to submit a request for Oprah Winfrey Tickets, is upon us. This really is IT. My very last chance to scratch good ol' #16 off of my Bucket List.
(Dear Oprah- Bucket List not in order of preference.)
My name, is officially OUT THERE.
Out in the swirly Oprah Website world, of Desperate Women and their Desperate Requests.
This post, is my last heart-felt plea.
(and the lovely women on her Ticket team)
Maybe, I had not clearly expressed my sincere desire (near obsession) to be a (first-time) member of your studio audience. So, here goes....
(Men to which I am related: this may be the portion of the post, where you should stop reading, to retain just a wee-bit of respect for me.)
Oprah, I Heart You. You were my after-school snack. My phone conversation with mom. My reason to beckon my husband, 'just to watch this one part'. I have hushed my children, to better hear your wisdom. I have VCR taped and DVR'd you... planned my dinner making, around your schedule.
I've repeatedly began sentences "Oprah told me..." to which my Father-in-law has replied "She told YOU, or she said that on the television to millions of people??"
My reply, was a blank and confused stare.
I did not need Favorite Things or trips to Australia, I have always only wanted, a seat in your audience. One teeny seat. I would even squeeze up, with another patron and go half-sies.
I have demeaned myself on this blog, declaring my adoration and I do not regret one word typed in angst. Maybe, I have held back. Not Today. Today... I have reached my Pathetically Desperate Hour.
What's it gonna take? Just tell me.
Should I sell you one of my children? Deal. Take your pick. They are equally as cute and troublesome.
Tattoo your name on my wrist? Cool. Right or left?
Would you like to to run down the street in a swimsuit, with your show logo body painted on me?
Fine. Name the location.
Lie and pretend my mother is dying of a rare disease and her last wish is to sit in your audience, therefore committing myself to an eternity burning in hell?? Done. I like warmer temps anyway.
Stand on my head, drinking a Worm slushy, singing your theme song? Ok. I'll tell my son to start digging.
Should I read every novel on your bookclub list?
Admit you are a better friend, than my husband?
Humiliate myself via the Internet?
Done, Done and Done.
I am begging, pleading, praying and fingers-crossing... for just a couple, itsy-bitsy tickets. Name your price.
Should I start a mass email campaign? Have T-shirts made? Text-message all 32 friends in my address book? Create a Facebook phenomenon? Figure out what Twitter really is and open an account?
Threaten my blog-followers, if they do not Comment, re-post to their accounts or descend upon your website with gale-force strength: I may fall into a deep depression and will NEVER post another witty Coach remark or cute/messy picture of Coco... Ever.
(Can you live with that on your conscience??)
Ask anything Oprah! I will do it.
Please. Pretty, pretty please. With cherries, whipped-cream and sprinkles on-top! Plus a kiss for good-luck. Can I have tickets to your show? Just a few. A couple. I promise to dress pretty. Smile very brightly and Never. Ever forget a glorious moment of it.
PS- I live nearby. Just a skip. A mini-jump, really. A drive so short, I could bike it, if you'd like. I am totally available and willing to dash away from my lonely house-wife life, in obscenely short notice.
Just say, WHEN!!
PSS- I Heart You, Oprah. You're pretty.