Last Night I Dreamed About Oprah...Again!

Please don't judge me immediately or assume I had some kind of obsession—I didn't. I was and still am a reasonably sane person with an unusually ordinary life. But these dreams had been coming pretty often with alarming regularity. We seemed to have some sort of cosmic connection—that is, Oprah and me. It might be plausible if you think about the advancement of quantum physics. Who knows what they've discovered with those accelerating detectors searching through elusive black holes . . . maybe holograms of twin selves evolving into—okay, I digress. But let me make something very clear. I have never, nor would I ever, stalk someone, famous or otherwise, in this universe or any other. I think that is horrid, inexcusable behavior worthy of imprisonment. So, how can I write about this without seeming . . . well, you know, weird, to say the least? Nevertheless, in order to rid myself of the past and the absurdity of it all, I feel I must.

It all started way back in the Fall of 1994. I lived rather uncomfortably with my three children in Chicago and had recently started divorce proceedings. To maintain the lower middle-class lifestyle to which I'd become accustomed, I was forced to take a job far below my bachelor's degree in education. It was as a level one, step three medical secretary for the VA hospital. Another more accurate description would be one step above a worm and below an indentured servant for the US government. This led me to spend my lunch hour and break time researching and applying for more gainful employment. I worked in the evenings so that I could take care of my children during the day. My forever cheating, scheming, soon-to-be ex-husband, Calvin, surprisingly took a giant leap towards humanity and did something noble. He volunteered to watch our children while I worked. My twin daughters, Annabella and Gabriela (Bella and Gabby), eleven, were in middle school, each in separate classrooms so teachers wouldn't have to struggle to tell them apart. My youngest, David (Davy), was five and finally in kindergarten. After him, I declared my womb permanently closed down for upkeep and repairs. All of this gave me precious little time for a club, the Club, parties, community gatherings, a social life, or any other kind of life for that matter. It consisted of waking up, yelling at kids, going to work, coming home, yelling at kids, yelling at ex, going to bed, waking up . . . You get the picture.

So, there you have it. It's no wonder that as my life began to spiral, I could only make sense of everything in my dreams. Oprah came at a time when I needed her most—to protect, defend, and normalize my unbalanced existence. Who better to speak stability into my life than the woman who'd spoken to a nation of hurting women by exposing her own hurt and inadequacies? And yet she triumphed, leading me to believe so could I. Oprah, savior of single, mercurial women everywhere!

The Oprah Winfrey Show had premiered in Chicago years earlier, replacing another insipid show about nothing. Here was a woman I could relate to. She was black, intelligent, and funny. Her struggles were my struggles, especially in the weight department—I am currently forty-eight pounds overweight, down from fifty-eight, with the help of a powerful motivator. But Oprah never let a little weight stop her. And she didn't mind talking about it either. She was my shero. I didn't have to wait in any line because taking two Xanax and a PM Tylenol before bed was all I needed to drift happily off to sleep.

The beginning of the dream didn't make much sense. There was Oprah, dressed in a big, striped, white, and yellow cat costume, complete with cat ears and a long tail. What the heck could that symbolize? I didn't even own a cat. I'm a dog person! But there she was, lying on a white fluffy rug, licking her paws.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she said. Well, since it was just a dream, I didn't hesitate to respond.

“Yes! I'm very confused. By the way, are you really Oprah?”

“Who else would I be? This is your dream, not mine,” she replied and continued to lick her other paw.

“Well . . . I need some advice—legal advice. You see, I'm kinda in the process of divorcing my husband, and I've got this really scumbag lawyer from Legal Aid, who's not really—”

Then, it happened. I was back in that familiar purple chair that guests sat on during the show. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something else . . . something vaguely floral, maybe lilies? Oprah was now resplendent in a shimmering teal pantsuit. She sat opposite me, a knowing smile playing on her lips. This wasn't the Oprah of daytime television, dispensing life lessons and book club recommendations. This was Oprah, the legal eagle.

Instead of a cheering audience, there was a panel of stern-faced lawyers, their faces illuminated by the harsh glare of desk lamps. They looked like a particularly intimidating flock of vultures, their eyes glinting with predatory intent. Their legal pads were stacked high, a testament to the sheer volume of legal jargon that had become the soundtrack of my life.

“So, Sandra,” Oprah began, her voice was now a warm, comforting balm against the harsh reality of my situation. “Let's tackle this mess, one clause at a time.”

I nodded, tears welling in my eyes. The sheer volume of paperwork, the legal mumbo-jumbo, felt like an assault on my sanity.

