This past summer, I met an Emmy award winner and had my face (see below) splashed across millions of television sets across the country.

Really.

My claim to fame? I was an audience member on “The Oprah Winfrey Show.”

O.K., so I exaggerated a little, but it was an interesting experience nonetheless.

It all began one day at work when, after three vigorous hours of telemarketing, I dialed 591-7777. I’d heard the number in between my soaps (Hey, we all have to have our quality television.) and was curious about the whole process.

After about 32 rings – I couldn’t believe it wasn’t busy – a man answered.

Me: Uh….

Him: Yes?

Me: Um….

Him: Yes…Do you want to be on the show?

Me: (gurgle) Um…can I?

I never was a brilliant conversationalist. As it turned out, the tickets were free – something I couldn’t believe. The show was suppose to be “Daughters of Divorce – Women Who Teach Their Daughters To Hate Men”, but I didn’t hate men (ask my boyfriend) and my parents weren’t divorced. For some odd reason, they still let me have tickets.

I had gotten my mother a ticket too, and we groggily made our way to the State Street studio at 7:20 a.m. They had told me I wasn’t supposed to wear white (camera glare), a fact I promptly forgot. We waited in an enormous line, and I was relieved they did not throw me out.

We had to be frisked, twice, before entering the studio. On the second time, they confiscated my weapons and….ha, ha, got you, didn’t I?

Seats were first come, first serve, so by the time the dust settled, we ended up in the second from the last row on the right side. I swore to my mother we would never get on camera.

I was wrong. Oprah spent the entire second half of the show right in front of us, while I nodded appropriately, tried not to pick my nose, and did all those other things you do while a camera is in your face.

The subject turned out to be interesting. At one point, I rose my hand to comment on someone’s hostile statement. Oprah walked over to me and I stood up, ready to make my first national TV monologue, one that would spark movie producers to ask themselves increduously, “Who is that girl?”

Before I could utter a word, however, a technician made the “commercial” signal and they cut to a diaper ad. Crushed, I sat down. Oprah said she was sorry, but never came back to me.

And Oprah? How does she look? Since I don’t keep up with the tabloids, I didn’t know her exact weight that week, but she looked fine to me. Her legs are really skinny and I would kill for her wardrobe.

Each audience member got to talk to Daytime’s Diva after the show, and I told her Chicago had come a long way since “A.M. Chicago.” She laughed. We got out of the studio at 10:30 a.m. ready for another adventure, namely shopping.

No movie producer ever called, but I still had a great time. And whenever I am bored/depressed/trying to impress friends, I pop in the videotape and exclaim, “See—there I am, right behind her shoulder! I just nodded!”

I may even go back.