Queen of the Oddballs (23 page)

On the second morning in Vegas, we hit the Venetian early and found ourselves gambling at a row of slot machines with a gang of men and women who all towered over six feet. I caught a glimpse of the badge one of them was wearing. Of course. They were attending the Tip Toppers Tall Club convention.

By 11:30 we had worked up an appetite. We sat down for a meal at one of the hotel’s restaurants, Delmonico’s. At the table next to us sat a guy wearing a T-shirt that said, “I used to be schizophrenic, but now we’re just fine.” He was talking to his girlfriend in a too-loudy, Vegas-y voice, “I read that just last month Robin Leach was in that glass-walled ‘private’ room over there, and had six women take off all their clothes and cover themselves in whipped cream.”

“Wait, they did that for the fat, old host from
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
?” his girlfriend gasped.

“Totally.”

“Ewww. Gross.”

The thought of that ancient Leach-lech egging on six whipped cream-swathed babes in public was enough to make me push away my Louisiana Lump Crab Cakes.

Then I saw it. Something familiar. A crowd gathering around one of the television sets at the bar. And I felt it, too. The buzz, the energy. The only thing that made hardened gamblers in Vegas stop for even a moment—
breaking news
.

I threw down my napkin and ran up to the TV. But wait, there was no death montage. Instead, on the screen, was just an image of the ocean. For a long time. Miles and miles of the sea and nothing else. “What is it? What’s going on?” I asked the woman beside me. But before she could answer, I saw the crawl creeping along the bottom of the screen.

John F. Kennedy Jr.’s plane missing at sea.

I rushed back to our table. “Mom, I’m freaked,” I said. “You’re not gonna believe this.” I told her the news.

“Oh my God,” she blurted. “Didn’t you meet JFK Jr. at Daryl Hannah’s birthday party?”

“Yeah, we all ice skated together.”

“Oh my God,” she repeated, tears beginning to fill her eyes.

“Maybe they’ll find him,” I said, always optimistic.

“I hope to God they do,” she whispered.

Apparently the gossiping gourmets at the table next to us hadn’t heard the news or noticed the crowd at the bar. The guy continued his story. “The girls started licking the whipped cream off each other, then Robin Leach poured chocolate on one of their asses! He probably licked it clean!”

Hellooo! John F. Kennedy Jr.’s plane is missing at sea, motherfuckers!

“Mom, can we get out of here?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Let’s go back to the room.”

As we each sat on our separate double beds and watched the television coverage, I couldn’t help but document the moment.

“That family has had nothing but tragedies,” Mom said, her voice thick with tears.

“Yeah.”

“It makes you really count your blessings, doesn’t it?”

Boy did it ever. I was so grateful for them all. Especially for my mom. For all she’d ever done for me, for all she’d ever been for me. She was alive and well and doing the best she could.

I decided right then and there that, damn it, I was going to forever put aside my own personal Hell so I could help my mother feel Heaven on Earth.

“So Mom,” I asked, “who do you think will kick the bucket when we come back next year?”

I climbed over to the other bed and sat close to her. “Let’s place bets,” I said. “Double or nothing. Liza Minnelli.”

My mom perked up. “I’ll take some of that action. My money’s on Ronald Reagan.” She laughed. The sparkle was back. Jackpot.

• The house in L.A. that I sold because I no longer felt inspired there is where the new owner, Alexander Payne, creates one of this year’s most lauded films,
  Sideways
  . (And even names a character after my housemate, Ken Cortland!)
  
 

• When President Bush calls for a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, despite our “fear of commitment,” Maxine and I make an appointment in San Francisco to get married as an act of civil disobedience. The California Supreme Court orders a halt to gay marriages two days before our wedding date.
  
 

• The CIA admits that there was no imminent threat from weapons of mass destruction before the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Thousands of troops and civilians have been killed in the war that Bush declared was over in 2003.
  
 

• Friends
  ends after a ten-year run,
  Frasier
  after eleven years, and
  Sex and the City
  after six. Meanwhile, to help my mother retire, I sell our family business for her, closing the doors after a sixty-year run.
  
