’s national flag. There must be some champagne left from the cocktail party.”
He looks at me with an expression of total twenty-year old innocence. I look at Belg with an expression of total ageless devastation. Belg guiltily looks at the glass of red wine in his hand. Kabous hides his wine glass behind his back. The organiser of the event approaches us.
“Boefie, Belg, Kabous! Good to see you. So glad you could come.” He continues chatting animatedly about the evening and the guests and the food and the generous wine sponsorship from some renowned wine estate. “Boefie, you’re not drinking…oh…you don’t drink wine…I’ll see what I can do…” He disappears into the crowd.

A journalist asks Belg what he thinks about the art. While Belg and the journalist engage in a conversation about light and shade and lines and shapes, I furtively look around to see what the hell they are talking about. I have not even noticed the art, as I am too busy smiling for the cameras and networking. “Where’s the art?” I whisper to Kabous. “All over the place,’ he replies as he swoops his arm across the venue. Just then the organiser appears with a bottle of champagne and a few flutes. Everybody’s spirits are immediately elevated with the pop of the cork. We toast to the event and the forthcoming festival. The journalist wants to take a few photos of us having a good time, so we proceed to assemble for the picture. I put my glass down on a quaint little stand close by, position myself in the middle of the group and smile. Suddenly we are startled by a long haired man in a tie-dye shirt breaking though the crowd screaming: “Take that @#$% glass off my sculpture!”
Ah, at last! I found the art! And it makes a great table for my glass of expensive French Champagne.

Suffering for Art

On Planet Gorgeous life is one long musical. People break into song and dance to illustrate a point and there is always a happy ending. The weather is Mediterranean-ly amazing and everybody is groomed to couture perfection. Here you are always the charming protagonist delivering witty one-liners and the antagonists get what they deserve.

Back in the real world, though, life more often than not actually resembles aspects of a Greek Tragedy. Things can go horribly wrong and the protagonist suffers while the chorus laments and wails into the wind to the gods.

When I got up this morning it was darkly overcast, the wind was blowing at gale force and torrential rain was beating down outside. I had a shoot and had to brave the elements in order to get to the location. Not a good start to the day.

Luckily we were shooting on set inside a building, but all the caravans were parked outside. I parked my car and ran in the tempest to the production caravan. Drenched and muddy I barged through the door, slipped on the steps and dived ungraciously head first into the production manager’s crotch, while the wind was banging the door repeatedly against my legs.
I heard, “Close the damn door!” but could not see anything as I was buried in a pair of jeans. I was yanked up by a production assistant and propped up against the wall. “Good morning Boefie. Quite an entrance. You look like shit, let’s get you to wardrobe.” Read: Get your wet ass out of here.

The assistant gave me an umbrella and I had to battle my way though the wind and rain to the wardrobe trailer. I was already soaked to the bone, but I humoured him anyway and took the umbrella. I got dressed in a navy wrap dress and high heels and on my way to the make-up trailer a gust of wind blew the umbrella out of my hand and lifted my dress over my head. I ran for cover while trying to pull my dress down, but wrap-dresses have a life of their own in the wind and this bloody thing was twisting itself round my head and body like a koeksister. I arrived half undressed and wet at the make-up trailer which resulted in the make-up artist blow drying my dress instead of my hair. So far so bad.

As the heavy rains continued to pour throughout the day, the shoot was delayed and I had to wait in a trailer. When I got to my trailer it was inhabited by two twenty year old girls lying on the couch watching television. Both of them were on their cell phones, giggling and flicking through the channels. It looked like an exercise in ADHD multitasking.
“Hello?”
The blonde one looked up at me without turning her head away from the television or putting down her phone. “The production co-ordinator said we could wait here… (eyes back on the TV)…stay on this channel…hee hee… (a quick glance in my direction again)…the rain, noise on roof during shot… (back to TV)…yes, the cartoon…hee hee…have to wait for rain to stop…”
There were clothes, empty coke cans, wrappers, make-up and shoes all over the place, so I cleared a space on the other couch and sat down. Can things get any worse? On Planet Gorgeous I do not get wet, run in the rain in my underwear and watch cartoons on television. I was miserable, I was bruised and sore from my fall and trapped with two giggly, cellulite-free extras (bitches).