Oprah chuckled a low, warm rumble that somehow managed to cut through the tension. “Now, honey,” she said, leaning forward, “Let's talk strategy. This Oprah wasn’t just dispensing advice; she was coaching me, empowering me with the knowledge I needed to navigate this new chapter of my life. It was a master class in legal strategy, delivered with her signature warmth and empathy.

.

It ended abruptly, leaving me, for the first time, with a surprising sense of calm. That's when I woke up to the loud buzzing of my alarm clock and realized that it had all been some crazy dream. But even crazier was that I could remember it in such detail. Since the cell phone had not yet been invented, I hunted for an ink pen or even a pencil to write down as much as I could remember. Desperate, I ended up using a broken eyebrow pencil and the back of an envelope to scribble down my vision. Looking back, I knew it was just a dream, but I was feeling kind of empowered like I now had a friend, an ally. Together, we could tackle what lay ahead.

The following Friday Gabby was scheduled for her first open house and teacher's conference (Bella's was scheduled for the following week). These conferences are where I was supposed to put on my concerned parent hat and meet with their teachers. John Burke was Gabby's homeroom teacher, and this is where everything changed from fake concern to a future fairy tale. Unsuspecting as I was, I hadn't even bothered to wear any make-up; I just walked in with sweatpants and a bare face to set my eyes upon a six-foot-tall, brown-skinned, dread-locked god. How was anyone who looked this luscious allowed to teach in public schools? Didn't he know he would be meeting and greeting a lot of mothers many of whom may be miserably unmated and available ones who'd had little time to find suitable, attractive men in their own limited social circles? As I sat across from him, trying to concentrate on my poor child's academic progress or lack thereof, I couldn't help but notice a slight hint of his woodsy cologne as I leaned forward to look at one of the papers he was holding.

“Mrs. Johnson, I think this essay shows a lot of promise. It . . . Mrs. Johnson, is everything alright?”

I adjusted myself back into a more natural position. “Yes! Sorry, I was just reading how the flow of her words . . . really spectacular!” Looking down at the paper again, he gave me a strange look.

“This is her history test. She had to write about Benjamin Banneker. And while I can't say it's spectacular, she did get a C plus, which is a marked improvement from her previous exam.”

“Oh yes! Right. I meant her penmanship is very good. But there is always room for improvement. Don't you think?” As we looked at each other, I could detect some more profound, more personal interest in his eyes other than academia. Or was it just my own wishful thinking? My longing for an adult male connection—emotionally, intellectually, and whatever else, may have made me read more into it than meets the eye. And I admit I was hard-pressed to find conversations that didn't involve my boss making sure my work was done on time or Calvin droning on and on about lessening his child support. In any case, when I was about to leave, he held Gabby's paper in one hand placed the other on my shoulder, and said,

“I'm not sure what you mean by penmanship since this paper was typed on a typewriter, I believe. But feel free to call me anytime, with anything else you might have concerns with.” Then he gave me a smile and a somewhat odd look that I was sure said, I'm available any time, day or night; it's your call.

So, what was I to do? I'm certainly by no means the aggressive type. I would need a little more than a smile and a smirk to get me motivated. I mean, come on. That hand on the shoulder with an added rub and a squeeze, maybe? Then he gave me his card with his phone number. Hmmm. I wondered if he'd given all the mothers of his students his card. Could this be the sign I needed to level up our first encounter? Maybe Oprah could make a return visit and offer me more of her advice.

That night, after dinner, I decided to pick the brain of my unsuspecting middle child, Gabby. I needed more information if I was going to be successful in my quest to find romance, and I was sure she had an ample supply. The soon-to-be ex, with disrespect, Calvin had mercifully decided to wash the dishes, which was only right since he'd stay late almost every night, just waiting for dinner time. This arrangement of him watching the kids had worked pretty well up until now. But what would happen if I started dating? I think in the back of his mind, he still harbored some fantasy that we would get back together, and I'd forget his past indiscretions with private clients from the health club. Not a chance in hell. Now he's realized all too late that it's cheaper to keep her. But armed with Oprah's dream advice, he'd soon be just my baby's daddy and a sad chapter in the past.

There lay Gabby and Bella, sprawled in front of the TV, eating pumpkin seeds in an almost simultaneously weird way while watching the Smurfs. Davy lay curled up next to them on his bear pillow, eating rainbow-colored marshmallows from a plastic bag. I grabbed the bag and handed him three.

“Gabby!” I yelled. No answer. “Gabby?” She continued munching, eyes glued to Papa Smurf. Sensing her hearing loss, I decided to go in a new direction. I stood in front of the TV.

“Mom!” they both yelled in unison.