 

• Two blows at the Jews—Mel Gibson’s
  The Passion of the Christ
  and sacred kabbalah bracelets for sale at Target.
  
 

• I volunteer for presidential candidate Senator John Kerry, calling thousands of Democrats in Ohio and urging them to vote. We’ll never know if their votes were really even counted or not.
  
 

• While I start planning a comeback of Angel and the Reruns, my “all-girl, all ex-con band,” Martha Stewart goes to jail to serve a five-month sentence.
  
 

• Trendy Uggs seem more of a wardrobe malfunction than does Janet Jackson’s exposure of her right breast during the Super Bowl halftime show.
  
 

I
didn’t always want to bitch-slap Oprah. In fact, I used to be impressed by her generosity, determination, entrepreneurial skills, and compassion over Wynonna’s weight. But ever since I appeared on her show, it’s been a different story.

It’s nine years after that appearance, and Maxine and I are on a long-overdue vacation when she turns on the TV and says three words I never imagined she’d utter. “Let’s watch
Oprah
.”

I am stunned. “Are you on crack?” She knows that whenever I see or even hear mention of Oprah, my self-esteem plunges in Pavlovian response.

Maxine shrugs. “It’s just that she’s talking about her favorite restaurants today, and the local paper said one of them is here in Montecito.”

We are renting a little house on the beach in a town we loved long before Oprah put it on the map with the purchase of her 55-million-dollar home, where she has sleepovers with her best friend, Gayle. And it’s so incongruous seeing my hardworking girlfriend wanting—and actually having the time—to watch TV during the day, there is no way I can deny her.

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll just read.”

Let’s face it. The biggest thing that can happen to an author is to appear on
Oprah
. In 1995, when my book
Girl Power: Young Women Speak
Out
was released, I pulled out all the big guns in my effort to manifest this goal. I set my intention, chanted, affirmed, visualized, prayed, and, well, spent way more money on a publicist than I could afford or had earned from the book’s advance. But I was determined.

While the publicist worked her expensive magic, Maxine and I took another long-overdue vacation. We went to New Orleans, a place neither of us had been. Despite the city’s allure, I called home almost hourly to check my messages, as this was back in the days before cell phones. Our itinerary went something like: folk art stores, pay phone; jazz on Bourbon Street, pay phone; jambalaya, crawfish pie, chili gumbo, pay phone.

Then, on our third day, at some random phone booth in the French Quarter, I checked my messages, and there it was—like some New Orleans lucky gris-gris bag full of magical charms and amulets—a message from the publicist.

“We did it. You’re going to be on
Oprah
.”

Nothing could top the exhilaration I felt—not even the city’s famous chicory coffee and beignets, which one day earlier had ranked high on my list. It was only when I beeped in and listened to the message for the third time that I actually heard the details: “They’re dedicating the whole episode to you and your book.”

I broke out into a sweat and had to sit down, neither of which was included in my previous visualizations.

I was so thrilled that I was going to appear on
Oprah
that I didn’t mind a bit when, three weeks later, the episode’s producer called and asked for some pre-production help. Since my book included writings from teenage girls from all walks of life, the producer had decided she wanted six girls from the book to appear on
Oprah
with me; she also wanted to pepper throughout the show pre-taped segments of twenty additional girls reading their excerpts from the book. So one year after writing
Girl Power
, I had to track down the twenty-six girls she’d selected, no small feat since most had moved or gone off to college. This could have been quite enjoyable sleuthing work for me—
had there been a little thing called Google at the time
. As it was, I had to make an average of five calls per girl to finally locate them all (that’s 130 calls total, but who’s counting?).

I talked to all the girls, and from my conversations narrowed the list to six for the producer’s approval. When some didn’t work out, I had to pick others, then still others, until, at last, the final six were set.

Oh, but my job wasn’t finished. I then had to obtain permission and signed releases from the girls’ parents and legal guardians, get copies of the books to all of the girls so they’d know what writing of theirs they would be reading, and sift through thousands of submissions I had received so I could find, gather, and then FedEx each of the twenty-six pieces in the girls’ original handwriting. All in two weeks. But I was more than happy to do everything the producer asked. After all, I was going to appear on
Oprah
.

