“A lady is one who never shows her underwear unintentionally.” Lillian Day

Attending various functions and events is a full time preening and primping job. Here on Planet Gorgeous I like to plan ahead as soon as I accept an invitation. The first thing I do is look at the Dress Code.

Formal: I love this little bit of information at the bottom of the invitation. I can dress up in full costume and make-up. I can bring out the Bling, the stilettos, the false eyelashes and the hair extensions…

Semi-Formal: This confuses me sometimes. How much Bling am I supposed to wear? One ring? Two? One false eyelash? One sequin? No glitter body lotion? Someone please help me! I usually arrive completely overdressed and gorgeous and then have to pretend that the other hundred people at the function did not get the memo.

Casual: No! This will never do! Who goes out looking casual? No-one I know. I usually do not attend these functions, but when I do it becomes a very intricate production. Designer jeans, silk shirt, Jimmy Choo sandals…do you know how expensive it is to look cheap? Do you realise how much make-up it takes to look natural?

Black Tie: What? If it’s a men’s only function, why invite ME? And what am I supposed to wear? Ties are disturbing little things. All these men standing around with modified nooses around their necks. Are they trying to tell us something?

Please, people-who-write-invitations, I beg of you! Make all events ‘formal’ and everybody will look gorgeous.

Last week I attended three functions. The art exhibition on Wednesday evening provided a bit of a problem. It was held on a wine farm out of town. Far out of town. So I had to leave fairly early from Planet Gorgeous in order to be fashionably late, but I was teaching a dance class at a university and got stuck in the five-o-clock traffic on the way home. The weather was not playing along either: Heatwave!

I still had to do the ‘extreme make-over Planet Gorgeous edition’ and was running out of time. When I eventually got home and finished my titivations, everything I tried on was either too hot or just did not look right. You know what I’m talking about, Ladies. There can be no margin for error. The fit has to be perfect. If you contemplate the question “Does my butt look big in this”, it usually does. Underwear is supposed to provide the illusion of perfection, so use double sided tape to secure you bra to your low cleavage top. If your bra-strap is visible, I have one word for you: slut. Never wear white pants where red wine might be served – oh – let me rephrase that: NEVER WEAR WHITE PANTS! Never wear a short skirt if you have to sit down. And if you must wear pantyhose: never ever touch your legs if you are wearing rings and stay away from furniture.

So I eventually grabbed a little black satin number. It was thin and flimsy, but it had a petticoat. It was much too hot to wear a petticoat - and I resorted to discard it, slipped the dress on and finished it off with a pair of twelve-inch black stilettos with silver heels. Gorgeous.

Belg Droller came to pick me up, and as I was scrambling into his car I noticed a strange look coming from his direction. I did not dwell on his reaction. We were late and, knowing me very well, he did not make any comments regarding my couture.

We eventually arrived at the function, but had to park kilometres away from the venue. Why do these wine-farms always have parking areas in another area code? With gravel!

I leaned over to get my handbag and then I noticed it! The reason why my dress came with a petticoat. The one I decided NOT to wear. My pretty little satin number had two inch see-though chiffon strips along the seams…and I could see my underwear through the fabric…and if I could see my underwear, then EVERYONE will be able to see my Victoria’s Secret secret.

I looked at Belg. He looked at me. “Don’t worry, the lighting will be subtle, no-one will notice.” I was not so sure about that…

I teetered behind Belg over the gravel in my mile high stilettos to the venue, trying to hide my ‘problem with indecent exposure’ with my tiny handbag. Once inside, I decided to decline the drinks on offer. I needed my arms for camouflage. After about fifteen minutes of nodding and smiling self-consciously, I figured out that if I stand with my hands on my hips I could hide my unashamedly displayed underwear though the chiffon.

So there I was, standing in the shadows, with my hands on my hips, not drinking, not eating, my bra un-fashionably Madonna-in-the-80s-like exposed though a mist of satin and chiffon for the whole world to see, but my panty force majeure-ly covered by my Bling-adorned fingers.

