Every time I'm unemployed, I feel I learn a little something special about the television that's on during the daytime (not to be confused with "daytime television," which equals "soap operas," which equals "whether you watch them or not, you already pretty much know all you need to know about all of them").

During my February 2003 hiatus, I learned that I absolutely do have a limit on the number of Trading Spaces episodes I can tolerate, for example, and in August I realized that loathe Ann Curry from the Today show almost as much as those brassy asses from Good Day L.A., who shall remain nameless but whose initials are Dorothey Lucey and Jillian Barberie.

This time, I fanned the flames of hate once more. Every afternoon at 3 p.m., I learned an important lesson: I hate Oprah.

Specifically, I hate her show. I suppose Oprah herself might be perfectly nice, even fun at parties. But Oprah's talk show is pretty much unwatchable, from the self-congratulatory air to the celebrity booty-smooching to her carefully cultivated "I'm just Oprah from the block" attitude, with which she tries to make it seem like she can relate to everything that her guests or her audience are going through, ending with making it about her with the "surprise" telling of a "touching" and "personal" "story." And, it's always a fun experiment when she has a Southern guest on and suddenly a strong twang slips into her speech, versus when she has an African-American guest with whom she goes all "sista-friend," all the time -- and all within the same hour-long show.

The other day, she did an entire hour that was a flashback to her favorite moments from the past year, possibly longer, where she changed people's lives simply by being Oprah, and being rich. Which is, on the surface, a lovely thing -- she blows through a lot of cash to buy people new minivans or to bring in The Temptations for a lifelong fan (begging the question: is it as special to see The Temptations when they're inauthentic?), or to give the studio audience a basket of her favorite things. But the way she does it is so pompous. It's like she only bothers to do the good deeds so that she can do a full show wherein people cry and wail and proclaim her the patron saint of altruism, and then later do a clip show dedicated to the sheer volume of unselfish and wonderful acts she commits in a year. And let's not even start with the number of flashbacks she showed of instances of ardent fans seeing her by surprise and weeping and crying because Oprah is their idol, while Oprah hugs them and then laughs openly at their awe and excitement and pretends that she doesn't understand it because she's just little ol' O.

Come to think of it, years ago she did a show near Christmas that was all about how to add some creativity to the annual holiday traditions. A good-spirited idea. But the first segment was on Christmas cards, and how to personalize them and make them unique; to illustrate this, of course, Oprah reached into her mailbag and pulled out some cards she'd been sent that were just so very personal and interesting -- like, say, the one President Clinton sent, or Whitney, or Julia -- love that Julia -- or the one from Lionel Richie that featured simply a black and white picture of his hands tickling the ivories.

"See what I mean? That is just so Lionel," she beamed, nodding knowingly at her audience, half of which tried to nod knowingly back at her because it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Flames. On the side of my face. She's just so insufferable sometimes. For two or three weeks now I've told myself I won't watch, and then I do, and I inevitably end up instant messaging Jessica or Lauren or Grant about how much she chafes my hide. Lauren, at least, has to be getting sick of this, because she got almost identical notes last time, when I was an earlier riser and was confronted with the irritating morning spectre of Ann Curry trying to channel both Katie Couric and Barbara Walters -- a kind of Freak Cocktail -- while interviewing people. But enough about Ann Curry. I've managed to let that one go. Mostly. (Damn her! Damn her eyes!)

It feels churlish to criticize Oprah for being proud of her extravagant good deeds -- I mean, regardless of her motives for blowing all that cash, she's still doing it, and that's better than if she stopped. It's certainly more than I can do, so it's great that somebody's out there throwing cash at people who need it. But I wonder when Oprah crossed the line from being ground-breaking and generous and interesting to being hyper aware of (and addicted to) the things she could do to make the world continue to regard her as ground-breaking and generous and interesting. And so I respect her less than the people who donate the same cash straight to charity, without TV cameras or fanfare or flashback hours that combine into some kind of coronation.

Really, whatever floats her boat is fine, as long as I stick to my resolution not to cave in and watch, no matter now little else is on TV.

I only wish I'd made that resolution before I saw the hour she did that existed only to pimp The Jamie Kennedy Experiment, in which she named him the most brilliant prankster of our time. Oh, what I would give to have that memory erased.

Luckily, I'm aided in my quest to ignore Oprah by the fact that I start work tomorrow.

Sunday, I got a call from a network reality show that needed a head writer -- I'll be one of two -- and so I took it, because it started immediately and will take me through April, unless I'm fired for being unable to work within the really, really tight schedule they've devised for us.

The bump in responsibility is daunting, but really exciting. I had a lot of fun the last time I did it, but that was a show I knew inside and out, having story edited on it for the two previous seasons, and so running the department wasn't that hard. This one will be a little more complicated and comes with a bit more pressure, so I'm nervous and convinced I might bite it. But, even though I'm bummed to lose out on some hiatus time -- particularly since the new boyfriend goes on a break himself in two weeks -- it should be a good experience for me, so PLEASE, cross your fingers that I don't fall flat on my face.

Or, at least pray that if I do fall on my face, it at least doesn't break my nose, because I'll be unemployed and unable to afford reconstructive rhinoplasty.

Someone got here by searching for: "Moulin Spooge," which was oddly on-target, actually. Reading: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, about two years after everyone else in the world read it. But, better late than never. Jessica will be pleased, since she loaned it to me at least six months ago. Waiting: To hang out with the boyfriend. He's stuck at work. Bastards.