June 5, 1995

Maxine and my ex (and still good friend) Danielle fly with me to Chicago on Oprah’s Official Carrier—American Airlines, Something Special in the Air. I have so often heard the announcer at the end of each show tell us that “Guests of the
Oprah Winfrey Show
stay at the All-Suites Omni Hotel, located in the heart of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile,” and I still can’t quite believe that one of those “guests” is now me.

After we check into our room, which, according to the plaque on the door is the Authors Suite (and let me tell you, I’m feelin’ like an author—I’m going to appear on
Oprah
!), we find three of the six girls who have arrived, and we all go out to dinner. The teens are bubbling with confidence, totally psyched for tomorrow’s taping. I play along like I am, too, but actually, I’m scared shitless. I haven’t performed in years, and I’ve been much happier behind the scenes. And even when I was performing, I always managed to hide behind either a character (like Angel) or something distracting (like juggling and fire-eating). This is the first time since Art Linkletter’s
House Party
that I am going to have to appear on television as just
me
.

The next morning my fear intensifies when I wake with a start from a nightmare in which I was on Oprah’s stage in front of a huge studio audience, completely naked, except for two large cinnamon buns I held in front of my breasts.

I take a long hot shower and pull myself together. The limo picks us up and we’re whisked to Harpo Studios, where a production assistant leads me to the green room. I take deep breaths to calm down, and I almost succeed—until I see the breakfast spread, which includes large cinnamon buns. I don’t let my breasts anywhere near them.

I am greeted by the producer, whom I’ve chatted with day and night for the past two weeks, and we hug like we’re old friends. As she ushers me into the makeup room, she informs me that this is the last day of taping before Oprah’s hiatus.
Great.
I’m sure Oprah’s mind is already in Hawaii, sitting at a luau eating four-ounce protein portions of roast pig and baked-not-fried taro chips. I try to talk myself down, but it’s not helping that the makeup woman is shaping my eyebrows into severe Cruella De Vil arches.

O’s a professional, I silently tell myself. Even though it’s her last show of the season, she’ll be focused. No doubt she read the book—or at least skimmed it. She’ll relate to the adolescent tales of hardship; she’ll weep, clutch the book to her bosom, and proclaim: “I LOVE
GIRL POWER
. EVERYONE SHOULD READ THIS BOOK,” catapulting it to the bestseller list. I have faith in Oprah.

The producer takes me and my scary eyebrows into the hallway to meet up with the girls. Then she escorts all seven of us onto the stage. The studio audience has already been seated. My heart races when I see the familiar
Oprah
set, where just this morning I sat naked, and it slows only a bit when I find Maxine and Danielle in the audience, radiating strength and comfort. The producer seats each of the teen girls on the stage until, like some tragic musical chairs game, I am left standing. I laugh off the mistake until the producer takes me by the arm.

“Come with me,” she says.

She then leads me to my seat…IN THE AUDIENCE.

I am thrown into a rinse cycle of emotions.
I’m baffled
—had they told me I wouldn’t be on the stage but I missed that tiny detail in the pre-prod prep frenzy, or just blocked it out altogether?
I’m furious
—I’m not up there, representing MY book.
I’m relieved
—I won’t be so nervous if all eyes aren’t on me.
I’m ashamed
—this should be all about the girls anyway, not me. But mostly I feel ripped-off. How will viewers think the girls got here? That Oprah just happened upon them? Her producers searched high and low for them? Damn it, I spent almost two years crisscrossing the country, leading writing workshops for teen mothers and girls in gangs, participating at powwows and rodeos, attending surfing competitions on far-flung beaches and open mic nights at inner-city hip-hop joints, judging a teen beauty contest, and volunteering at a residential treatment center for at-risk girls. I nurtured, encouraged, and collected these girls’ writings, and then I included their excerpts with my own writing so that I could help give them, and other teen girls, a forum, a voice, an opportunity to speak out. These are
my
girls, damn it, they’re not Oprah’s. My hands are shaking.