After about an hour of Trailer Hell, I got called on set. The first take went smoothly, but the director wanted to change a camera angle and I went back into make-up because the bruises on my legs from my fall were visible on camera. On “action” and in character I went through my paces, rounded the corner as directed and walked head first into the camera. I bounced back into another actor, lost my balance and fell on top of him. There I was again, with the back of my head in a man’s crotch, my wrap-dress over my head and a bruise above my left eyebrow. Déjà vu.

Back on Planet Gorgeous after a long day’s shoot, I made myself a champagne cocktail, ran a bubble bath, lit a fire in my fireplace, dimmed the lights, put on my Andrea Bocelli CD and realised once again: I love my job!

Airbrushing

On Planet Gorgeous everyone is beautiful, fabulous and ageless. I don’t know about you, but I like to document just how amazing I am by organizing occasional photo shoots. For my last shoot my hair was blow-dried to perfection, my make-up meticulously applied and I was dressed to flaunt my perfect plastic cleavage and waspish waist. I felt amazing and confident that every photo taken of me was going to be flawless.

As I stepped into the studio the photographer instructs me to “be natural”.
“Excuse me?” I am confused.
“Just be yourself, be natural.” He says nonchalantly as he lifts the camera to his right eye.
“Darling, how the hell do you expect me to be…” I choke, struggling to get the word out, “n..a..t..u..r..a..l, when I’m wearing enough beauty products to keep the cast of ‘Le Cage aux Folles’ in make-up for a year!”
He drops the camera from his face, looks at me and shakes his head.
“Let’s just take a few shots and see how it goes, okay?”
Clearly this boy is a new in the business. I have been doing photo shoots my whole life and have been photographed by all the great photographers in the country. I have been on more magazine covers than this milksop’s age. It’s going to be a long day.

With my experience in front of the camera I know all the tricks of the trade to make a good photo. I know which side of my face photographs best, I know how to tilt my head to catch the light just right, and I know what to do with my hands and how to turn my body to get the best silhouette. So, I pull out all the stops. The camera is my expectant lover and I flirt ferociously.

After a few frames he stops and asks me if I want to come and have a look at what we have so far. How I love digital cameras! Gone are the days of contact sheets and trannies!* I can see the outcome of my work immediately. I look expectantly at the first shot and my knees start to buckle. I hold onto his arm to stabilise myself. “What are those?” I point to the image on the camera I have difficulty identifying with. The photographer is puzzled. “What? Where?”
“Those things under my eyes! The bags! O my god! They are not bags, they look like luggage! And crows feet my arse! An ostrich landed on my face!” I am devastated. “How could you do this to me? Change the lighting states! Change your camera! I don’t care if you photograph me through a tissue or a porcelain tile, just fix this!”
“Can you please let go of my arm? You are cutting of my circulation.” He tries to pry my hands off his arm, but I am hanging on for dear life. If I let go now I will fall down and make a complete spectacle of myself.
“Let go!” It sounds like he’s in pain.
“CAN YOU FIX THIS?” I shout while shaking the poor boy like a rag doll.
“CAN YOU CALM DOWN?!”
“Bags…birds…botox…” I am whimpering now. I think I’m having a panic attack.
“I’ll airbrush your pictures! I promise! Can we continue with the shoot now?” He cries desperately.

Ah! The magic word for aging actors: Airbrush! I let go of his arm.
“Okay, cool.” I’m feeling better!
“I’m going for a costume change and you can fix the lights while I’m changing, darling.”

When I return I see his assistant massaging his arm. “You can do this. You’ll be fine.” I hear him whisper to the photographer. He is clearly resembling a James Bond Martini: shaken AND stirred, but he’s trying his best to be brave.

