Despite having warned my children, 13-10-3 at the time, that a gruesome death was waiting for anyone who interrupted my bath; as in there had better be blood squirting from an open wound or don’t even think about it, don’t move your fannies from the couch and cartoons if you know what is good for you warning, they of course, did.
“Mom?” came the quivering query through the door.
“Is someone hurt or bleeding, Zack ?” My son, then 10.
He obviously drew the short straw and therefore had to face whatever terror lay beyond the knock on the locked bathroom door.
“BUT WHAT…!” I snort, steam flaring from each nostril, thinking that now I know there is no blood and maiming, soon, there will be.
“Someone is on the phone for you …”
“TAKE A MESSAGE!” roared the fire-breathing scaley she-dragon creature from the tub.
“But Mom…they say they’re from the Oprah show..”
There you have it, the single magic word that saved my child from certain death, Oprah.
I jumped from the tub, wrapped in a towel, opened the door, conditioner stinging my eye and grabbed the phone.
It’s true. It was a minion of the Oprah.
They had my letter, about the book, Stones from the River, by Ursela Hegi.
Yes, it was an Oprah’s Book Club Selection a while ago…ok ok it was 1997 ok feel better?
Let me just say a mother’s memory lives longer then a desert tortoise and if you could cut it open, the memory, not the tortoise, it would look something like the growth rings on a tree…mother memories are forever.
The minion had questions;
Why did you identify with the novel? ..yikes..I felt like I was standing naked in Postgraduate literature class without my assignment. Wait… I am standing naked…conditioner streaming into my eyes….
Are you a “little person?” I almost said yes anything to get me an audience with THE Oprah.
Could I send a recent photo? I pondered slightly which decade photo to send as my most recent photo selection.
All stop, here is where I get off .
A recent photo. Sorry can’t help you there. Like millions of other mothers of my generation I am the photo taker, the snapper, never the subject. The few that have survived either have me in a breastfeeding not for public viewing moment, dish towel over the shoulder holiday meal cooking blur, or mid-pissed off snarl as a brave child has attempted to capture the she-dragon on film.
I did send a picture, wasn’t ever selected, and the children lived and grew and the she-dragon that snarled was eventually defanged, fire extinguished, enrolled in work release program and was never heard from again. Until recently that is…
Facebook unleashed the She-Dragon.
Specifically, the faces on Facebook.
Reconnecting with old friends perusing their pages and photos and walls has turned me into an Agatha Christy heroine.
I am a bad house guest snooping through “friends” virtual medicine cabinets, looking for a fix.
They look like that? I snarl, totally obsessed with the beautiful head shot pics complete with lighting and lustrous fan blown hair.
She-Dragon searches for a single frame of her own to post, but alas my pics just don’t compare.
So I snap a clean washed face in the photobooth app, and paste it for all to see, but it is not who I am.
I am found, my virtual friends, in the words and the writing, and the roar of the She-Dragon.
You’ll have to read to see this scaley scribbling creature ….
Can you see me now?