Always the Bridesmaid, Never A Bride

My dearest friend, Ann, finally got to marry her very own prince charming. What strikes me about her and her new hubby is that my dearest friend is the loudest, big, gorgeous, girl who burps out loud, cries far too much, has no secrets and this man, a quiet reserved individual is totally and completely besotted with her. You could bring a naked Angelina Jolie on a silver platter to him literally and I don’t think that he would even batter an eyelid – if anything I think he’d be wondering where on earth his lover is and if she’s smiling and happy, in short they define true love and are my hero’s for it! So there I was last night, sitting at the “singles table” naturally. And There occur my worst (in fact I think every single persons worst moments), which I feel someone should at least attempt to say out loud:
First of all let me just explain that there are 4 types of single people who attend weddings:
1) The soon to be
2) The going to be
3) The wanna be
4) It’ll never happen to me

And there you all sit, and one SMALL table…surrounded by couples. Now let me add a couple of sticks to our growing fire:
At this particular table, there are 4 girls sitting at the table, and 5 men. One is engaged (not sure why she was sitting there…). The 2nd is recently divorced and bitter as hell (understandable) with a neon sign flashing across her forehead saying “bugga off”. Number 3 is hot, youthful, skinny, natural and confident and then number 4: you. Not skinny accompanied by a rather dry sense of humor and a cash bar.
So we all sit, toasting to the happy couple, and sneaking off to the bar at every available ordering something to gooi back quickly, you know just, to all relax us and maybe make the evening go a little faster. (also sub consciously getting ready to hit the dance floor) Dinner is a great affair of the boys trying to out chirp the other, whilst the girls laugh, slightly high pitched, slightly louder than usual, (with the odd outburst of my gaffaw…)
Now it was at this stage that things for me became rather entertaining. 4 of the boys were all going for girl number 3, who happens to be my best mate. Subtly however is not something that mixes well with alcohol and eventually my turrets cynism just couldn’t kept quiet, and I would every now and then chirp the poor lads back in not the nicest way. However at the same time I realized that I was being known as the intelligent way to get through to getting the girl, so the chirps were now starting to head towards my side of the table, in order to get the “approval”. Which was great, at least I was getting some of the attention, however these days I tend to be one of those people who are not afraid to call a spade a spade, and with about 3 jigermeisters at this early stage, I think I made the fatal mistake of either the chirp going completely over their heads, or making them shut up with a slightly red glow. If laura went to the bar, it was followed by the quake of scraping chairs of the boys to see who was going to get there first. Then when she would get up and the same thing would happen, I would chirp, “she’s off to the loo, and unless you have some feminine secrets, I wouldn’t be too quick to follow her”, which would have them quickly resuming their seats, giving me evil glares.
But the evening so far actually wasn’t that bad. We did have some bloody good laughs, and soon the jokes started and it was great. Just as everything was getting comfortably fuzzy my worst nightmare came true. Ann and Jonathan opened the dance floor, and then we were told, the bridesmaids were to follow.
STOP, REWIND…WHAT!!!??? Naturally the alpha male of the pack was at Laura’s side like an Ethiopian after a chicken and there I sat, waiting.
…
Let it be known right now that I am NOT ashamed, but proud god damn it!!! And I think I handled the dreaded phenomenon like a pro. I swished back some wine, giggled at appropriate places and did the whole head cocked to one side, “ah shame man” elegantly. Naturally the stupid insipid DJ would choose the longest, slowest song sung by man, so the bloody humiliation lasted a good 7 minutes, by which time the wine was finished, and so was i…
Once the dancing music started, I did contemplate having a jiggle around, however the DJ then started playing, “the hokey pokey.” It was about that time when all cognitive thought about sobering up vanished and I once again found myself at the bar. By 11pm , drunk and slightly aggravated, Laura approached me about going out with “the lads” to a club in Centurion. Remembering my entire’s family “wise words” of mingling with straight single people I agreed and off we went to a club of some sorts. By 12am (after getting lost and doing too many circles) the club was huge with a live band…packing up. It was at this time, and for most of you who know, that when I’m drunk and music starts playing, I tend to start jiggling involuntarily. And so I hit the dance floor, but started sobering up immediately when I realized that the pack of wolves were dancing around Laura (professional dancer just back from international dance competition in Boston USA). So naturally I headed once again to the bar. Then I smelt boerewors rolls cooking outside, and with the prospect of having to drive home, I found myself sitting underneath a tree, in full bridesmaid dress, chowing a boerie roll all by myself. Confidence seemingly pretty low at this stage, to add salt to the wounds a random bloke walked past and said, “geniet jy dit vettie?”. I smiled and did a queen’s wave and immediately sms’d my best gay friend. I returned to the club and then and there decided “fuck it” I need my current theme song to put me in a good space. I found the DJ – a woman, and categorically stated that she must play this song or I might find a way to trip her. She looked at me, in the dress, put two and two together and the next thing my song played and i took over the dance floor with such determination, one could equate with the finalists of "so you think you can dance" and The next thing, the boys all flocked to me and I spent the rest of the morning having such a blast, flirting and dancing and sobering up quite happily…
………
Hmmmm?
I DON’T GET IT!
We then make the 45 minute trip to the guest house to avoid having to drive back to JHB, to find that the keys that we got don’t open the trellidoor and we had to then drive back to JHB anyway.
It was a beautiful wedding and I haven’t seen my best friend so happy and so beautiful, and I would go through that all over again for her, except I should bring a date and probably leave the sarcasm behind!!