Ladies, there is a lesson to be learnt here.
1. Always, always check yourself before leaving your planet.
2. Never rush your titivations.
3. Never allow the weather to dictate possible wardrobe malfunction.
4. Rather be late than dead…on time.

But on the up-side: I did meet a lot of men…

Boefie-isms 13

Old dance injuries: (adjectives + plural noun) Pretty accurate weather predictors.

Plastic Surgeon: (noun) A deity among man.

Stilettos: (plural noun) An extension of the foot.

Tasteful: (adjective) A descriptor in reference to young men and more mature and sophisticated women in a relationship.

Treadmill: (noun) A machine that helps one go nowhere slowly.

Wonderbra: (proper noun) A device that facilitates the illusion of surgically enhanced breasts.

“Climate is what you expect, weather is what you get.” Robert A. Heinlein.

I love travelling. No. I hate travelling, but I love visiting places, exploring foreign countries, meeting new people, getting food poisoning from exotic cuisine, getting lost in strange cities, unable to communicate with the locals and being ripped off by souvenir shop assistants and taxi drivers. But getting there to experience all these wonderful adventures is another story…

New York experienced one of its worst snowstorms at the end of 2009, but I had to get to JFK airport at 8h30 to catch the 10h30 flight to Dubai. Blommie and I got up at 4h00 in the morning to get ready to fight the hazardous elements to the train station. It is not a glamorous sight watching a middle-aged woman teetering on a pair of stiletto boots dragging a suitcase in the snow. Luckily at that time in the morning the streets are empty and I could stumble and fall my way to the station with only the unabashed sound of Blommie’s impervious cachinnation.

At Grand Central we had to take another train to “Jamaica” station in order to catch the sky-train to JFK. Luckily Blommie is subway-smart and got us on the right train. If all went well, I would be in time for my flight.

No train.
Lots of people.

9h00. Slight panic.

A man in a uniform eventually announced that, because of the blizzard, the train was not coming. Not delayed! Cancelled! Panic. They would try to send buses to transport the hordes to the airport.

Major panic set in and hundreds of people rushed, pushed and shoved their way to the street to wait for the promised bus to arrive. In a crisis like this there is no mercy. It’s every one for himself and to hell with old people and babies.

Blommie took my suitcase, as doing anything athletic – like running for a bus - in stiletto boots is like doing a Shakespeare play in nipple caps and sequins in Arabic. Interesting, but not pretty. So we scrambled our way franticly to the street and waited.

9h30. No bus.

Someone in the crowd announced that most of the planes were cancelled because of the blizzard. Extreme panic from the crowd. On cue babies started to cry and people simultaneously started to talk on their cell phones. Blommie joined the radiation emitting crowd and tried to get hold of Emirates. I texted Belg Droller in Dubai: Blizzard! Screwed! Don’t open champagne.

10h00. My plane was leaving in half an hour. I was stuck in a snowstorm freezing my ass off.

10h30. My plane was departing without me.

I felt like an actor in a Greek tragedy. Everything was going wrong and my fate was in the hands of the gods. Will there be a murder or tragic death? Probably, as the natives were getting restless, implacable, inexorable, relentless and ruthless. Will I eventually rip out my eyes and stab myself with a brooch? No, I’m not wearing a brooch.

At last, at 10h45 a bus arrived and all of us clamoured towards it. Too many people. Too little bus. Blommie and I battled the crowds and eventually made it to the door, only to be told that the bus was full and we would have to wait for the next one. WHAT!! There WILL be a death and it was not going to be me…

I lunged towards the bus-assistant and grabbed her by the lapels of her uniform.
“No! My daughter and I are getting on to this bus even if we have to attach ourselves to the bumper! My plane has departed! I am freezing! I am wearing stilettos, my hair is a mess and I need to touch up my make-up! You WILL let us onto this bus. NOW!”

I vaguely remember her nervously mumbling something as I pushed her out of the way and rammed my way onto the bus.

Sardined and claustrophobic, all of us impatiently hoped that we will get to JFK without being snowbound as the bus driver tried to navigate the overcrowded bus through the blizzard.

