My sister, Neelsie, and her boyfriend broke up. With the alarm bells of her biological clock going off and the pitiful amount of eligible men available, this circumstance is a slight glitch in the glamorous mode de vie of Planet Gorgeous.
Now, obviously, ladies of a certain unmentionable age, breaking up or getting divorced might make you feel less sensational than you are. You feel rejected, ugly, worthless and then you start doubting your virtues and excellence. Ask any girl who did not get a rose on The Batchelor and they will tell you that it sucks.
Poor Neelsie immediately became the queen of denial after the self-involved egotistical bastard dumped her and she promptly changed her name to Cleopatra. “How could this be?” she asked her cat.. “Maybe he was just having a bad day”, she tried to convince herself in the mirror. “Maybe I did not fully understand what he was saying?” she petitioned her pot plants. “This is not happening!” she howled at the moon. “I feel fantastic!” she eventually shrieked at her gardener.
No, darling, he’s gone. Go and rule Egypt on your own.
Realising that Smallshortsman is not going to change his wardrobe or ask one of his friends to kill him with a sword, she became angry. Screaming: “This is so unfair!” and throwing things, she felt a little bit better. Of course she sobbed her heart out while trying to glue the vase back together…
And then she started bargaining. “If I can fix the vase I just shattered against the wall, maybe I can fix the relationship?” Cutting her finger with a shard of glass and bleeding all over the carpet, she realised that the vase was beyond repair, but still thought of ways to change herself so that Smallshortsman will want to take her back. She went to her therapist, hairdresser, personal trainer and facebook friends. She sent Antony a message that she had killed herself, and died while mumbling his name, and waited in the monument for him to come running back to her. No, that’s not true. I’m having Shakespeare moment.
Not long after spending a fortune on new carpets and vases, depression set in. Smallshortsman did not kill himself and died in her arms.
She cried a lot. (Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.) Ignored everything Dr. Joshi prescribes for a healthy diet, and became miserable enough to make Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave sound like ABBA.
At last she accepted the situation when she looked at her dwindling bank account through her puffy bloodshot eyes. “My desolation does begin to make a better life”, she whimpered melodramatically while trying to keep the cucumbers from falling off her face.
On Planet Gorgeous we have our own way of dealing with life’s drama. After break-ups and divorces we put on a tiara and have a glass of champagne. Then we think about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Eddie Fisher, Nicky Hilton, John Warner, Richard Burton, Larry Fortensky, Michael Todd, Richard Burton, Michael Wilding and Richard Burton, and say: “Next!”
This act of survival deals with the denial stage of loss. In fact, just like being in denial about our age, we deal with these little hitches on Planet Gorgeous by being in a constant state of negation. The other steps of anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance give us wrinkles and cost us money. It’s good to be the Queen!
Neelsie is fine now, ruling Egypt with renewed verve and vigour and not an asp in sight. Welcome back to Planet Gorgeous, Neelsie!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
I am Birthday
31 December 2010
Tuscany, Italy
It was New Years Eve and my birthday! I was in a tiny Medieval village in Tuscany, freezing, but surrounded by friends and my beautiful daughter, Blommie.
We decided to make a reservation at Ristorante Galletti in Crispiano for dinner, as we dined there a few days ago and had the best pesto pasta ever.
There were seven of us and one rented car. After numerous failed attempts to squeeze our seven bodies into the car, we decided to put Autumn Leaves in the boot as she was the smallest.
Belg and I decided that we would go inside the restaurant to make our booking while the others explored the village. At the restaurant we were greeted by the owner. With my Italian phrase book in hand I attempted communication.
“Buongiorno, Reserv…no…pre...prenota... shit this is hard...zione. Sette.”
I was holding up seven fingers.
The owner said something in Italian. I paged frantically through my phrase book. He was talking too fast and I could not decipher anything, much less understand.
“Scusi?”
Off he went again at an enormous speed. I was stressing. I resorted to mime. I showed him seven fingers again. I mimed cutting food and putting it in my mouth. I chewed. I pointed at my watch. I was not wearing a watch. I was pointing at my sleeve. I am an idiot. I started to sweat. I pointed to the clock on the wall. I swept my arm across the restaurant.