इट्स time

It started by the sea, in a field of dreams
Where lovers and hearts were learning extremes.
But soon the winds blew and the veld was still brown
I came home to all strangers in my familiar town.
You’re surrounded by lovers that you can’t ever have
And the little pinch in your heart everyday makes you sad.
Because whilst everyone else has their coming out party
I can’t help feel solo on my straight ‘normal’ journey.
For freedom that they have by the opening of a door
I simply can’t have, keep my eyes to the floor.
The desperate antics that I try, I consider
Have unfortunately made me both blush and feel bitter.
With dignity and truth I try call out loud,
My parents should they know… can sense they’ll be proud
It’s a jealousy that I never thought possible
I mean let’s be honest it’s a life that, for some, is horrible
And yet my admiration for their bravery and truth
Is driving me crazy – they are so uncouth.
And sincere and beautiful and wise and free
It’s only with them that I can truly be me.
But the world I sense is waiting, or I am waiting for it?
So I’m stepping out big and taking my place in it.
with their courage and hopefully their sense of style
I’m going to try and not hide …be me for a while.
Will try walk with my head up and forgive my mistakes
They make u a better person - stronger personality traits!
Because, you see, my friends do it every day of their lives
And even though my weakness I cannot hide.
It’s time the walrus said
and I’m getting out of bed!
Because I’m 25
And it’s time to feel alive!

the gays of our lives

I find myself in a unique situation. Not that is uncommon mind, especially in my line of work (musical theatre), but it’s something I feel extremely passionate about and have the need to share!

At the tender age of 24 I find myself surrounded with the attention of a group on very special men. And not in the derogatory sense of the word: A group of men who have become my joojoo, my strength and my happiness. They are fairly demanding at the best of times and when I am surrounded by a crowd of them I usually don’t get a word in edgeways! If I am asked the “how are you?” question it’s intended to have a response of “fine, but my dear HOW ARE YOU?” and the responses never cease to stop entertaining me: If the response starts with a deep dramatic sigh I know not to push the subject too far, instead sit with them in the silence and commiserate in the drama, but if the response is one that is followed by the resounding deep sigh, then I know that a new drama is about to unfold and should brace myself (thinking, smokes? Check! Wine? Check! Incense – sandle wood or tequila? Tea? Check!)