“Okay lovey!” I croon. “I’m ready! Let’s rock ‘n roll!”

They look at me and roll their eyes. Not quite the roll I was hoping to get.


*transparencies

Workshop

Being an expert in my field, I sometimes conduct workshops for dance and drama teachers at a local university. I love the give and take of knowledge that the student-teacher relationship affords me, as well as their creative and personal growth at the end of the course.

Saturday morning 8h30. The teachers, aged between thirty and sixty, file grudgingly into a big hall. I am ready for them and armed with notes, a CD-player, and an appropriate music selection. I greet them convivially as they plonk themselves down on the plastic chairs lined up against the wall. There are about thirty of them and they all look exhausted, but I don’t blame them. Wouldn’t you be tired if you’d been teaching kids the whole week?

“Is this going to take long?”
“Do we have to do anything active?”
“Can I leave early? I have a lift.”
“At what time do we break?”

I sense reluctance. It’s the weekend for godssake! I have been planning my lesson for a week and they want a break? We haven’t even started yet! I decided not to feel the pressure and started the class.

“Come darlings, join me in the performance space and let’s start with a warm-up,” I chirp enthusiastically. “You can take off your shoes if you want, or any other restrictive clothing. No stripping please. Let’s keep this decent.” (I know, this is lame, but I’m clutching at straws.) I get a faint, half-hearted laugh from a middle-aged woman hiding at the back. Breakthrough!

After the warm-up I lead them into a Mime exercise. Tip for drama teachers with big classes: Start by doing a Mime exercise. Your class will be quiet and you will be able to hear yourself think.

For the next hour they rehearse their mime pieces and perform them for each other. They cheer, applaud, laugh and comment on each other’s work. And for a short while even I have forgotten that it was Saturday. They are creative and fun to work with. I love them!

During the break we all go outside as it is a beautiful sunny day. Cigarettes and cookies get passed around and the group is bonding. I find out that these teachers come from far away. Some of them had to get up at 4h00 to make it to the workshop on time. Some arrived yesterday and will be staying in town for the weekend. They are all here, not because they have to be, but because they want to sharpen their saws. They are sharing, not only food, but stories too. I overhear stories of drug and alcohol abuse amongst schoolchildren, sex in primary schools (“I tell you”, says a forty year old teacher, “these kids are having more sex than I am!”), gang violence on playgrounds, teen pregnancies, cutting, rape in school toilets, child abuse… And here I sit amongst them, from Planet Gorgeous, with my childlike enthusiasm and fake boobs…

After the break we dance, we act, we discuss the notes, we laugh and shout and they experience a taste of what life on Planet Gorgeous is like. And then it is over. They have to travel back to the real world where fourteen year old girls cannot go to gym class because they are breastfeeding and sixteen year olds can’t read or spell. As for me? I am returning to where I get served champagne cocktails by just nodding at the handsome waiter, my steak is served medium rare (more rare than medium) and the resident pianist knows my favourite song.

The Casting from Hell

Went to a casting for a training video. Good money.
Character: Nurse.
Casting agent location: City centre.
Problem One: Parking.
Problem Two: Don’t have GPS. Only MAP.
Problem Three: Nurse?
Upside: Good money.

I felt like an obnoxious tourist trying to bond with the street map while driving aimlessly looking for the right address. I eventually found a parking spot in a suspiciously narrow side street. I was sandwiched between two delivery trucks and surrounded by homeless people. One man wanted to wash my car, one wanted food, one wanted money, one wanted to watch my car in case one of the guys in the gang standing on the corner wants to steal it and one was lying in his own pee against the wall of the building. Dogs could smell my fear. But being the brilliant actress that I am, I pretended not to be fazed and concentrated on trying to figure out if the even numbers were on the right side of the street or the left and on which side of the street I was. If I turned around, right will be on the other side. Very confusing. I needed to find the number…

I finally found it hiding between a factory and a warehouse. Lovely! I confidently walked through the door into the holding area to the desk at the end of the room and wrote my name on the list. The room was packed. There were old people, toddlers, babies, young people, middle-aged people, ugly people, pretty people, fat people, skinny people, people from every known culture and race on earth. Were they casting every character in “Lord of the Rings”? Was I in the right place? I saw a little girl in a bridesmaid’s dress, pin-curls and lipstick. I saw a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform. Was she here to resuscitate someone who collapsed because of claustrophobia, or was she just fully prepared and in costume for the casting?