The man shook his head and called his wife. Their discussion was heated and punctuated by volume and wild gestures. “Comprendere” and “non” featured in their confabulation.
“Eat. Tonight. Seven.” I endeavoured again in English with the appropriate hand gesticulations. My English was deteriorating fast and I sounded like a dog trainer telling the dog to ‘sit’, ‘stay’ and ‘roll over’.
She then put a newspaper down in front of me and showed me an advertisement for a New Years Eve Dinner. I nodded.
“Sette”, I repeated.
She shook her head: “No!”.
“Si!” I rebutted.
“No! Otto e mezza!” She was clearly agitated with me, because she threw her hands in the air, turned around and disappeared into the kitchen with her husband.
There we were standing alone in the restaurant. I nervously glanced at Belg. He shrugged. Something was getting lost in translation.We were seven (sette! Dammit!) not eight (otto)!. Back to the phrase book. What the hell is a “Mezza”? And then we got it. Half past eight! I was arguing with the wife about the amount of people and not the time.
At last the wife returned with her son. I directed a final and desperate attempt at booking our table to the young boy.
“We...sette...arrivare...tonight...si...sono...compleanno?”
The son nodded.
We left.
“What did you say to them?” Blommie asked on the way back to the car. “They seemed very confused and upset.”
As Autumn Leaves climbed back into the boot of the car, Belg said: “Boefie has just made a booking from a newspaper advertisement for a ten course meal at a restaurant two hours drive from here for eight and a half people.”
Mio zio ha un asino verde.
Tuscany, Italy
It was New Years Eve and my birthday! I was in a tiny Medieval village in Tuscany, freezing, but surrounded by friends and my beautiful daughter, Blommie.
We decided to make a reservation at Ristorante Galletti in Crispiano for dinner, as we dined there a few days ago and had the best pesto pasta ever.
There were seven of us and one rented car. After numerous failed attempts to squeeze our seven bodies into the car, we decided to put Autumn Leaves in the boot as she was the smallest.
Belg and I decided that we would go inside the restaurant to make our booking while the others explored the village. At the restaurant we were greeted by the owner. With my Italian phrase book in hand I attempted communication.
“Buongiorno, Reserv…no…pre...prenota... shit this is hard...zione. Sette.”
I was holding up seven fingers.
The owner said something in Italian. I paged frantically through my phrase book. He was talking too fast and I could not decipher anything, much less understand.
“Scusi?”
Off he went again at an enormous speed. I was stressing. I resorted to mime. I showed him seven fingers again. I mimed cutting food and putting it in my mouth. I chewed. I pointed at my watch. I was not wearing a watch. I was pointing at my sleeve. I am an idiot. I started to sweat. I pointed to the clock on the wall. I swept my arm across the restaurant.
The man shook his head and called his wife. Their discussion was heated and punctuated by volume and wild gestures. “Comprendere” and “non” featured in their confabulation.
“Eat. Tonight. Seven.” I endeavoured again in English with the appropriate hand gesticulations. My English was deteriorating fast and I sounded like a dog trainer telling the dog to ‘sit’, ‘stay’ and ‘roll over’.
She then put a newspaper down in front of me and showed me an advertisement for a New Years Eve Dinner. I nodded.
“Sette”, I repeated.
She shook her head: “No!”.
“Si!” I rebutted.
“No! Otto e mezza!” She was clearly agitated with me, because she threw her hands in the air, turned around and disappeared into the kitchen with her husband.
There we were standing alone in the restaurant. I nervously glanced at Belg. He shrugged. Something was getting lost in translation.We were seven (sette! Dammit!) not eight (otto)!. Back to the phrase book. What the hell is a “Mezza”? And then we got it. Half past eight! I was arguing with the wife about the amount of people and not the time.
At last the wife returned with her son. I directed a final and desperate attempt at booking our table to the young boy.
“We...sette...arrivare...tonight...si...sono...compleanno?”
The son nodded.
We left.
“What did you say to them?” Blommie asked on the way back to the car. “They seemed very confused and upset.”
As Autumn Leaves climbed back into the boot of the car, Belg said: “Boefie has just made a booking from a newspaper advertisement for a ten course meal at a restaurant two hours drive from here for eight and a half people.”