My introduction to the gay man was when I was 8 years old and working in my first big show. We had two hairdressers, Morne and Natasha. I was walking down the passage of the dressing rooms, when I first heard Natasha speak. And immediately I was entranced, because Natasha had this deep baritone voice and long blonde hair with pink lipstick! And so on the way home after the show, sitting quite contently in the backseat of my parents car, I told my parents that I had met a “heshe.” My father nearly pranged the car, but mother ( giving my father the look of death),turned round and quite calmly asked, what a “heshe”was.
“well she’s a woman and looks very pretty, but she sounds like a man, so I figure it’s a heshe.” I think in hindsight it was probably at that moment when my parents realized that my life was destined to be filled with more glitter and sequinz than they had originally anticipated…

During my schooling years I would often dream about them and I remember at least once a week , generally at Friday morning mass (love convent schools) praying to god desperately asking him for a George. (thinking back, the fact that I was praying in a Catholic church for a gay man…if the nuns only knew, thank god the big guy up stairs has a sense of humor!)

I then I started college. Admittedly despite my status as “faghag,” my” gaydar” is highly underdeveloped. And so my first interaction with one came with a reaction of horror and fear. An incredibly good looking guy walked past me and slapped my bum! I turned around with a bit of a shocked look, completely speechless and his response was a wink and a smile (naturally). I was completely perplexed by this and the first thought that crossed my mind was, “oh my god does this man like me?” LOL! I remember walking back to my res, my tummy filled with butterflies at the thought that an incredibly good looking man, with an amazing dress sense might actually like …me. I went straight to the girls in the dorm and told them the news. “oh ja, he does that all the time with me, why do gay men think that just because they are gay, they can randomly touch our arses?...” the girls all jumped into this conversation and I was left sitting there, quiet with awe and an absolute sense of excitement – the prayer was finally being answered. The butterflies have never left me since :)

Six years later, I think I have met every type of gay man in South Africa: the queen, the duchess, the princess, the bloke, the one who just came out the closet and tries to be a queen rather unsuccessfully, the deniable, the shy and the angry. Each one with his wicked sense of humour and own drama that could, if publically known put the writers of Bold to shame!

Recently I spent 6 weeks in Durban living with 3 incredibly good looking gay men. We had the mother, whose cooking kept my tummy warm and who always had the good “muti” readily available. We had the beauty-pageant, who had the Q10 near at hand, along with every moisturizer that did god knows what, and then the prince charming, who didn’t need to say much, but whose laughter sent the butterflies but atwirl! And me. Father?....god let’s hope not:)

Every morning was entertaining: the mother became the gruff bloke, who’s voice extended that of the baritone range, in his cotton checked pajamas and sheep skin slippers, who, depending if he got more than 6 hours of sleep would generally murmur a rough “good morning” before connecting onto his gaydar and checking his latest flirts. The beauty queen, who was chirpy,(too chirpy at the best of times) and who just looked fresh, no matter how many hours of sleep he got, and then, the prince charming, eating his 8th bowl of healthy cornflakes, sweaty after a long job on the beach, muscles still glistening from a “good mornings work out!”.

Shower hour was a symphony of tenor’s and basses (and a soprano who shall remain nameless), that probably would have Hammerstein, Larson and Freddie all turning in their graves. A gusto of reverberating, clashing harmonies, with some who knew the lyrics and others who would just make them up as the shower water would take them. With the accompaniment of the odd scrubbing brush, popping bubble bath (mine) and water drops, the symphony would last a good 10 minutes. It was the 10 minutes that I looked forward to the most during our trip.
One morning, I thought that I’d give it go, whilst having my morning bath. After a small hummed scale, thinking that it was probably wise to do a warm up before I begin belting out a Sondheim , then feeling rather sheepish that I was trying to warm up (although I had a lot to live up to, after all) I tried to start. But soon I was perplexed by my song choice: happy song, song about love, …(haha, naturally Michael buble’s everything has just started playing on the radio whilst I’m typing this…. – a shower regular…hahaha! Hang on, have to savour the moment!....)
….
Ok, so now, after feeling sheepish about a warm up and frustrated that maybe Sondheim is a bit too deep at 10am, I shout to myself “oh for godsake Hopkins just sing! “ I belt out something that doesn’t even resemble a tune, get so shocked by the acoustics that I immediately feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and find myself more stressed in the bath than I was before I got in. Praying that the “girls” didn’t hear the vocal coach sound like a donkey on heat, wrinkled and flushed I decide then and there that perhaps it’s a “boy thing” singing in the shower and thus should be left solely to them!