11h25. We arrived at JFK only to be dumped somewhere in the parking lot. I needed to find Terminal 4.

“Blommie, I’m going to run and find the Emirates check-in! Bring my suitcase!” I screamed as I scampered and scrambled my way through the crowds, pushing people out of the way yelling: “EMIRATES CHECK IN! EMIRATES CHECK IN!”

Exhausted I arrived at the desolate Emirates line of check in counters. @#$%! Then I saw a woman in uniform at the First Class counter.

“Dubai… snow…flight…heels…check…in…”
“I’m sorry the doors are already closed. There has been a delay because of the blizzard, but they have not taken off yet.”
“Get me on that flight! NOW!”

Taking her time she made a call and typed something on the computer in front of her.
“They will allow you on board. Just show you ticket to the security. I have alerted them about you coming. Luggage?”

I looked around and spotted Blommie lugging my suitcase across the terminal.

“One suitcase.”

“There is a pile of luggage over there,” she said nonchalantly, “just throw it on there.”

“Blommie! Pile! Suitcases! Over there!” I shouted while running towards the security gate. And then I suddenly remembered that I have to say goodbye to the fruit of my loins. I pirouetted, changed direction and sprinted towards my beautiful daughter and kissed her hurriedly where she was depositing my suitcase onto the pile of luggage in the middle of the terminal floor, turned around again flailing towards the security gate.

As I reached the plane they were reopening the door to let me in and without breaking my stride I scrambled down the aisle only to find that there was a woman in a burkah sitting in my seat…

Committing a crime crossed my mind once again.

Orson Welles once said: “There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror.” Oh, come on, Orson!

“I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.” The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Belg Droller and I were invited by our good friend Marypoppins to perform at a 21st Birthday party she was throwing for her niece. The theme of the party was “Rocky Horror” and we had to perform numbers from the show. Because we love performing as much as we love our friend, we immediately agreed to do it.

And then reality bit us on our toned bums! This was a twenty-first birthday party. There would be twentysomethings – lots of them! We are, dare I say it: fiftysomethings.

What young, nubile twenty year old wants to see two aging performers strut their ancient booties at a party? It will be like watching your seventy year old grandmother do a pole dance.

Marypoppins insisted enthusiastically.

“My niece will love it and it will complement what I am doing with the party. Everyone’s dressing up. I made table and wall decorations. There will be fairy lights. There will be food and dancing...”

I sort of zoned out after I heard ‘fairy lights’, and visualised the deteriorating effects of our maturity camouflaged by the lighting effects.

We discussed the songs we were going to do and what costumes we were going to wear. But something was bothering me…

The afternoon of the party, Belg and I got together on Planet Gorgeous to get dressed in full Rocky Horror regalia. I got into character as Columbia and Belg as Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Belg was wearing the costume he used playing Frank-N-Furter on stage about fifteen years ago, but I had to improvise my costume.
Tiny black tight shorts. Check.
Sequined jacket. Check.
Bowler hat. Check.
Fishnet stockings. Of course.

Something was still niggling at my subconscious…

After about two hours of primping, preening, glueing, spraying, painting and slipping our half-a-century legs into fishnet stockings and creating another hole in the ozone layer with all the chemicals we used, we emerged unrecognizably gorgeous. Our confidence was growing. We both agreed that having no body fat and wearing lots of make-up, wigs and high heels we could pass as ageless showgirls and with the added bonus of enough cosmetic surgery between the two of us to make Joan Rivers malicious, our ages will be impossible to guess. In full costume and make-up Belg looked like his mother and I looked like the love child of Liza Minnelli and Riff Raff. But something was still not right…

As we left Planet Gorgeous it hit us right between the eyes. DAYLIGHT! We had to walk to the car, open the doors, get in and drive to the party venue before the sun has set.
Would we be seen by my neighbours?
Would passing cars crash into prefab walls?
Would children be run over by taxis?
Would we turn to dust?