Mio zio ha un asino verde.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
“I have very narrow feet, so I have to wear Ferragamo.” Mrs Grace Mugabe
In Hollywood you are only as young as your last visit to the plastic surgeon. On Planet Gorgeous age is not an issue. We function in a blissful state of Deterioration Denial. Our brains still tell us that we are youthful sprites, until our bodies bitch-slap us back to reality…
Then I choreographed a music video.
When the dancers arrived for the rehearsal I realised that they were all Hip Hop and Breakdancers. Hip Hop I can do. No problem. But the last time I attempted any form of Breakdancing was when I was in my… in my… uhm…younger. I know the Breakdance terminology and can instruct a dancer to do an Airbaby, Pike, Flare or a Rollback Handstand, but to physically do that…at my age…
My dancers were talented and energetic and executed my choreography brilliantly, but on one phrase I wanted two of the male dancers to do a combination of specific Breakdancing tricks. I explained to them what I wanted, but they just could not get it right and I realised that I had to demonstrate the bloody moves. I braced myself and thought “What the hell!” and did it, but coming out of a Kick-up and going into a Flick-flack, I realised – in mid-air – as I heard a ‘click’ somewhere in my lower body and saw stars (for a split second I did see Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but that was wishful thinking.), that I was just being stupid. I have to stop choreographing in heels!
While attempting to regain my sight and consciousness and trying to locate the position of my legs, I disregarded this physical malfunction and carried on working. I’m a pro. The show must go on. Okay, I did limp a bit, but worked it into the choreography and took out the frustration of my pain by shouting obscenities at the production crew. Everybody usually shouts obscenities at crew, so it all seemed normal.
But after the rehearsal, as I stumbled out of the car and dragged my injured body towards the guest house I was staying in for the duration of the shoot, I realised:
1. that the brain and the body are enemies (They lie to each other.)
2. that I am only as young as my knees;
3. that middle-age is when anything new you feel is most likely to be a symptom;
4. that physical exercise does add years to your life. I felt ten years older;
5. that a slight limp actually looks sexy when you are wearing stilettos;
So, in conclusion: I am going to continue being in denial about my age. And after careful consideration (while reapplying an ice pack to my knee), I decided that I will continue choreographing in heels, because they make my legs look pretty.
Then I choreographed a music video.
When the dancers arrived for the rehearsal I realised that they were all Hip Hop and Breakdancers. Hip Hop I can do. No problem. But the last time I attempted any form of Breakdancing was when I was in my… in my… uhm…younger. I know the Breakdance terminology and can instruct a dancer to do an Airbaby, Pike, Flare or a Rollback Handstand, but to physically do that…at my age…
My dancers were talented and energetic and executed my choreography brilliantly, but on one phrase I wanted two of the male dancers to do a combination of specific Breakdancing tricks. I explained to them what I wanted, but they just could not get it right and I realised that I had to demonstrate the bloody moves. I braced myself and thought “What the hell!” and did it, but coming out of a Kick-up and going into a Flick-flack, I realised – in mid-air – as I heard a ‘click’ somewhere in my lower body and saw stars (for a split second I did see Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but that was wishful thinking.), that I was just being stupid. I have to stop choreographing in heels!
While attempting to regain my sight and consciousness and trying to locate the position of my legs, I disregarded this physical malfunction and carried on working. I’m a pro. The show must go on. Okay, I did limp a bit, but worked it into the choreography and took out the frustration of my pain by shouting obscenities at the production crew. Everybody usually shouts obscenities at crew, so it all seemed normal.
But after the rehearsal, as I stumbled out of the car and dragged my injured body towards the guest house I was staying in for the duration of the shoot, I realised:
1. that the brain and the body are enemies (They lie to each other.)
2. that I am only as young as my knees;
3. that middle-age is when anything new you feel is most likely to be a symptom;
4. that physical exercise does add years to your life. I felt ten years older;
5. that a slight limp actually looks sexy when you are wearing stilettos;
So, in conclusion: I am going to continue being in denial about my age. And after careful consideration (while reapplying an ice pack to my knee), I decided that I will continue choreographing in heels, because they make my legs look pretty.
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