It's been a brutal month for hay fever. So maybe it was the allergy medicine that made me drift off at my desk for a few minutes on Wednesday.

Anyway, I had the most awful daydream: Oprah was calling it quits.

Wait, that wasn't a dream? Say it ain't so.

Without my lodestar, I am lost. Oprah's daily spiritual spa is the reason I get out of bed in the morning.

I remember my mother used to tell friends and family, "Don't call when my stories are on." I never minded if people called during Oprah. I had the phone unplugged anyway, the better to commune with my angel.

The whole reason I bought a 3-D TV was to monitor how Oprah was doing with her weight.

My own food plan is out the window. O's departure has stirred up my abandonment issues big time. I'm scarfing down brownies by the panful.

I must be stuck on the first stage of grief - immobilization. (Where do you think I learned about the Kübler-Ross cycle, anyway? Same place I picked up everything else worth knowing. From Oprah.)

Now I sit slack-jawed on the couch, QVC playing on mute.

If it's affected me this much, I wonder what is happening to the more devout Oprahites. The ones who believe that Oprah's tears can cure cancer, that her body is made up entirely of stem cells.

Thing is, after 25 years of sitting at her knee, I know what Oprah would say: "God never closes a door, child, 'less he opens a window." (I always paid closer attention when Oprah used her Southern churchy voice. I believe that was how she signaled she was imparting special knowledge.)

But I'm having trouble finding the silver lining here. I guess it's that there won't be any more Oprah's Favorite Things episodes. I really went overboard with those. I still have a closet full of panini presses from Williams-Sonoma.

Prematurely chaste. Among the many glaring implausibilities in Glee's season finale was Rachel's turning down the chance to resume her romance with Finn. Why? She didn't want anything to get in the way of her dream of moving to New York to become a star on the Great White Way.

You might want to consult a calendar, Rache. You haven't finished 11th grade yet. You still have time to kiss a boy or two.

Last year's model. Apparently, the passing of the crown did not go smoothly on American Idol. The morning after the finale, Idol executive producer Nigel Lythgoe tweeted: "I was so upset Lee DeWyze wouldn't present the winners trophy to Scotty." Just a reminder: DeWyze was last year's winner.

Funny, I don't remember that being a tradition. In fact, until I saw that glittering microphone statuette in Scotty's hand, I didn't know that Idol even had a winner's trophy.

What I do remember is the previous winner getting a big send-off by performing on the finale. DeWyze wasn't afforded that lucrative courtesy. Which may explain why the only time we saw his face all night, unacknowledged in the crowd behind Ryan Seacrest, he looked mightily ticked off.

Feat of Clay. Speaking of Idol, I have some qualms about the results.

Scotty seems like a nice kid. I just want to point out that the last time we fell for an innocent-looking North Carolina native with an outsized voice on Idol, he turned into a monstrously arrogant diva.

Seriously, did we not learn anything from the Clay Aiken catastrophe, people?

Contact staff writer David Hiltbrand at 215-854-4552 or dhiltbrand@phillynews.com. Read his pop-culture blog at www.philly.com/dod.