Queen of the Oddballs (24 page)

Three months later the show finally airs, and although they’ve put together an inspiring episode—which does make me happy—watching it forces me to replay that day. Of course I am on for only two minutes, talking from the audience, and there is little mention of the book. The show doesn’t affect sales in the least. How could an author’s book featured on
Oprah
for an entire episode not see a sales spike? Just ask me (and Carnie Wilson).

In Montecito, while Maxine watches
Oprah,
as much as I try to read, I’m drawn in. Damn that Oprah! How dare she grab my attention? For the past nine years, ever since I SORT OF appeared on her show, I’ve felt dejected and rejected whenever I’ve seen or heard anything about Oprah. And I’ve been pissed. Not enough to throw my “
Thanks
, Oprah” gift mug to the floor and shatter it, but definitely enough to relegate it to a closet where no beverage would ever remind me of the day I was slighted by Oprah.

Even though I logically know Oprah had nothing to do with what happened on my episode, and that her producers put it together, ever since then, I’ve always found fault with Oprah. Sure she gave away cars, but she didn’t pony up a penny for them—it was all an ad ploy for General Motors—and on top of that, all the “people in need” were forced to pay taxes on the cars. And on that very same infamous car giveaway episode, I’m told she fulfilled a deprived girl’s dream by giving her a hug and a college scholarship. But was the beauty makeover necessary?

Every day near my house I pass a billboard announcing each new
Oprah
episode, and I laugh at the inane topic titles: “Solve my Decorating Dilemma,” “Depressed, Mentally Ill, and Famous,” “Oprah Cleans Out Her Closet.” (Guess who was in the closet with her? Her best friend, Gayle!)

Basically, for the last nine years I’ve wanted to bitch-slap Oprah.

But there in our rented beach house, as I try to ignore the show, I can’t help but feel moved by the story of how Oprah saved a woman’s failing Sandwich Shoppe by giving her the money to carry on.

“See?” Maxine remarks. “You can’t deny all the good she does. She helps tons of people throughout the world with her Angel Network, and now, after eating a delicious curried chicken sandwich with shredded carrots on spicy white pepper-jack, she gave this woman the dough to carry on. No pun intended.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “She’s a saint. But why should I give her my respect when she showed me so little?”

As hard as I try to let my disappointment go, watching Oprah—even nine years later—makes me feel like shit all over again. Like I blew it. Like I’m somehow not enough.

Then a strange thing happens. Sitting there listening to the waves crashing against the front deck, I begin to see that the feeling of not being enough has always been at the core of my life. That’s why when I was eight I pretended to be other people, why I befriended stars when I was fourteen and started juggling and eating fire at fifteen. That’s why in my twenties I hid behind invented characters, and why in my thirties I dated gorgeous actresses and models. I’ve been working on this issue all my life, and here I am in my forties, still struggling with sagging self-esteem.

And then all of a sudden it’s like Oprah hears my thoughts rattling and wants to make it all up to me. Make amends for her behavior of almost a decade ago. Give me something the way she gives to so many others. I can’t believe what I see.

She’s sitting onstage with her guest, Dr. Maya Angelou, who is there to talk about her new cookbook. Oprah declares, “I’m so proud of this book because in the dedication Maya says….” She opens it and reads: “I dedicate this book to every wannabe cook who will dare criticism by getting into the kitchen and stirring up some groceries. And—
LISTEN!
…”

Oprah says the word “listen” like she’s a child about to tell her parents about her first day at school. “To O, who said she wanted a big, pretty cookbook. Well, Honey, here you are.”

“
I LOVE IT!!
” Oprah squeals.

Suddenly she seems so tiny. So vulnerable. There’s the inimitable Oprah Winfrey overjoyed by this validation, by Maya Angelou’s recognition of her. After all she has accomplished, after all the adulation she’s received, even Oprah still doesn’t feel like she’s enough.

In that moment I stop wanting to bitch-slap Oprah. Instead, I want to take the precious, unacknowledged girl in my arms. I want to comfort her, applaud her, even provide her with a makeover.

There in our rented beach house, sitting with the love of my life—my partner of twelve years—I finally get it. I may
never
feel like I’m enough. But suddenly, that’s okay. It’s what has propelled me into countless escapades, forced me to continually create and express, fueled me with the mission to inspire and make a difference, and caused me to welcome limitless possibilities by doing everything unaccording to plan. And if not feeling like I’m enough can do for me anything close to what it’s done for Oprah, hell, I have no complaints.

So the next time I appear on
Oprah
, sitting next to her ON THE STAGE, I’ll bring along my mug and raise it in a toast to her. After all, “
Thanks
, Oprah” has taken on new meaning.