After the shower hour, came one of my most difficult parts of the morning. Three hot men, dressed with style, and then, the clincher, all spray their own aftershave/perfume. And not a little spritz either I might add. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I would feel my nose start to twitch (along with other parts of the body) and find myself wearing this stupid big grin and giggling at the most random moments. My eyes would become slightly glossy and for the next ten minutes would (avoiding eye contact) force myself to do my cross word puzzle and focus on the impossible clues ONLY!

Whilst these boys are all “out the closet…(by the way, if this closet could be personified, and given and face and a name, and I happen to meet him in a street, I intend on giving him a piece of my mind and then bitch slap all the glitter out of him)…moving on...as I was saying, these boys are confirmed homosexuals, my next challenge and I found myself sometimes…ok often, having to remind myself of that fact because:

In certain situations, the suppressed alpha male would jump out, often taking me by surprise, and I would have to consciously remind myself to sit with my legs together and keep my jaw pasted up to my palate. Like a turrets syndrome, these boys would just become dominant, and I could just see all the tinsel shake in fear and the heels scurry away. It would happen when they would answer their phones: A deep voice with a frown across their brows, “hello?”. Or when they, (not very often) would hurt themselves, like tripping (although that was usually me) or when driving and a taxi would cut in front of them and they’d start yelling at them or my worst, best..no probably worst; when they would talk about sex. (Sigh…long and reverberating!)

The mother would start. And I won’t give the details, but he would describe how he would become like the man..and …oh god, I can’t even type it,( where have my fingers gone?!) And then prince charming would agree and subtly start smiling as if remembering something from the night before , positively glowing, and glancing with all confidence to the beauty queen who, you know try not to look too guilty; at which point I would give a very good impression of a yawn and excuse myself to go to bed. That or if the conversation was simply too flippen educational, would grab the trusty cross word puzzle and whilst doodling, listen with rapture! It was like one of those romance novels about the dark, flanked Indian taking the Jane and you know how it goes. I was FINISHED! Sometimes I have to admit, rather horrified by the techniques – whoever is under the illusion that gay men are all glam, oo my dear if ONLY you knew! I certainly had NO clue! I would go to bed, my mind positively buzzing, whilst trying desperately to remember things that I considered “tips” only to give up and fall asleep with the comfort that my three boys were at least free in our cocoon to be themselves and that on some nights they would sleep easy.

The one common and for me heart breaking theme that I have picked up over years is the what the cynical would consider normal and every mans journey. That being the theme of loneliness and forbidden love.
In the three short weeks, we had there, one week, one of the boys had his heart broken. Usually after a break up, the sighs, when asked how they are, are always at the beginning – code for one not to go anywhere too deep. I think what kills me is that the sparkle, you know the one when you are on stage in the lights, fades a little. And sometimes it never really comes back. The soft look in their faces hardens ever so slightly. I imagine what they are thinking may be that “This is the life that I have chosen.” Or that perhaps the fear of life as a solo artist becomes a little more tangible. I’m not sure, but what I believe is that there should perhaps be a warning sign on that closet door before he comes out, that warns you that cynism is just next door and his door is always ajar and very easy to open. With every break up you can see that door creaking open in their mannerisms and their laughter. And whilst all straight couples go through a similar “journey” in break ups, I truly believe for the gay man, it’s harder because it’s rarer. And all I want to do when it happens is hold them and swear at the asswipe who has hurt them and beg them, if needed, not to give up! Never give up! I think it’s the fact that for a man to, “risk looking like a fool for love” is far more difficult and real for them than anybody else. And when they do it, because they are all romantics at heart, and it doesn’t work, the embarrassment or humiliation that inevitably ensues may hit home a little harder. We all feel like chops when we give ourselves over, but life isn’t all roses, as they have already discovered by “coming out” and it’s then, at that moment, when they think that, that the light fades ever so subtly and the door stands a little more ajar.

I am yet to be able to comfort any of my boys in a helpful way when this happens. I tend to become more practical. Find a blanket and cover them when they are lying on the couch or when making that cup of tea, putting an extra teaspoon of sugar, just so it tastes a little sweeter in their bitter world at that moment.

I feel so privileged to be a part of their lives. Even if I am called a “faghag”.
They are the bravest people I know. And for me, it is being able to be brave that sets you apart from being ordinary. Nothing else.

