Crazytown

A couple of months ago, Erin and I were in her car stopped at a light in downtown Portland when a woman stumbled across the crosswalk and up to the driver's side window and treated us to a loose serenade of "California Girls" before directing us to some (possibly made-up) Sand Castle Festival at Pioneer Square where she explained we could probably find some husbands.  Homegirl had three half-smoked cigarettes tucked behind her ears, and even fewer teeth to her name. We dubbed her "Crazytown."

A couple of days ago, Oprah's final season premiered.

A couple of hours before that premiere aired, Erin committed herself to watching every single episode of the season and then blogging about it.  She purchased a domain name and set the DVR to a season pass. Not exactly an Oprah faithful, I think Erin has seen all of ten episodes start to finish.  Over a 24-season span.  Everything was normal when I left for work; I returned home to the new definition of Crazytown.

Crazy. Town.

And you'll never guess who is enduring this experience with her.

Ummm, this guy.  I'm secretly loving it.  Except it's not really a secret.  She's a brilliant writer and a spoonful of sugar where Oprah is the medicine and this season needs to go down.

My ties to Oprah are few.  Here, I've complained about her being the self-appointed czar of reading, but I can't be too hard on her.  Opes is trying to get the world to stop using phones while driving, which is more noble a cause than, say, spending an entire season trying to get on the cover of O magazine.  Oprah does that every month!  And thanks to an episode my mother forced me to watch at the age of seven, I still know how to fend off an attacker and have NEVER been taken to a second location (I believe this is one of the ten episodes that Erin has seen, as well, and I look forward to her writing about it).  

Seriously, www.watchingoprah.com.
Follow the experiment on surviving the process.

She's watching so you don't have to.