I immediately pulled my bowler hat over my eyes and put on my sunglasses. Belg threw his velvet purple cloak Phantom-of-the-Opera-like over his head.
“Okay, go!” I shouted and we ran to his car as quickly as our platform shoes and thin ankles would allow.

Once inside the car other meagre problems surfaced. What do we do if the traffic light turns red and we are stuck between cars unable to make a dash for it if someone wants to beat us up for looking…well…like…p…different? What if we are caught by the traffic police for some arbitrary traffic violation and got locked up for looking like…well…t…unconventional? What if we are stuck in traffic on the highway and there is bus next to us…with tourists…with cameras…from Saudi Arabia?

“Belg”, I whispered after a while, as we were both crouching down under the dashboard of the car waiting for a pedestrian to pass, “one of us will have to drive.”
Belg peeked up though the steering wheel spokes: “I can’t. My wig is stuck on the indicator switch and my left heel is caught in the brake-pedal.”

So after about a minute of silence (we were both trying to figure out what to do next), I climbed out from under the dash and helped pry Belg loose from the clutches of the car. Belg fixed his wig and lipstick and reluctantly started the car. I got back under the dash. We were on our way…

As we sped along the highway I was worried that there might be a road block and we would be asked to step out of the car, spread our legs and be searched for concealed weapons. How do you hide an AK47 in a garter belt?

We arrived at the party unscathed and ready to perform. Haven’t we suffered enough for our art?

The Dark Knight

I love parties and celebrations, because I can dress up in full costume and make-up even if the party does not have a theme. In fact, on Planet Gorgeous I dress up every day because I never know when my unexpected audience might see me collect the mail from my mail box at the gate.

Last year I was invited by the Getafix-family to their Christmas Eve family dinner. Because there are so many children and grand children, the matriarch of the family requested that I organize a Nativity play involving everyone present. She wanted to install the true meaning of Christmas to the kids while keeping them entertained at the same time.

Christmas Eve arrived, and so did I, armed with bags of costumes and props for the production. The Getafixes viewed me with suspicion and immediately labelled me as an anarchist when I started to unpack my bags and hand out costumes and roles to every unsuspecting family member. I designated shepherds, wise men, angels, Joseph, Mary, the in-keeper and, last but not least, to the youngest member of the family (the three year old Attila the Hun), the role of Baby Jesus.

As I proceeded to give them a rundown of the plot and running order of the play, I could sense a fraction of hostility from most of the adults. Their peaceful Christmas dinner ritual was being turned upside down by a crazy lady from another planet giving them direction and instructions.

Reluctantly they helped turn the living room into Bethlehem and I could hear some of the men using profanities under their breaths while shrugging their shoulders and giving each other sideward glances. But the show must go on and the kids were enjoying getting into their costumes, except for our Baby Jesus. Being totally unaware of the major role he has to play in my Nativity production, Attila was running around with a plastic sword killing off the three wise men.

Armed with a white sheet ( Baby Jesus’ costume), I informed Attila that he was playing the lead role and that he has to lay quietly in the upside down coffee table wrapped in the sheet so that the shepherds and wise men could bring him presents. His reaction was a little bit unexpected.

“I DON’T WANT TO BE BABY JESUS!!! I AM NOT A BABY!! I AM BATMAN!!!

He started to wield his plastic sword at me. Everyone, already in costume and with their props on standby, snapped out of character and tried to persuade Attila to play his part so that they could get this whole charade over and done with as quickly as possible.

He adamantly refused, insisting, at the top of his voice, that he was Batman. Pandemonium ensued. The cast rioted hoping that the play would be aborted and they could go back to their normal lives when Christmas Eve was a time of exchanging presents and sitting down quietly for a festive meal.

I was not giving up. I had actors in costume for heaven’s sake!

I contemplated the parallels between the Batman and Jesus and recalled Batman dangling a mugger over a roof’s edge in the movie with Michael Keaton as Batman saying: “I’m not going to kill you. I want you to do me a favour. I want you to tell your friends about me.”
“Who are you?” the mugger replied nervously.
“I’m Batman.”