No open seats. The kids were running around the room chasing – whatever kids chase – each other? – and screaming. The young people were checking each other out, making mental notes of each others’ flaws and assets. The mothers were making new friends with their competitors and chatting about giving birth, teething, potty training and if apple juice can replace sugar in their children’s diets. Some were reading magazines dated from 1996. Middle aged women in slip-slops were talking about menopause and the pros and cons of hormone replacement. Older people were clearly irritated with the noise and gave each other knowing looks over their bifocals. More and more people were arriving and the situation was getting intense. Where the hell did they park? It was also extremely hot and I could smell the men perspiring – well, they were sweating like pigs.

I wanted to sit down somewhere, because the kids were running and bumping into me. Everyone started talking louder. Too much noise. Too many people. Too much sweat. I was experiencing sensory overload.

A chair opened up next to a rather large woman sitting on two chairs. I decided to wrestle my way to the open chair. I had to be quick, because I saw at least five people eyeing it and moving in. A four year old dashed past me, jumped onto the chair and shouted: “Mommy! Mommy! This fat lady stinks!” The room went quiet. All eyes on the mommy. She looked embarrassed for a split second, turned to her new found friend and continued talking about nappy rash. The fat woman did not blink an eye. She kept staring into a blank space in front of her.

Coming from Planet Gorgeous, this was Hell. What on earth was I doing here? What were all these people doing here? I kept wondering why this wasn’t bothering anyone else. Are we so set on ‘being discovered’, making money or suffering for our Art that we are purposefully ignoring our dire conditions? Am I not dedicated enough because I don’t want to put myself through this? Just how badly do I need/want this? I came to this casting with my acting chops polished, perfectly groomed and gorgeous. Half an hour of visiting this disturbing planet, made me long for my own world where I can surround myself with beauty and indulge in the three major food groups: champagne, chocolates and cigarettes.

I decided to check on my car. I’m not the care-giver type anyway.

Dance Class

Dance is one of my passions. It makes me feel pretty and it is bloody good exercise. I have been dancing since I was four years old and have never stopped. I love dance so much that during one stage of my life my dancing career eclipsed my acting career. Yes, darling, you can call dancing as a showgirl a career. I love the sequined costumes, the drag queen make-up, the feathered headpieces and the high-heeled shoes, and I just loved being lifted by strong, young men.

I had to stop dancing in productions, because my body caught up with all my old dance injuries. My knees can predict the weather, my ankles twist without a sixties soundtrack and when I bend down I have to stay down for a while (and have to find something to do while I’m down there) until my back decides to co-operate. My muscles take longer to warm up and I can only do the splits when I’m drunk. When I dance I feel like a twenty five year old, but my body keeps reminding me that I am not.

Since the middle nineties I have been choreographing everything from beauty pageants to fashion shows to strip shows and even taught dance. Now, at fifty, I decided to seek out a dance class and become a dance student again.

I have to admit, I was nervous. It has been so long since I have been in a dance class, actually following instructions rather than giving them. It is proving to be quite challenging. On top of that I am also unfit, my technique is nonexistent and I am acutely aware of all my age related shortcomings.

On arrival I checked out the studio to orientate myself. No mirrors? How am I going to dance with no mirrors? I have to have mirrors so that I could check my lines, alignment and posture. Then the dance teacher asked me to remove my shoes. Ohmigod! I have to dance with bare feet! The last time I danced barefoot was for a modern dance production about fifteen years ago. And being barefoot is also one of my little pet peeves. I don’t even do it on Planet Gorgeous. Regardless, I obliged, took off my shoes and noticed that I was the only one there with nail polish on my toenails. Black nail polish.