To all my boys and my dearest George:

“You're a falling star, You're the get away car.You're the line in the sand when I go too far.You're the swimming pool, on an August day.And you're the perfect thing to say.
And you play it coy, but it's kinda cute.
When you smile at me you know exactly what you do.Baby don't pretend, that you don't know it's true.Cause you can see it when I look at you.
And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times

It's you, it's you, You make me sing.You're every line, you're every word,

you're everything.”

xxx

i believe...

My parents have recently come back home to South Africa, after 7 years of being expats. When my parents first l eft, I was reading a book called, “I Heard the Owl call my Name” by Margaret Craven, and in it she asks: " which one was braver; the one who left or the one who stayed?” And after 7 years of our family being slightly displaced, I think I know what my answer is.
I think that it is the ones who stay.
You are braver if you can content, greatful and fulfilled with what you have. To risk staying and making the most of your life as it is, instead and running away to “greener pasteurs.” In the past 2 years I have lost most of my dear friends to other countries: Austalia, England, the US – all to lands that will offer a “better life” for our crazy generation. That South Africa will end up the same as our poor neighbore Zim and we should save ourselves, before saving our country.
I belive that Africa’s spirit is cursed because of its people. I believe we can make it better by staying!!!!
But this is not why I’m writing this tonight. In my current situation, I find it difficult to be able to voice my opinions, for various petty and not so petty reasons, so then I remembered, “oh yes I have a blog!”
So here it goes:
I believe that religion is man made and faith is real. I try not to believe in god because it makes it easier to accept the consequinces. I believe in people. I think my friend and her religion are dellutional. God will not save her marriage, it is filling a void that she inherently unhappy with herself and her place in the universe.
I believe that my friends who left SA ran away. I believe that my sister will never be thin again and that she is a better person because of it. I belive that my nana (who lives with me) is truly lonely and I cannot help her.
I am angry at my parents because not only did they allow me to dream out loud without any fear of being teased, but they dreamt out loud with me, and still do, and sometimes it just makes the dissappoinment harder to deal with.
I love the fact that my sister is a perfectionist and I love her husband for loving her so beautifully. I loved it when after her lesagne turned out to be an absolute disaster, she put herself to bed! LOL!
I loved it when after I had my smash and grab, Neil held me so tightly and wouldn’t let go and I loved it even more when my sister, in her drunken state went trudging up the driveway determined to go “kill the bastards!”. I love how when she gets drunk she starts dancing again – like she really does miss it. There was nothing more special for me than to perform Tracy Turnblad for them, giving every fibre of my being, to the bone, to only see them during the standing ovation with tears in their eyes.
I belive that gay men are selfish (new concept that one of my best gay friend told me this morning) because its easier. I believe that men choose to be ignorant at the best of times. I love the fact that they also get wrinkly in the bath (not so mucho!). I love how they reverse a car – when they put their arm around the passenger seat and turn around to look with a slight frown across their brow. Their sleepy walk and gaze when they have just woken up. The fact that one bowl of cornflakes is actually not enough:) When they drink tea and not coffee. Their embracing hugs and you feel so safe in their arms, even if its just for a moment. The fact that when they are on stage, they are more vunerable than ever before. Their sneezes LOL! When they cry watching Forrest Gump, and my ultimate – the kiss on the forehead!
I believe that my lonliness has been my own doing and its only through being brave….by staying that I will find him.
So with these beliefs, my decision has been made.
Stay and fight.
S t a y and fight!

no thank you, i'm a "non smoker"

No Thank you. I’m a non smoker

I am a non-smoker.
Five simple words that are so easy to say, think, hell even type on this keyboard. Yet the consequences of such a phrase are parceled with that of Newton saying Eurika and ee cummings refusing to use punctuation… (which I shall refrain from doing otherwise we may lose the point that I am trying to make) which is that: I am a non-smoker.
Perhaps once this is finished it’ll even be published and discussed on Oprah, where we will sit and chat, sipping cool water out of a crystal cut glass, and laugh about the absurdist and unhealthiness of this “filthy and disgusting habit!” .By which time I’ll be well known, respected and rich. Or not.

