Dear Oprah,

Dear Oprah,



           First off, let me say that this is a little awkward for me. I was watching the show where you put out a call for participants in your latest make-over contest when I had a revelation. Your words seemed to glow and beseech. Oprah understands, your eyes said, that a make-over can be metaphysical as well as physical. How can I say this? Oprah, I want to Botox my soul. Silicone my heart. Nip and tuck my very being.

           The theme of that show was ‘Don’t Be Afraid to Chase Your Dreams!’ So, the very next day, I quit my job as a elementary school teacher. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but it is because of you that I decided to become a full-time poet. It’s only been a month since I quit, but so far things aren’t going so great. All I really want is one good poem. It doesn’t have to be anything epic, just something small and perfect. Like a diamond to carry around in my pocket to keep me company later in old age.

           So how can you help? Well, you can’t really help me with poetry. Or maybe you can. I bet you're just like me and have hundreds of poems at home that you're hiding from the world. One time I woke up in the morning after having too much to drink (do you drink wine?) and found four poems in my fridge under the plastic tub I keep the hot dogs in. Is that weird? Probably. Unfortunately the poems weren't any good. Neither were the hot dogs. Which was a real bummer because I get super hungry when I'm hungover. I bet your fridge is filled with really yummy expensive treats. God, it must just be awesome to be you. You probably wake up and look in the mirror and everyday is just one long a-ha moment. For me it's more of a bunch of uh-huh moments. So, anyway, here's what I'm thinking. Maybe if I win this makeover, I could also win my boyfriend back. Or, at the very least, maybe snag another one from out there in TV land. I suppose I should tell you my name. It’s Rose. Rose Wilks. Nice to meet you, Oprah.

           I’ll try to be brief since I know you’re a busy woman. With my newfound freedom, I began writing poetry every morning. My boyfriend, Armis, was working a lot at the time so I didn’t have anybody to read them to. That’s why I started calling up the chat lines, or as Armis calls them, phone sex lines. Okay, maybe that’s what they are for some people, but all I really did on them was talk to various people, read them a few poems, and ask for their reactions. It was a horrible idea all around since most of the men that call those things aren’t exactly Oprah Book of the Month members if you know what I mean. Still, it was something to occupy the time, a place to give birth to my new calling.

           I’ll skip ahead here. Armis found the chat line number on my cell and called it while I was in the bathroom. He normally doesn’t do things like that, but he freaked out when he found out what it was. When I told him why I called he didn’t believe me at first. Well, not until I showed him the bundle of poems I’d been writing.

           “My God,” he said, not looking very hot at all because he was so disgusted with me, “so this sex line is like some kind of glory hole for introverts?” When he said this, I pictured myself standing in front of a long black wall, thrusting my stiff poems through some anonymous hole. And, Oprah, I apologize for the rough language there, but that’s how it went down. Maybe we could get some plastic surgery done on my tongue as a bonus if I win? So I can speak as cleanly and eloquently as you. That would be nice. Maybe my poems would come out better that way, too.

           Anyway, Armis left me after that, one of my poems hanging limp in his hand as he stalked out. I haven’t seen him since.

           That’s pretty much it, Oprah. I’ve lost my job, my man, and my creative juices all in the span of a month. I believe I’ve pled my case honestly, didn’t use any tricks to pluck at your generous heart strings, no starving babies, homeless parents, or horrible addictions (other than calling chat lines and attempting to spread my poetic seed).

           Oh, and I know that sometimes you do the makeover thing and then surprise, we’ve also bought you a new home (I live in a studio apartment, by the way) and we’ve gotten you a new job as assistant editor for O Magazine! None of that Oprah, I mean it. A simple makeover is all I’m looking for. I mean, a car would be nice if you have some extras sitting around the lot there. I currently drive a Kia and I swear it has a lawnmower engine under the hood. Like, if I try to go up any sort of incline it starts wheezing and gasping for air. I almost feel embarrassed for the poor car, you know?

           Okay, I’ll leave it at that. And just so you know I’m not full of beans, I’m including an original poem of mine for you:

Make-Over Contest Sample Poem

It’s your mouth I still dream about,

the curl and arch of it

when you want me to come

to bed. I’m haunted by the twisting

hook of your lip, that trembling

smile as it raises up slowly

like a skirt-

purposeful and obscene.

Your biggest fan,

Rose Wilks of Portland, Oregon

P.S. Oh, my gosh. I almost sent this off without telling you that the above poem isn’t about you. It’s about my ex-boyfriend, Armis. I swear.