American women are forced into a relationship with Oprah. It is simply part of our culture. Whether you like her or not, if you’ve got a vagina and a US Passport, you’ve got Oprah. For me, however, this relationship is getting out of control. Oprah’s about to do an episode on my worrisome addiction, I’m so obsessed with this queen of daytime television.
Let me break it down for you. I’m on her website constantly, getting tips from Drs. Perricone and Phil. I know everything about Oprah, from her abused and impoverished childhood to her scrutinized and confusing relationship with the Al Reynolds-esque Stedman Grahm. I read her books, I eat her food, I even follow her stupid bootcamp routine, except I cheat. And when I cheat the bootcamp, which is everyday because there’s no booze or brie in bootcamp, I feel as if I’ve let not myself, but my beloved Oprah down.
One of my favorite regulars on Oprah is Nate Berkus, the gorgeous interior design gay. My mother and her assistant are obsessed with him and got me hooked on the Berkus bandwagon. Cut to, I’m wide awake at 4am, suffering vacation jetlag, and watching the never-ending Tsunami coverage this past December. All of a sudden, CNN reports that Nate barely survived this horrible disaster and worse, his partner Fernando was “lost.”
I actually screamed aloud. Not my Nate!
What’s most dreadful about this is that beyond anything else, I knew instantly that a very special Oprah episode would be dedicated to Nate just as soon as he was ready to talk. Dying with anticipation, I told everyone of my premonition, checking my trusty website constantly for Nate updates. Lo and behold, it was announced that Nate would indeed relate his tsunami experience to Oprah and her viewers.
I believe I actually called in sick.
So excited, I turned off my phones, prepped myself with appropriate beverages and snacks, grabbed a box of Kleenex and turned the TV on 5 minutes early just so I didn’t miss anything.
Oprah starts at 4pm. By 4:03, Nate, Oprah, the audience and I were all crying. I swear to god. I actually looked at the clock. During a good Oprah, I’ll cry two or three times. In fact, the only time I cried harder than the Nate/Tsunami episode is when Matty met the Harry Potter cast. Matty was the little boy with some unexplainable terminal illness who wrote poetry and befriended Oprah. Matty was a repeat guest until his recent passing and Oprah discovered he possessed an obsession with Harry Potter even greater than my own. The look on his face when he met Harry, Hermione and Ron was only surpassed when he was presented with his very own wand. I did not get teary eyed. I did not sniffle. I dropped my head in my hands and sobbed like a little girl.
Yesterday, I made it home in time for Oprah. The episode? “Too Ugly to Live.” Not only did I get a full hour of people with horrible self esteem, I saw the preview for Monday’s show, the 20th Anniversary Episode. Awwww, yeah. I’m having Oprah party, with ambiance by Colin Cowie, appetizers by Rosie the Chef and a Oprah drinking game. Every time she does the handclasp with a celeb pal, you drink. Every time she refers to her dogs, you drink. And every time Oprah tells it like it is in a sudden ghetto accent, you chug like mad…