The dance teacher introduced me to the class and started the warm-up. I positioned myself in front of a window so that I could see my reflection in the glass. I was dancing! I became Margot Fonteyn, Martha Graham and Gwen Verdon all at the same time! I was in the front row so that I could see the dance teacher clearly and after about half an hour into the class found myself next to her - counting out loud and indicating the direction of the floor patterns to the rest of the class. She humoured me for a while and then asked the back row to swop with the front row. Oops. Note to Boefie: This is NOT your class. You are NOT the choreographer or teacher. Now do as you are told!

I reluctantly moved to the back, but there was this very tall woman in front of me and I could not see a thing. I needed to be in front. I needed mirrors. And I could not see my reflection in the window from the back. But what I could see were black marks all over the floor from the black nail polish on my toes. Oops!

After the class I thanked my dance teacher and apologised for the marks on the floor. She hugged me and said, “See you next time.” Hooray! I am allowed back! For my first day I guess ruining the floor and taking over the class isn’t that bad. I’ll get used to being a dance student…eventually.

Survival tips for aging performers

Darlings, let’s face it; we are not twenty five anymore. In fact, we are not even thirty. We are middle aged, and according to those twenty five year old bitches, we are OLD. As Barbra Johnson says: We are living somewhere between estrogen and death. But, we are talented, mature (some of us) and have a life-long experience of the entertainment industry. We are now at the age where we have to prove that we’re just as good as we never were.

There is hope for us:
1. It is not how experienced or talented you are in this business anymore. It is not who you know, but who knows you. Network. Yes, even at our age, where we think we know everybody. We don’t. The directors and producers are becoming younger and younger.

2. Have new portfolio photos taken every year. Insist on the photographer airbrushing those horrible crow’s-feet and bags under your eyes. Voila! You’re ten years younger! Put your best shot on business cards that look like mini z-cards and hand them out to everybody.

3. Exercise the Anthony Hopkins way: “I have a punishing workout regimen. Every day I do three minutes on a treadmill, and then I lie down, drink a glass of vodka and smoke a cigarette.” I substitute the vodka with French champagne. Choose your poison carefully. Applying lip-liner when you are drunk is a bitch.

4. Make a plastic surgeon your best friend. Voila! You’re ten years younger.

5. Try not to grow old, and if you have already lost that battle, try not to grow up.

6. Date younger men. If you grow tired of them you can send them back to their mothers. I think it was Mae West (or Zsa Zsa Gabor or Graucho Marx) who said that she is only as young as the man she feels. I’m thirty five at the moment.

7. Always, ladies, always wear false eyelashes when you leave the house. I don’t mean the showgirl lashes that female country singers or charismatic preachers’ wives wear. Be subtle. You don’t want to look like you have two tarantulas sitting on your face, now do you?

8. Never ever take your hair back or away from your face a la turbaned Joan Collins in Dynasty. Only ballet dancers and country grandmothers wear their hair in buns. Invest in a few hair pieces or extensions; just in case you have a bad hair day.

9. When performing in a movie or television, you have to be aware of the fact that your face is not as smooth as a baby’s bottom anymore. Even the lift of an eyebrow will generate a multitude of lines and wrinkles to spontaneously combust over your face. (Unless you are botoxed into rigor mortis.) Reduce facial movements to a minimum. You are talented enough to show emotion through your eyes. I like to call this acting technique: facial minimalism.

10. Make sure you have backlighting at all times. Even when not being filmed or photographed. When you go to a restaurant, always sit with your back towards the window or door or where ever the strongest light is coming from. Backlighting will soften your face and give you an ethereal glow. Voila! Ten years younger!

