Queen of the Oddballs

by Hillary Carlip

  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.

  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 t
o 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.

  Acknowledgments

  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.

  About the Author

  HILLARY CARLIP, author of Girl Power, has written commentaries for NPR, and is a performer and artist. She is the creator of the acclaimed personal essay Web site freshyarn.com, and she lives in Los Angeles.

  www.HillaryCarlip.com

  www.QueenoftheOddballs.com

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  Credits

  Cover photograph of girl © Plan59.com

  Copyright

  QUEEN OF THE ODDBALLS. Copyright © 2006 by Hillary Carlip. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Mobipocket Reader April 2008 ISBN 978-0-06-168994-9

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  * Jennifer’s name and the character she played have been changed.

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