Obtaining
tickets to the Oprah show is notoriously difficult. For years
though, Mom has pleaded for these elusive items for her birthday. I
decided this year to attempt this mission impossible. After several
futile calls to the constantly busy reservations line, I did what
any web head would do – I logged onto oprah.com. On the last minute
email reservations page I discovered there were three days of taping
available for the following week. All I had to do was convince the
Oprah show they should award two tickets to me. (This is a show that
receives over 800,000 emails a year.)I’m still not sure how I
managed it, but when my phone rang a few days later on Saturday, I
learned I had two tickets for the following Thursday’s taping!
Giddy with the thought of giving Mom this
“present”, I held a furtive phone conversation with my dad
(co-conspirator and bankroller in this plot), made arrangements with
Mom’s best friend at work to cover for her, and consulted with my
husband about the prospect of me driving in Chicago. (He was less
than confident.)
That night, I gave Mom the news. I don’t have
children but seeing her face light up with exhilaration must feel as
rewarding as watching your children discover that pile of presents
under the tree Christmas morning. Once some of our excitement
subsided, we got down to the details; we’d leave early Wednesday
morning and stay until Saturday. After all, when in Chicago, shop
the Magnificent Mile, right? We booked a room on hotwire.com at The
Raphael, a block off the Mile, plotted our route on mapquest.com,
selected our Oprah outfits, and waited eagerly for Wednesday.
By 8 am Wednesday morning we were on the road for
the 450 mile trip. Eight hours later, valet parked and checked in,
it was time to hit Bloomingdales and Filene’s Basement. We should
have been tired enough to sleep that night, after driving all day,
and an evening of shopping, but anticipation of the next day kept us
awake far too late, and woke us too early. Resigned to our sleepless
condition, we decided we to go ahead to the studio early (first stop
– Starbucks!). Seating is first come first serve on the show, and
although the official opening time is 11 am, we didn’t know how
early the others might arrive. The staff at our hotel had assured us
it was definitely within walking distance, so fortified with
caffeine and high spirits, we walked for an hour before realizing we
had been seriously misinformed. Regretting my inauspicious wardrobe
choice of short skirt and heeled sandals on this cold and windy
Chicago morning, I flagged a Yellow cab, we hopped in, and watched
the cityscape roll swiftly by. We soon arrived at 1058 West
Washington, a large, low building in a nondescript west Chicago
neighborhood, across from a parking lot and auto repair garage. When
we took our place in line at 9am we were pleased to see only 10
people in front of us. We passed the time chatting with the others,
taking pictures, and sharing our ticket stories. People were
surprised to hear how easily I acquired tickets; another group had
spent two consecutive days calling all day before reaching the
reservation agent.
The line grew and snaked down the sidewalk, and at
10:30 the Harpo staff began to let us in to go through security.
Much like at an airport, we passed through metal detectors, and
allowed our belongings to be x-rayed, inspected and in most cases
here, confiscated.
Staff members then herded us all upstairs into a
waiting room which was soon a cacophony of over 300 wildly excited
women talking, giggling and shrieking with laughter. It was an all
female audience today, there for a show about girlfriends’ night
out. Many of the women languished in line for the three stall
women’s room. (Really, Oprah, three stalls?) We outnumbered the
seats as well, so most women stood. Oversized photos of Oprah with
her various star guests covered the walls. We had plenty of time to
marvel at the photos while we waited. Our only other distractions
were two vending machines, and an out of order change machine.
Hours later they began to page groups and allowed
the Kotex Mafia, Cultured Pearls, Sole Sisters and others into the
studio. We were dismayed to see how many were going in ahead of us.
All the groups (one comprised of 40 women) were part of the episode
and were consequently seated first.
At last ticket holders 1-50 were admitted. With
great foresight, Mom had inquired earlier where Oprah would make her
entrance. Although the only seats on that aisle were on the back
row, we snagged them; we wanted unfettered access to Oprah.
Sitting in the studio I’d seen so many times from
my living room seemed illusory, as if I’d somehow stepped inside my
television. An array of colors glimmered from the 600 plus lights
hanging overhead. Cameras eyed us from every direction: there were
behemoth sized versions were steered about by cameramen, suspended
mounts glided along overhead (seeming certain to thwack someone at
any minute) and handheld mobile devices pointed at us from up close,
all serving to remind us that we were being filmed for the viewing
pleasure of 20 million people. Dozens of harried producers and
workers rushed about, wielding microphones and clipboards. The
atmosphere was electric.
Some of the producers finally greeted us and gave
us a few guidelines for the show. No reading along from the
teleprompter (‘Oprah-aoke’), stand up if you talk, and two minutes
for bathroom breaks during commercial.
The energy in the studio grew as everyone anxiously
awaited Oprah’s entrance. Giggling nervously, Mom and I arranged
ourselves in a way most conducive to shaking Oprah’s hand. We
perched precariously, ready to lean over the rail. Then suddenly Mom
grabbed my arm, “There she is!” she exclaimed. My grin split my face
as I spied Oprah stride through the door. She looked up at Mom, took
her hand, then mine. I looked down at her and beamed. It was Oprah,
and she was so beautiful! I couldn’t believe how blessed I was to
see her in person. She moved quickly down the aisle, and we joined
in the nearly hysterical applause and cheering. Delirious with
excitement, I began to stomp my feet and in a moment the studio
thundered with the stamping feet of over 300 women. I now understood
why fans act so ridiculous when they see their favorite rock star.