So, as a last resort, inspired by the realisation that both Jesus and Batman fought the struggle against evil, I decided to recast Jesus with Attila’s cousin and gave Batman a cameo role in the ‘Birth of Jesus’ scene.

Everything went smoothly according to the Gospels, until Batman jumped off a couch and stabbed one of the wise men with his sword.

I was thinking of doing a Passion Play over the Easter holidays with the Getafixes, but I haven’t heard from them yet.

In the Eye of the Beholder

All of us, living on Planet Gorgeous, or on some other wayward planet - like Earth, experience it at one time or another. I’m talking about those moments when you suddenly realise that you are a bloody idiot; when you want to change your name and move to another country; when you pray to the gods to “take me now!”

The opening of the Contemporary Art Exhibition at the newly renovated City Hall was a grand occasion. Roads were closed. Wine was served in the street in front of the building. There was music. People were dressed to the nines. Speeches. Television cameras. Apart from the gale force wind turning coiffures into catastrophes, a very well planned opening function.

After the speeches were we all ushered into the building to view the art and were greeted by smartly dressed waiters proffering everything from sushi to samoosas. Art fundis were moving from room to room commenting on the art. There were no limitations on the art being displayed: painting, printmaking, photography sculpture, installation, new media, film and performance.

Now with all this creative sensory overload, complimented by crudités and alcohol, one’s discernment can become slightly blurred. Okay, I admit, I’m a performance artist and do not have the expertise to critique art academically, but I know what I like. So there I was savouring and appreciating the works I understood when I encountered a sculpture mounted on a wall with a very clear message.

“Belg!” I shouted to my friend over the noise of hundreds of conferring discerning art lovers. “Come and have a look at this! This artist was bold enough to present his message without hidden metaphors and abstractions. Red and shiny! Just colour and texture and shape, and I love the way he encased the object. Brilliant!”

Suddenly the people around me stopped talking. Some rolled their eyes. Some snickered. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Belg self-consciously snuck up to me and whispered: “Boefie, just walk away quietly. Don’t say another word. You are looking at the fire-extinguisher.”

Boefie-isms 12

Kitchen: (noun) A nondescript and generally useless room in any given house. I went there once. It was interesting. Also see Appliances.

Low profile: (noun) A pose that refers to the tilting of the head during a photo shoot.

Mathematics: (noun) What you do when you take your birth date and subtract it from your age, no, when you take today’s date and add it to your current age, no, oh, fuck, maths is hard…

Middle-age: (noun) An obscure concept one will find in Pandora’s box with all the other evils of life.

Networking: (verb) Synonymous with socialising.

Bag Lady

New York.
December.
7AM.
Snow.

I decided to go down to the corner café to buy coffee and the New York Times. It was freezing outside as I walked out of Blommie’s apartment wearing a puffy snow-coat, scarf, gloves and a hat. Because I was completely camouflaged and unrecognizable, I substituted sunglasses for makeup.

Scarily resembling the Michelin Man, I waddled to the café fighting the elements. Have you ever tried to open you handbag, get your wallet, open your purse and select the right amount of money while wearing gloves, your entire winter collection and your sunglasses? It’s not easy. As the queue behind me was getting longer and the New York natives restless, I emptied my purse on the counter. “Can you please select the right amount of change for the coffee and newspaper? I can’t feel my hands, the gloves are making it impossible for me to pick up any form of change, and these sunglasses are making it impossible for me to see anything,” I sputtered.

The cashier started to count the change on the counter while sneaking suspicious glances in my direction. I could faintly hear the people behind me grunting impatiently. I slowly turned around – I had to turn my whole body (too many layers of clothing to move) and mouthed the word “sorry” to the long line of people behind me. I suddenly realised that I was not wearing any makeup and turned back to the shop assistant.

“You are twenty-five cents short.”

Um. Umm.

The business man behind me uttered an indignant “Oh. My. God.”