BIG, PHAT SHOUT-OUTS TO:

God, Goddess, Mastermind, Higher Power—all the forces at my spiritual buffet—for countless and infinite blessings.

Mim and Bob (wherever you are, Dad!), for all your support, encouragement and love. You’re the best parents a girl could ever have. And Howard, Bro, YOU ROCK!

Sister-wives Michelle Boyaner (my creative partner in crime) and Barbara Green, for too many things to enumerate.

Amy Friedman, for your input, feedback, skilled eye, brilliant notes, and love of the personal essay. You inspire so many of us.

Mim Eichler, for your incredible insights and huge contributions.

Katie Ford, Nancy Fichman, and “Chance,” for always working your magic.

Laurie Liss, agent and friend extraordinaire, for your spectacular ideas (the front pieces in particular!) and your faith in me, and my work.

Alison Callahan—my awesome, tireless editor, for constant support and enthusiasm, and the rest of the kick-ass team at Harper Paperbacks—Carrie Kania, Hope Innelli, David Roth-Ey, Jennifer Hart, Jeanette Perez, Beth Silfin, Shannon Valcich, Casey Kait, May Vlachos, Virginia Stanley, Brian McSharry, Kathy Smith, Jeanette Zwart, Carla Clifford, David Youngstrom, Mark Hillesheim, Leslie Cohen, Keonaona Peterson, and Kolt Beringer.

Mary Schuck, Elliott Beard, Robin Bilardello, and anyone else in the art department at HarperCollins who worked on this—for your patience, and for being so open to my input.

Jenny Hart, amazing artist and stitcher, for helping make my vision real.

So many of my peeps who have been along for the ride, generously offering input, ideas, support, and friendship—Jill Soloway, Danielle Eskinazi, Wendy Melvoin, Lisa Cholodenko, Jane Anderson, Tess Ayers, Dewey Reid, Cindy Reid, Kristin Hahn, Charlie Stringer, Sally Lapiduss, Lynnie Greene, Sharon Morrill, Miriam Cutler, Michele Kort, Deborah and Diane Gibson, Caryn Karmatz-Rudy, Laurie Notaro, Elaine Pope, Marcus Charalambous and the rest of the dudes at Backbone, Jane Ford, Crescent Orpelli, Esther and Saul Lapiduss, and Gregory Poe.

My Bday Think Tank and pals, for brill PR ideas and general lovin’—Allee Willis, Prudence Fenton, Paul Reubens, Tania Katan, Angela Ellsworth, Susie Mosher, Hope Royaltey, Adele House, Jennifer Hoppe, Jackie Marchand, Kathleen Beaton, Rogers Hartmann, Mimi Friedman, Carolyn Strauss, Candy Trabuco, Lisa Coleman, Renata Kanclerz, Ken Cortland, Alan Marx, Sam Christensen, Marshall Johnson, Wendy Miller, Carmen Carrasco, Erika Schroeder, Bob Garrett, Stan Zimmerman, Julia Salazar, James Nocito, Al Harp, Carole Murray, and Leni Schwendinger.

My fellow writers in Amy’s East Side Posse, and the original West Side group, for your input and support—Lauren Tom, Alan Olifson, Michelle Boyaner, Shannon Morris, Karman Kregloe, Denise Gill, Holly Tarson, Yvonne Chotzen, Cheryl Montelle, Maggie Walker, Andrew Harmon, Isabel Story, Robyn Travis, Anita Phillips, and especially Gali Kronenberg for sharp insight and skilled editing early on.

All past, present, and future contributors to FRESH YARN. It has been a pleasure and honor working with you all.

My L.A. peeps, who have created spoken word events that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed performing, and honing my pieces, at. Maggie Rowe and Jill Soloway (Sit ’n’ Spin); Meredith Scott Lynn and Cynthia Moore (Word-A-Rama); Beth Lapides and Greg Miller (Un-Cabaret’s Say the Word), Annabelle Gurwitch (Fired!) and so many others in L.A. and throughout the country—thanks for creating a place for so many to be inspired.

Nanielle Devereaux, my sistah and dear friend. I miss you so much even though you’re always with me. And thanks to the tribe, who carries her spirit on in the world.

My boys, Homey and Slim. All love. All the time.

And what can I say to Maxine Lapiduss? My oddball soul mate, the everything girl. Thanks for reading endless drafts, giving genius notes, being patient when I’d be up at 4:00 a.m. working, your constant love and inspiration, and for being the one to encourage me to tell my stories in the first place.