Even after Oprah motioned for us to sit, and began
addressing the camera, it took all of us a while to settle down. I
could barely contain my excitement. Neither Mom nor I took our eyes
off Oprah. During the first commercial break, which seemed to arrive
in no time, Oprah took a seat and laughed about her “ten minute”
shoes. She joked that the tall black strappy sandals were too
uncomfortable to stand in for more than 10 minutes. Just sitting
there chatting with the audience like old friends, she seemed so
normal – more like a girlfriend than a world famous millionaire.
The hour blazed by much too quickly. With our best
posture and biggest smiles, we craned our necks to study Oprah – her
stylish hair, her brilliant diamond earrings, her chic black
sheer-sleeved blouse and long black skirt, her very presence. The
show marched on with successive highlights about the various
girlfriend groups. I found it difficult to pay attention to the
video clips, so enthralled I was watching Oprah. It was like my
Stonehenge phenomenon. After seeing it so often in pictures and
films, it is hard to comprehend when you are finally there in real
life. I wanted to fix everything about this experience in my memory
like jewels in a safe, to be taken out and examined thoroughly
later.
As we watched the show, surprise after surprise
awaited us. Following a segment about a cooking club, Oprah
announced we would all take home “The Cooking Club Cookbook”. To
further our delight, she summoned the tuxedo clad servers, who
appeared bearing silver trays of “All-About-The-Chocolate Cake”. I
noticed Oprah did not touch hers, perhaps from concern for her
svelte new figure, or possibly deterred by visions of chocolate
coated teeth. After the next commercial break she presented us with
fun slumber party kits courtesy of RedEnvelope.com. Oprah showed us
some of the objects in the tin, such as nail polish, massage lotion,
and foot soak, then spent the next several minutes unobtrusively
attempting to replace the things in their original arrangement.
All too soon the show came to an end and we went
directly into “Oprah After the Show,” a program that airs on the
Oxygen network. The lighting shifted to a subtly dimmer, more
intimate setting and Oprah made herself comfortable. A couple
audience members stood to speak or ask questions, and I settled in,
a little more relaxed. This was not to last though. Oprah surprised
a lady speaking by asking her to bring her girlfriends down to the
stage and have their picture made with her.
What took place next sent the entire studio – crew
and audience – into pandemonium. Oprah made the unprecedented
decision to allow every group in the audience have a photo made with
her. The crowd erupted into cheers. Mom and I looked at each other,
dumbfounded. Did that mean us? Were we really going to have our
picture made with Oprah? Sure enough, groups began to wending their
way down to the stage, while producers struggled to retain control
of the rapidly more chaotic situation.
What an incredible opportunity! We were going to
meet Oprah Winfrey in person. What should I say to express my
profound admiration for her? Disjointed thoughts whirled through my
mind. What could I say that was genuine and not simpering,
intelligent not pretentious, friendly not gushing? Our turn came,
and moving as if in a slow motion dream, I sat next to Oprah on her
buttery yellow leather upholstered bench. Mom sat on her left as
Oprah was laughing with a producer about what a great idea this was.
“It’s a wonderful idea,” I babbled.
“This is my birthday present, coming to see you!”
Mom gushed to Oprah. Oprah reached for Mom’s hand and presented her
famous smile as she leaned into the camera. I turned my own shining,
oversized smile to the camera, unable to believe I was truly sitting
right next to Oprah. After the picture was snapped I thanked her
effusively. She graciously wished Mom a happy birthday. “Thank you,”
I said again, and as we stumbled off the stage I threw yet another
thank you over my shoulder.
Mom and I pushed our way through the crowd, feeling
intoxicated with delight. “She smells so good! I wonder what kind of
perfume she wears?” was all I could utter, as I mentally kicked
myself for failing to even do so much as introduce myself.
We left the studio, swept up in a tide of jubilant
women.After Mom provided our names, address and descriptions to a
producer so we could receive our photos, we collected our bags,
coats and gifts, and spilled out onto the sidewalk, spent,
overheated, and utterly happy.
From that moment on, no one was spared our Oprah
story. No one was safe. Not the cab driver, waitress at Weber’s, or
man in the elevator; nor the clerk at Neiman Marcus, lady in our
hotel lobby, or fellow shoppers. And when we returned home after one
more day packed with shopping (I learned Mom actually can shop till
she drops!) no one here was exempt either. The show was scheduled to
air the Monday after we came home, so we had to move quickly. We
each called or emailed everyone we knew. I sent a mass email to all
friends, family and acquaintances. From the Brown professor my
husband and I met in a snowstorm on a closed Wyoming highway last
winter to the flight attendant from our flight from Rome last
summer, no one escaped the Oprah story. Upon running into an
ex-boyfriend I hadn’t seen in six years, my first response was to
blurt out, “I went to the Oprah show!” Evidently Oprah’s ability to
transform me into a blithering fool is long term.
The fun was not all over though. Watching the show
for the first time with my family allowed us to relive our
excitement, shrieking with delight each time we spied our faces on
the screen. Though we’ve descended from cloud nine back to earth
now, the enchantment of our day at Oprah will forever light our eyes
and ignite our smiles.
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