The exasperation. “I live just up the road! I’ll bring you twenty-five cents as soon as possible! I promise!” The humiliation. The degradation. The embarrassment. And not even a pretty face to hide behind. I inhaled, hoped that I never have to see these people again and skulked out of the café with my head down, coffee and newspaper in hand.

I plopped down on a bench outside the café, the indignity of the situation too much to handle. I was so mortified that I disregarded the blizzard-snow accumulating on me while I fumbled through my handbag for my cigarettes and, eventually, after numerous attempts, successfully lit one up. Here I was, sitting on a bench against a shop window in the freezing snow, smoking a cigarette, drinking my coffee while wallowing in self-pity and shame. Beam me up to Planet Gorgeous Scotty!!

Suddenly someone was standing in front of me and I looked up. An immaculately groomed woman in a designer coat was looking down at me with a smile. “I saw what happened in the café and I know you are short of money.”
She had a practiced expression on her face that toed the line between sympathy and condescension.

“Here take this…” She proffered a five dollar note at me.

“No! It’s okay! I’m fine! I promise! I cannot take your money!”

“Take it!”

“No!”

“Just take the money!” She was yelling in confusion of the changing power dynamic and threw the money into my lap. Still clasping my coffee and cigarette, I watched her get into her expensive black 4X4. She drove off frowning, the power steering straining to find grip on the icy road. I looked at the five dollar note on my lap.

Um.

What the hell just happened? Do I look like some destitute homeless person in need of charity? I am Boefie! I am gorgeous!

Newsflash Boefie! Never sit on a bench in the street in the snow smoking and drinking coffee wearing sensible weather-appropriate clothing and never ever leave the house without being in full costume and makeup. Oh, yes, and if someone gives you money – take it.

Boefie-isms 11

Growing up: (verb) An inconceivable act.

Height: (noun) A measuring concept that may fluctuate in accordance to the type of shoe one is wearing.

Helium: (noun) The rare language spoken mainly by Karen of “Will and Grace”.

Hot flush: (noun) Prevalent physiological climate conditions as a result of menopause.

Housewife: (noun) A transgressive lifestyle.

The only carrots that interest me are inedible and worn on my fingers.

“As I get older, I’m trying to eat healthy. I’ve got Gordon Ramsay’s new cook book, Take Two Eggs and Fuck Off.”
- Jack Dee

On Planet Gorgeous, my fellow Planet Gorgeans and I like to expand our horizons and try new things like trying to figure out how to switch on the washing machine only to realise that if you do not wash the whites separately they come out pink; attempting to ride a motorcycle and finding out that screaming does not make you stop – walls do; going on a rollercoaster to see if your false eyelashes are still attached to your eyelids after the ride; and visiting foreign countries without the butler.

After watching Gordon Ramsay on television the other night and being intrigued by his passion, creativity with food and telling chefs to “fuck off out of my kitchen”, I decided that I needed to explore this unknown territory called COOKING. The last time I ate food was in 1973 and the last time I cooked was… well…never. And since my dinner is usually poured, and we were out of champagne anyway, I went to the local bookstore to buy a cookbook.

I never realised that there were so many cookbooks available! And so many eloquent chefs! Who knew all successful chefs also had a natural knack for set-dressing and photography? I spotted the words ‘Gordon Ramsay’, became overwhelmed by how many books I had to choose from, and picked the book with the glossiest cover.

The first recipe in the book was called “Brandade on garlic toasts”. What!?! What is a ‘Brandade”? Is this book in English? I don’t think ‘kitchen tweezer’ is what I think it is. Isn’t a Slotted spoon inherently contradictory? How does one flake outside of not showing up for appointments? Oh finally: baking sheet! Let me just call my tanning salon on speed dial and I’ll have one of those in a second.

Where the hell is my bloody kitchen!?

One recipe asked to “Sprinkle the duck legs all over with rock salt and leave to stand at room temperature for one hour.” How on earth do you sprinkle duck legs? Where? Over the kitchen floor? And why must I stand for one hour? Room temperature? During summer or winter? With or without the underfloor heating on? I’m confused…

Terminology like ‘trim’, ‘drizzle’, ‘parboil’ and ‘skim’, amongst others, had me flummoxed. I trim a Christmas tree. ‘Drizzle’ is a weather condition. ‘Parboil’ sounds like an average abscess and ‘skim’ is what you do when you read the newspaper quickly. Isn’t it?