As the show begins, I look around the audience and find my editor, who has flown in from New York. She gives me a “Don’t worry, it’s okay” nod. I stare straight ahead so I don’t risk catching a glimpse of Maxine and Danielle—I know they’re just as upset for me as I am, and I’m already on the brink of tears.

Oprah waltzes onstage and the audience goes wild. She shares about her early years of abuse, and feeling like she didn’t belong. Right on. Then she introduces the girls and casually mentions that they have “participated in a new book.” An image of the cover flashes on the monitors. Okay, this might be okay. At least the book will get some publicity.

But soon it begins to feel like pre-hiatus O hasn’t read my book, hasn’t skimmed it or even read the
description
on the back cover. She says everything she’s supposed to say, reading off the cue cards, and throws in little anecdotes about her own adolescence that seem to be ad-libbed, but when pictures of her, correlating to each tale, flash on the video screen behind her, I see they’re
so
not.

When one of the girls reads her excerpt FROM MY BOOK, Oprah beams and nods—she can relate. When another girl reads her piece FROM MY BOOK, and her eyes well up with tears, Oprah starts to weep. But she makes little connection, and little mention, that these pieces are FROM MY BOOK. There is no clutching it to her bosom, no “EVERYONE SHOULD READ THIS BOOK.” There’s not even a copy of the book anywhere in sight. And I’m still sitting in the audience watching the six girls, as well as the twenty others who, at every commercial break and every time the show returns after the commercial, appear in the video montages, their voice-overs reading excerpts FROM MY BOOK.

At one point Oprah leads into a break by saying, “How do TV commercials and magazine ads featuring ultra-thin super models make teen girls feel? We’re gonna ask our girls in just a moment.”

Our
girls??? YO, O,
my
girls!

Despite feeling completely dissed, I must confess the episode does move me. The girls onstage are confident, smart, and eloquent. I beam like a proud mother to them all. When they read, I feel the same chills I did when I first discovered those voices. I weep and cheer for the girls. Still, as Oprah continues to talk about everything EXCEPT the book, I sneak glances at my watch. Fifteen minutes have passed and I’ve not said a word; she hasn’t even introduced me. A half hour goes by. Then forty-five minutes. I’ve clawed trenches in my palms.

And then, finally, fifty minutes in, Oprah introduces me. I hear my heart pounding in my ears—
hold it together
, I chant silently. Oprah first asks me to share my favorite quote from a girl, one that I opened
Girl Power
with. I gladly do: “Sometimes paper is the only thing that will listen to you.” A bit prophetic as when I try to say a bit more, Oprah doesn’t listen to me—she interrupts me. She says how
she
always encourages teen girls to write and keep journals. She asks me a few more questions, inserts her own thoughts on the topic, and suddenly my two minutes are up. That’s it. I am stunned.

Soon the show is over, and as the audience files out, the producer motions me up to the stage. Maybe she wants to apologize? Finally acknowledge that
Girl Power
is my book, and the great show she got out of the girls was because they were from my book?

I hurry toward her. But no apology. Apparently it’s customary that still photographs be taken of each of the show’s guests with Oprah. At least she remembers I am a guest. First the photographer snaps a picture of Oprah with the girls and me, then one of each of us alone with O. I raise my pencil-arched eyebrows and smile, doing everything I can to disguise my disappointment. Then we’re escorted out, and we each receive a memento—a white ceramic coffee mug signed with “
Thanks
, Oprah” in teal glaze.

I spend years finding these girls and writing my book, hire an expensive publicist to get me on
Oprah
, work my ass off for the episode’s producer, sit in the studio audience being virtually ignored by O, and all I got was this lousy “
Thanks
, Oprah” mug?!

That night, back in the All-Suites Omni Hotel located in the heart of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, my supportive girlfriend and friend try to convince me that no matter what, the exposure will be great for the book. If it doesn’t catapult it to the bestseller list, it will at least have a huge impact on sales. After all, they flashed the cover, and they did show the pages of the book with the pieces the girls read in the montages on the video screen. Those typed words had to come from
somewhere
; surely viewers will make the connection and run out and buy the book. After the episode airs, I will crack open the Sunday
Times
and see
Girl Power
on the bestseller list right alongside
Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys
. Yeah. Sure.