11. Most aging female performers prefer the stage to film, because on stage you can be any age by the stroke of a make-up brush. But on film or television you have to resort to character roles when you reach ‘a certain age’. What would have happened to Marilyn Monroe, had she lived to fifty? For how long could she have sustained the illusion of being MM? I think she would have tried acting on stage. Would she have been able to do it? We would never know… But, you, my darling actress of undesirable age, are you content with playing character roles until you die? Keep in mind, though, that character roles are much more demanding than ‘straight’ roles and we have the talent and experience to pull it off. So technically we can do it…if we so desire.

12. I hate going to auditions, because I know that the casting agent or the director has a clear image of what he/she wants their character to look like or be. It is your job to convince them that YOU are what they are looking for. I once went to an audition where I knew straight away that I was not what they wanted, but I needed the job. I needed a strategy, so I decided to take my hairbrush, a hair band and my reading glasses with me into the audition room. After I introduced myself, I started to transform myself into the character in front of them. They could see who I am and who I can be in a matter of seconds. I got the job.

13. Love your audience. You do not have to be on stage with a full house; you do not have to have a few million viewers for you television role or a box office blockbuster. On Planet Gorgeous I am aware that everyone is my audience – the guy who washes my car, the woman selling me my black eyeliner at the make-up counter, the waiter serving me my caviar. I am courteous to them; I dress for them; I do my hair for them; I apply my lipstick for them. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…after all.

Melodrama

Shakespeare was absolutely spot on when he wrote that “all the world’s a stage”. Every day we prepare ourselves in full costume and make up; we rehearse our lines in order to communicate with each other and we go into pre-production for about four years on average in order to do our jobs properly. Take a doctor: millions of years of studying and internship only to wear that cute little white costume to heal the sick with lots of little shiny props. The lawyer: studying and doing research for every scene to be able to deliver monologues that will convince the audience to convict the bad guy.

Which brings me to this amazing piece of theatre I experienced over the past weekend.

As you enter the auditorium of the arena theatre, music is playing to set the mood. Programmes and refreshments are being sold at front of house and the audience is excited. Most of them are dressed for the occasion and armed with appropriate props. Then, at last! Curtain up. The highly anticipated show starts with a dance number. The dancing girls are all gorgeous, with bodies to die for (bitches), dressed in tiny little costumes they got from the children’s department at Woolworths. The audience goes wild. The Master of Ceremonies announces the next number and the cast enters the stage space. Now the audience is just about passing out from excitement.

Their costumes are colourful and functional. They appear well warmed up – oh! – wait – there’s a performer still stretching. Not professional darling! You warm up backstage, not ON stage. It starts. What a show! The choreography is stunning and the floor patterns creative. The focus and energy of these performers are astounding and the ensemble play faultless! And talk about audience participation! Every time one of the cast members does a stunt the audience rises to standing ovation. Because the production is being filmed, there are make-up artists running on stage during the performance to do checks and touch-ups, and there are a few costume changes.

During interval the audience stretch their legs and some buy coffee or alcoholic beverages, while discussing the first half. Everyone’s a critic and seems to be completely clued up and knowledgeable about the piece and how to make it even better. Some even discuss the cast for the next number. One could swear that everyone has done this before, played every part and choreographed every movement themselves. I try to engage in the conversation commenting on the performers’ sculpted asses; who the hairdresser of that cute blond guy with the sexy hair is and whether or not the costume design fully supports the message. I get a few frowns, one or two eye rolls and a shake of the head. I try again.
“I love the way they incorporated multi-media into the performance. It really enhances the show and some of the performers really look good in close-up, I mean, especially that cute blond guy with the sexy hair…”
A guy with a boep and a beer in his hand looks at me as if I’m crazy.
“What do you mean?” he grunts. He looks confused and takes another a swig of beer.
“I mean, this production…” I gesticulate elaborately towards the performance space, “…is really creatively put together taking into consideration the lighting, choice of music and the dedication of the performers…”
I get the feeling he’s not following me. What planet is he from? Maybe I should terminate this conversation in a language that he might understand.
“The dancing girls are really hot today.”
“Ja. Hot.” He manages a faint smile. Disconcertingly I take my seat and silently wait for the next act, pondering the cost of production and marketability value of the concept.