I figure that it’s a good time to quit. This month marks my four year anniversary of being called a “smoker”. It only is four years mind, but it feels like I’ve known it forever. Like the tragedy Romeo and Juliet. U have a pair of star-crossed lovers, whose love is bright, passionate and surrounded by controversy that ultimately ends in death. And even though clever people argue that Romeo and Juliet is not a Shakespearean tragedy, as it was “written in the stars” and they have no inherent character flaw– its still bloody sad and u cry at the end, so my smoking I think at least deserves the title of “tragedy” in order for us to appreciate the fullness of what it is to part with it. That and metaphorically speaking I think it is written in the stars that I should quit and literally speaking I could end up dead…need I say more?

I think though, that I should at least give my cigarettes a name, title, or something. So at least when people ask me why I am sad I can at least say something along the lines of:
“ Chris and I broke up.” Or “Bob and I decided we should take a break and let things cool off for a while.” Better than, “Cigarettes are bad for you and I’ve only realized that now and I’ve given up.” Or worse, “I finally read the warnings on my box of smokes – did you know breastfeeding can harm your baby!”
People in general respond better to the names, although I’m sure that their response to the latter could be quite entertaining!

Now obviously cigarettes have different relationships with different people. Some people smoke because they’re stressed and need something to relax. Other people smoke for entertainment purposes and to “chill” out with their fellow dudes. Some because well, they’re bored. I wish I could use those things, but I smoke coz damn it looks cool! And no one can really deny it. Ok, take away all the health stuff and the controversy and u end up with someone who genuinely looks cool: Like a Partick Swazy – No-body puts Baby in the corner –kind of way. When I think of smoking I picture John Wayne/Clint Eastwood wearing a coyboy hat covered in dust standing in th blazing sun showing off his sherrif’s badge in the one have and lighting a cheroor in the other. GRRRR!

i did a show called "Hairspray" and was priveledged to play the incredible Tracy Turnblad, and with the added pressure of carrying the show and a management that one could equate with the Anceint Romans under the leadership of...casius, the tendency to smoke all the time, was rather, well strong. but as the universe and all health warnings would have it, management decided that i should quit...NOW! and no performances until i have a "clean lung filled with fresh air!" Ja well no fine, off to the candy store, bags of goo and a couple of expensive patches, off i go, leading my new life as a "non-smoker". But just like the stupid Capulets and the irritating Montecue families banning the 2 lovers to ever meet, so the the teenagers did what only was natural. They rebelled! And as my love affair with my smokes is one of passion and irrationaltiy (and still in our young years) my ego, super ego and id decided, bugga you i wont! So began a whole new phase of sneak chain smoking! (rebel!)
It was a disaster! after a good matinee performance, i would sneak to my car, grab smoke from cubby hole and go to the far corner on the roof parking lot, double clutching and dodging camers. (the theatre happened to be in a casino, so naturally there were cameras EVERYWHERE). But i succceed, to run back to my car to "fetch a jersey" only to realise that i had locked my keys in my car. And its an old little golf, so you know its off to go find a coathanger and break into my car. Cursing my stupid habit and the universe, muttering to myself that karma is a bitch! i have to go and get help. Problem is that the cubby hole is open and the box of my "vocal corrupter" is now in full view of anyone who walks past my car and i have managed to convince the unconvincible that i am now and have been a "non smoker". Thank god for fellow smokers, who eventually helped me and laughed, patting me on the back, whispering "welcome back!".
But i soon realised that sneak cain smoking was no way to live and since those ghastly 6 months i have made sure that everyone knows that i smoke and that i refuse to quit!

All good and well until now! I think i'm entering a whole new realm of considering quitting.

If Romeo had sneezed just before he took the poison and accidently spilt it, would the path of the star crossed lovers ended happily ever after? Do you think they were nervous telling their parents? Would they look back on their 50th wedding anneversary and laughed about the "younger days and how stupid their fears were"?

Will i do the same?
Will i one day be the person who gets to say, (whilst holding a big glass of red which i may have already drunk...) and say when offered, "oh, gosh no thanks, i'm a non smoker!"...
....:)