The Oprah Letters - Dear Oprah, How Much Good Can A Do-Gooder Do?

Dear Oprah,

How are you? I am fine. Well, all except for that little mishap at the grocery store yesterday. I suppose I shouldn't have had the second cup of coffee before I left to buy milk but who knew something as innocent as a little sneeze could cause that to happen! You would have known how to handle it - or should I say, hold it - Oprah.

And that brings me to why I'm writing you today. I need your advice. Oprah, my question is about charity. It's no secret that you give and give and give. Gosh, it's a wonder how there's anything left over for you. But unlike you Oprah our family is of more modest means. Why when they raised the price of my Botox treatments I just didn't know what I was going to do!

Anyhow, I'm having a little trouble knowing just where to direct the money I've set aside for giving when there are so very, very many charitable causes out there.

Why I learned about a new one just this morning when I was out on a stroll with the dog. There I was right in the middle of a stoop and scoop when I glanced up and saw the sign on my neighbour's lawn.

"Clutter For Cancer"

I assumed it was some sort of fund-raiser with proceeds going towards cancer research but I couldn't quite figure out where the clutter part came in.Were they asking me to collect my clutter and come to some sort of collective yard sale where I'd sell my stuff alongside fellow Clutter For Cancer volunteers? Would we all go home feeling virtuous albeit the proud owners of each others stuff? I suppose I could store it and re-sell it at next year's Clutter For Cancer event.

And then there was that time I was waiting in line at the drugstore to buy toothpaste. The line just didn't seem to be moving and when I finally got to the front I realized it was because the girl kept asking everyone if they wanted to add a dollar to their purchase, entitling them to a piece of paper cut out in the shape of a shoe.

The dollar went to support people with some disease I had never heard of. To sweeten the deal, we were invited to write our names on the shoe and stick it on the front window of the store.

Well, what choice did I have? The window was covered in shoes and I didn't want to look like the only one who didn't care about this terrible disease. I forked over the buck and wrote out my name.

But when I got home I began to wonder if maybe some clever marketing types had made it all up. Maybe it was a plot to keep us in line longer so we'd buy those ridiculously expensive impulse items they keep near the cash - you know, things like gum and lottery tickets and Oprah magazines.

You get the idea Oprah - we're asked at every turn to donate and frankly, I find it overwhelming. It doesn't help when they make it so complicated to give.

Every September, when my daughter was a Girl Guide, they'd give us boxes and boxes of cookies to sell. I would ask Wrinkly Owl or Bitchy Bear or whatever the heck my daughter's leader called herself, "We don’t want to sell cookies. Can’t I just give you the cash and you keep the cookies?"And every year the answer was the same, "No. You and your daughter must sell the cookies then bring us the money."

Well, there was no way I was going to be flogging cookies off on my neighbours and friends. I just gave up, dragged a wagon load full of cookies home and threw them in the freezer. Two weeks later I’d send a cheque in with my daughter. If they asked her how the selling went, she would just say her mom sold every last one at her Stitch ‘n Bitch.

If only we had one person who could be in charge of it all and in her benevolence, decide where the money should go. Someone Oprah, like you.

You've already got tons and tons of experience at giving things away. Why, when you gave all those girls cell phones, I said to myself, "Now here's a woman who really knows how to spend money."

You don't have to answer yet, just give it some thought. And while you're mulling things over, in the spirit of giving, I've included a box of cookies for you to enjoy.

The Oprah Letters - Dear Oprah Winfrey, Please Cut Me Some Slack

Dear Oprah,How are you? I am fine. Well, actually, I'm not so fine considering I woke up with night sweats four times last night and my middle-aged eyes are so bad I can't read a blessed thing which is why I accidentally took the dog's medication instead of my thyroid pill.

But oh! Let me stop right there. Instead of flinging such negative karma to the universe, you would want me to choose gratitude for what comes my way. Therefore I declare that I am thankful that I will never have to endure the ravages of heart-worm.

I'm writing you today about last Thursday's show when you and your gal pal, Marianne Williamson asked us to embrace the miracle of aging.

Now Ms. Winfrey I try to do all the things that you say. Were it not for your book club, who knows what I would read. And how else would I refer to my va-jay-jay in public if it weren't for you spreading the word. All though I do wonder just why I want to be referring to my va-jay-jay at cocktail parties and such but not matter. I'm sure you'll have a friend on your show who will explain that to me too.

And speaking of your friends, I really must say I'm enjoying them all. Especially that cute Dr. Oz with his deep, probing questions. Gosh, when he wanted to know, "Do you ever sit back at night and think, 'Why do I have public hair?'" , I was ever so impressed. I had never considered that before.

If anything, I usually sit back at night, in the spare five minutes I have after the kids are in bed, the dog has been walked, the dishes are done and the e-mail's been checked and lapse into a comatose state. If ever I think of my pubic hair these days, it's to idly wonder if Lady Grecian makes a formula for the nether regions.

You and Miss Williamson (who is lovely by the way - kind of like a cross between Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island and Leona Helmsley) directed us viewers to believe that 50 and beyond will be the most miraculous time of our lives and I so want to believe!

But Ms. Winfrey there is one teeny, tiny thing niggling at the edge of my mind. I hate to bring it up, your Oprahness because I know what I project will ultimately come back but ma'am, what should we do about the parts of midlife that suck?

Don't get me wrong, I know that forty is fabulous and fifty is fearsome. But do I have to love everything that's happening to me now?

I know to look at the good side of things, really I do. I try to be happy when I notice my hair thinning. "It's not gone," I tell myself. "It's just moved." To my chin.

I'm trying to make the best of my hot flashes too. I'm Canadian. Surely the extra heat means I'll save on my winter wardrobe.

And when I can't read small print on prescriptions or pill bottles, I try to stay positive and just guess what to take. Golly, apart from that near fatal overdose, things have been fine.

I'm not just asking for myself Oprah. I'm thinking of my friends. Unlike you, we don't throw lavish parties where famous friends read us poetry. Our little get-togethers are modest affairs with bottles of moderately priced Merlot and lengthy discussions of our raging hormones, wayward teens and Betty the Cougar's affair with Alex the pool boy. We need to blow off a little steam.

So please Oprah Winfrey, please cut me some slack.