In the second half the performers jump and dive and move like gazelles. Poetry in motion! The audience cheer on the good guys and boo the bad guys. The performance ends on a climax and the good guys win! A happy ending! I love melodrama!

There is a short award ceremony with pyrotechnics and confetti after the show and the cute blonde guy with the sexy hair gets an award.
Wynand Olivier, jou doring!
Isn’t rugby stunning?!

The Pastor's Wife

My agent calls: “I have e-mailed you a script. This role is perfect for you. You are auditioning for the part of Mrs. Murray. It is a sitcom and will be shot locally.”
I immediately download and print the audition script. Mrs. Murray is a Pastor’s wife. What? I knew a pastor’s wife once. She was old, about fifty (hang on, I’m fifty) and wore sensible shoes and buttoned up shirts and brooches. I phone my agent. “Just checking on this audition… What did you say the character’s name is?” “Mrs. Murray. You’ll be perfect! It’s a comedy!”

My GBF* calls. He wants me to come over to his place, because they are felling trees in his garden and he needs my advice. I need help. I am auditioning for a pastor’s wife. Through his uncontrollable laughter we decide that I need help more than he does. I arrive with my script and we go though my lines. The treefeller’s chainsaw is a bit distracting and we have to shout the lines to each other. He is shouting the character of the female estate agent trying to sell a house to the pastor’s wife. He decided that he’s perfect for the part of the female estate agent, but it is going to be a bit of a stretch turning me into Mrs. Murray. We work out actions and gestures, phrasing and inflections and discuss my costume. Yes, I do have incredible shoes. Oh, sensible shoes. The noise! No, I do not have sensible shoes or a brooch or a calf length skirt. I have stilettos, enough Bling to make Puff Daddy jealous and mini skirts. Meanwhile it sounds like Armageddon outside while the treefeller is, well, felling the trees.

I go home and rummage though my closet. I must have something in there that Mrs. Murray might wear. After about a frantic hour I settle for grey pants, a black shirt, my red stilettos and a matching red handbag, Perfect! Conservative, yet stylish. I look amazing.

At the audition there are five other women waiting in reception going through their lines. It is completely quiet, but I see five pairs of lips move. For a moment I thought I had gone completely deaf. The bloody chainsaw wail is still ringing in my ears. I hear a phone ring in the production office next door. Thank god! I can hear! I sit down and scrutinize my competition: They look so old and conventional. Are we really all the same age?

I whisper an introduction to the woman next to me. She whispers back, “What role are you auditioning for?” I show her my script and she shows me hers. “I see you are dressed for the part,” I continue politely. “Oh”, she looks disconcerted, “actually, these are my work clothes. I’m going back to work after the audition.” I’m taken aback. She has another JOB? “Acting is my hobby,” she adds as she sees my face fall to pieces on the floor. HOBBY? Acting is her HOBBY?! Acting is my life, my passion, the sunshine of my existence! I wanted to scream at her: “Fuck off to your job, bitch, I take this seriously. THIS IS MY JOB! And fire your stylist! Brown is not the new black!” But I didn’t. I just sat there. Perplexed. My head is spinning. What if she gets the part and I don’t? Is she a better actress than I am? What is Mrs. Murray’s dialogue? Am I wearing the wrong clothes? Am I losing my mind? Am I Mrs. Murray or is Mrs. Murray this middle-aged woman in brown with nothing to lose, who acts in her spare time stealing parts from serious actresses?

I refocus, resolve my inner paroxysm and excuse myself. I need a cigarette, so I go outside to smoke. Here I am, trying to be a pastor’s wife while wearing red stilettos and smoking a cigarette (nothing wrong with this picture), but I’m going to go back in there and audition my heart out. I am, after all, a professional, and for a few minutes I WILL be Mrs. Murray, the pastor’s wife.

* Gay Best Friend