And where do you find Shaoxing (I have a hunch that it’s in Japan, where other forms of martial arts are also practised), wonton wrappers, ajwain seeds, tilapia fillets (I think I own a dress by her), Iberico ham, haloumi, tabbouleh (is that how the English pronounce the word ‘table’?) and passata? Gordon, where DO you shop?

Do people actually do this activity called ‘cooking’? Who are these people?

I think that chefs all over the world belong to an impenetrable secret society with its own language and rituals so that no-one will ever know their culinary secrets and we then have to pay lots of money just to be fed, or spend a fortune in travelling all over the world looking for ingredients to make dishes like Chicken Madras, Cantonese fried rice, Boston cream pie, Scottish smoked salmon, New England clam chowder, Turkish Yoghurt cake and Tuna Provencal.

I finally understood why there is so much hunger and malnourishment in the world. Nobody can understand the recipes.

I’m not giving up, though. I need to find out how this curious culture of cuisine works. I think I’m going back to the bookstore to buy a book by a guy that calls himself the Naked Chef. That sounds like something I can relate to.

Boefie-isms 10

German: (noun) I know a little German… his name is Heinz.

Glitter: (verb) The act of enhancing the appeal of anything dull. Example: “Hold still while I glitter you.”

Golden handshake: (noun) Referring to the act of shaking hands with a person who is wearing a Rolex.

Golden retriever: (noun) A woman who is out to buy jewellery.

Boefie-isms 9

Elevation: (noun) The science of putting on stilettos.

Exorcising: (verb) The act of getting divorced.

Extensions: (plural noun) Hair, eyelashes, nails…

Facial minimalism: (noun) An acting technique developed by and for aging performers with Botox.

Boefie-isms 8

Distasteful: (adjective) A descriptor in reference to old men and young women in a relationship.

Distraction: (noun) The result of someone opening a bottle of French champagne somewhere.

Divine: (adjective) My review of a film containing both Brad Pitt and George Clooney.

Dramatis personae: (collective noun) Family, friends, colleagues, etc.

Boefie-isms 7

Cougar: (noun) A term thought up by an insecure, jealous, twenty-five year old girl whose boyfriend was looking at a gorgeous and sophisticated older woman.

Dance: (noun) Exercise for people living on Planet Gorgeous.

Diamanté: (noun) The essential adage to all outer wear.

Directions: (plural noun) The information the chauffeur gets from the butler.

Distance: (noun) The space between me and an old man.

Boefie-isms 6

Champagne cocktail: (noun) The first words that should be uttered to a waiter.

Chocolate: (noun) One of the three major food groups, the other two being Champagne and nicotine.

Conversation: (noun) Intersecting monologues.

Boefie-isms 5

Blonde: (noun) The result of going to a salon and asking the hairdresser to make you beautiful.

Botox: (proper noun) A Miracle cure for ailments relating to the inevitability of Age.

Cacophony: (noun) Pretending to cough.

Boefie-isms 4

Back-Lighting: (noun) A natural or artificial light source behind a seated figure, resulting in a more favourable guestimation of Age.

Bacon: (proper noun) Kevin.

Ballad: (proper noun) A soccer player.

Boefie-isms 3

Artefact: (noun) A more concise way to refer to a middle-aged man.

Artificial: (adjective) Descriptive of the elements involved in achieving a ‘natural look’.

Audience: (noun) You.

Boefie-speak/Boefie-isms

Airbrushing: (verb) Implicit action performed by a photographer after a photo shoot.

Apoplexy: (noun) The result of an unflattering guestimation of Age.

Appliances: (plural noun) Inventions for people who do not employ butlers.

Boefie-speak/Boefie-isms

Abstinence: (noun) Withholding certain promiscuities as punishment for serving anything but French Champagne.