“Gabby, I need to talk to you right now before I go to work. Let's go!”

“Mom! What did I do now?”

“Nothing. I have a treat for you. Hurry up and come to Mommy's room.” Reluctantly, she followed me to my bedroom and plopped down on my bed.

“So? What's this treat stuff all about? And I hope it's not those sticky marshmallows Davy's been eating from that bag you're holding.”

“Don't worry 'bout that right now. Tell me about your teacher, Mr. Burke. Does he drive to work? What kind of car does he drive?” She eyed me suspiciously.

“I don't know. And you're asking me because . . .?”

“Do you know anything or not? Because the sooner you tell me, the sooner you can go back to watching that Papa Smurf.” She cocked her head to one side. “Okay, listen. I thought I saw him driving this blue Toyota today. At least, I think that was him. He was letting somebody out in front of the gym building when I dropped you guys off and—“

“And?” she said, her eyes narrowed as she peered at me through her pink-rimmed bifocals.

“Okay, just get out and get ready for bed.” She arose and sauntered back to the living room. Well, that was a total waste. It seemed my kids were getting smarter than I gave them credit for, or was I just a little too thirsty?

The next day, I took the subway to work to save on gas. On the way, I began to take stock of my life as I often did in my precious alone time. The emotional rollercoaster of navigating a divorce, single motherhood, and my job was enough to test even the most seasoned of souls. But now, alongside the exhaustion and the occasional pang of sadness, there was a newfound confidence that refused to be extinguished. It was a confidence born from a surprisingly practical dream featuring Oprah and a shocking amount of legal insight. It was the perfect blend of the absurd and the profoundly helpful. It was, in short, perfectly Oprah.

Since my dear beloved Gabby was of no help, I needed Oprah more than ever. Oh well. It was time to consult with my life partner and mentor, Miss Winfrey. She had been silent for the past week. Not one dream or even a nightmare. I decided that drastic times called for drastic measures, so I got the Xanax out, along with two pm Tylenol, and went to bed early. And sure enough, there she was again in all her glory. She was sitting on a camel, wearing some kind of white silk Arabic tunic. She was draped in sheer, white, see-through scarves from head to toe. She looked magnificent! I was standing in the hot sand, trying not to focus on the desert sun in my eyes as she approached me.

“Now, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” she asked.

“I've been waiting forever to talk to you. Where have you been?”

“Not your concern. Haven't you read the papers? I'm up for an award, I'm meeting with the president, I'm . . . well you know, being Oprah. Right now, I'm late for my appointment with the Shah of Iran, so tell me what's going on,” she said, as she tried to keep her balance on the double-humped camel.

“Well, do you think I could climb up there with you? I'm not wearing any sandals, and my feet are getting awfully hot.”

And just like that, we were immediately transported to a lovely spa filled with lotions and perfumes. There was a ginormous pool with floating water lilies and, for some reason, candy bars. We were now dressed in white robes with white terry-clothed turbans wrapped around our heads. As we lay face-down on white beds, women were massaging our bare backs with heavenly-scented oil.

“Is this better?” Oprah asked.

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed.

“Have a spa day!” Oprah exclaimed. That's when I woke up.

“A spa day? What the heck!” Okay if Oprah says have a spa day, then spa day it is. But I was totally broke. So I did the next best thing. Since the kids had spent the night over at Calvin's house, I put on some relaxing music, lit a scented candle, and ran myself a bubble bath. As I soaked in the tub with my eyes closed, I felt my worries melt away. I was determined to stay positive and not let my insecurities get the better of me. As I got out of the tub and wrapped myself in a soft robe, I heard the doorbell ring. It was Calvin, as usual, bringing the kids home early. But I didn't mind. I wasn't going to let anything ruin my feelings of joy and contentment.

I also treated my girls to a home spa day. I gave them a facial, painted their nails, and tried out new hairstyles on them. I even painted Davy's toes. They were over the moon. And it made me feel like a new woman. Watching them so happy made me even happier, and I knew that whatever happened, or didn't happen, with Michael Burke, I would be just fine. My babies and I were a team. Looking at their sweet faces made me determined to always try to be in the moment with them, to make time for them, and not just park them in front of a television screen. They depended on me to give them the best version of myself no matter who or what was happening in my life. And even If I never had another dream about Oprah, I knew I would still be okay. It wasn't just her advice that had made my life better; it was the actions that I took to better my life and see myself as worthwhile. It was very simple and right in front of my face, and I just needed to be reminded of it by my good friend Ms. O. She reminded me of the little things—like Xanax. No! Like lighting a candle! Just have a spa day!