Aerobics: (noun) An activity involving chocolate covered biscuits.

Age: (noun) State of mind dependent on the last visit to a plastic surgeon.

A Gift Horse

On Planet Gorgeous we surround ourselves with beauty and bright shiny things that make one go “aahh!”. What is more beautiful than a string of fairy lights lighting up a tree on 5th Avenue in New York City, feathers and sequins on a showgirl’s costume, a Swarovski crystal encrusted calculator, Freddy Mercury’s voice, white flowers in a garden, Brad Pitt’s body in Fight Club, Impressionist paintings in the Louvre or the Aston Martin DB9? Pretty much nothing.

Now let me make this clear, I have never owned an Aston Martin and I have never driven one, but the fingerprints and the drool on the windows of the Aston Martin showroom at the Cape Town Waterfront? Those are mine. And if I owned a TiVo, it would be filled up with car shows like Top Gear. But since I can’t record a million episodes on a nifty electronic device, I buy the DVDs, read the books by Clarkson, Hammond and May, own the Top Gear Driving Songs CD and belong to The Stig fan club. I love a man in costume.

One of my dreams has always been to be in the audience of a Top Gear taping or, better yet, to drive around the Top Gear racetrack with the Stig in the passenger seat. Swoon.

And then I got the best news: The Top Gear Live Show was coming to town! I bought my tickets months in advance and then I immediately started worrying about what I was going to wear. Thousands of Rands and a few worry lines later (Dr. Price!) it was finally time for The Big Show.

Getafix and I arrived about three hours early, because they had an exhibition tent with all the shiny new cars and I wanted to take my time savouring the metallic beauty of every triumphant creation. My heart was already pounding in my chest like a seventeen-year-old girl at her Matric Dance when I saw it. There, in an enclosure to ward off overenthusiastic onlookers, was the silver Aston Martin V8 Vantage.

My knees trembled as I gasped for air, nearly falling off my stilettos. I knew that I was in the presence of greatness, so I did what every civilized human being would do: I brushed my hair, applied some lip-gloss and curtsied. I wanted to propose to this genesis of perfection. I wanted to have little Aston Martin human/machine hybrid babies. Standing there, mesmerised by the smooth lines and toned George Clooney-esque body, I could have sworn it winked at me with one of its diamante-framed headlights.

Getafix, very politely, tried to get my attention by softy whispering something about how the show was about to start, but he should have known better than to wake a sleepwalker.

“I’m breaking up with you! I’m leaving you for Aston!”

I shrieked like a deranged Tourette’s syndrome sufferer. Getafix put his hand on my shoulder and I, now woken from my fantasy of a villa in the south of France with the Vantage parked in the driveway and little Aston Martins playing on the lawn, realised the object of this excursion: The Live Show.

And oh! What a show! What a production! This is what show business is all about! Lights! Fire! Pyrotechnics! Lasers! Smoke! Music! Stunt driving! Supercars! Drama! Comedy! Dramady! Jeremy on a bicycle! The Hamster with bad hair! The Stig in a funny little car doing a loop-de-loop stunt on a rollercoaster-thing! Cars playing soccer with a giant ball! The Cool wall! Motorcycles in a cage trying to kill Hammond! (They should kill his hairdresser instead.)

Throughout the show I was whooping and whoo-ing and screaming and shouting. I left the arena with major vocal chord damage, haematomas on my hands from applauding while wearing too much bling on my fingers, and covered in cheap beer that the shell-shocked idiot in front of me kept spilling every time there was a loud explosion. I didn’t have a single drink the whole time and I still walked out of the show drunker than anyone there purely because of the amount of alcohol I absorbed through my skin.

I always imagined falling in love with a prince on a white horse who would swoop into my life and make everything better, I just never imagined that the object of my desire would actually be the horse…a silver horse…with the power of more than just one horse…with the power of 420 horses.

But there I was, limping to the parking lot with a sprained ankle from falling off my stilettos, drenched in beer, speechless and with red swollen hands. I might have looked like shit, but I didn’t care.

I was in love.