My Point... And I Do Have One Read online

  But I’m a doctor and therefore have much more authority than you. Ergo, I should be in italics.

  I did all the other interviews in italics. I’m not going to change now.

  HOW ABOUT IF I’M IN BOLD AND ALL CAPITALS, LIKE THIS?

  No, it would be too distracting.

  That’s it, interview’s over. Get out of my office, you italics hog.

  YEAH, WELL GOOD-BYE TO YOU, TOO. HA, HA, HA.

  Hey! I just remembered my first memory. I’m eating eggs and toast and feeling a little bit grumpy. Then I take a sip of strong black coffee and read my horoscope in the newspaper. Wait a minute. That was just an hour ago at breakfast. I guess it’s possible that that’s my first memory. Perhaps my philosophy is “Don’t hold on to things, it will only bring you pain.” Or that might not be my philosophy. I just don’t remember.

  a letter to my

  friend

  or

  a frog in a sombrero does not a

  party make

  In digging through my old photos and letters for this book, I’ve discovered correspondence that brings back wonderful old memories. And, well, some not-so-wonderful memories.

  Dear Morgana,

  I just wanted to drop you a quick note to thank you for inviting me to your party last week. I’m not very good at parties. But I guess you know that by now. I feel awkward at them and tend to overcompensate by acting in a way that others who don’t know me well might consider a tad weird. However, you know me well and besides, you’re a very perceptive and, I might add, very forgiving person.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m really really really sorry for what happened. Maybe it was good, though. Maybe this will be one of those things that a little while from now you’ll look back on and laugh at. Okay, maybe it will be longer than a little while. Eventually, though, after at most a few decades, there’s bound to be some laughter. Isn’t there? Oh God, I’m so sorry.

  I know that we’re good enough friends that I could just call you on the phone, but I thought a letter would be preferable for two reasons. One, often it’s easier to say things in a letter than it is to say them in person. And two, you don’t seem to be answering my phone calls anymore.

  Sometimes nobody answers the phone—even if I let it ring over five hundred times (I’ve counted). At other times, somebody who sounds like you (but I’m sure isn’t) answers and asks who it is. When I say “Ellen,” that person (who, as I said before, I’m sure isn’t you, because you are much too compassionate) immediately develops an obviously fake Russian accent and says, “She not home. She move far away to place with no phone. I begging you, please leave alone.”

  All that being said, let me begin my apology.

  I think a lot of what happened can be traced back to the rum cake I brought over. I just looked over the recipe, and I see now that it called for two tablespoons of rum. For some reason, maybe because I was nervous because I don’t cook that much, I misread that as two bottles of rum. It’s an honest mistake, and your little nephews were eventually going to find out what a hangover is anyway.

  I had at least two slices of the rum cake, and I believe that’s why I blurted out that your real name is Marge. I thought everybody already knew. I also thought that everybody would find your old nickname, “Large Marge,” funny. I understand now that it isn’t funny. Anyway, it shouldn’t bother you because you’re not heavy anymore. Oh yes, I’m also sorry that I told people about your liposuction. But at least I didn’t tell anybody about your breast enlargement surgery. Oh, that’s right, I did. Sorry.

  As for what I call “the Charades incident,” for some reason I get a little competitive (okay, way too competitive) playing party games—once again, to make up for my own insecurities. That’s why when Reverend Green couldn’t figure out I was doing Fried Green Tomatoes and kept on guessing Two Mules for Sister Sarah (which, you have to admit, isn’t even close—it doesn’t even have the same number of words!) I got mad.

  That in no way excuses my calling him a God damned rat @+%ˇ#$%, *%$@–eating moron. Isn’t it cute when you write curses out that way? It’s too bad I didn’t say it like that. Also, when I jokingly implied that he was a child molester, I had no idea about the recent trial (though I am happy to hear that all the charges have been dropped).

  Now, the gift. I was under the mistaken impression (boy, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn’t it?) that the party was for your wedding shower. That’s why I got what I considered to be a gag gift. I didn’t know it was a party for your grandmother’s 90th birthday. Otherwise, I never would have gotten her the crotchless underwear and the coupon for a free nipple piercing.

  I admit I laughed pretty hard when your grammy opened the present (sorry about the wine coming out of my nose onto your new rug—club soda should get out that stain, not cola like I tried), but I thought she was laughing, too. Now I know she was hyperventilating. I swear I’ve never seen anybody’s face turn that red before. That is why I shouted out, “Look at her, heh heh. She looks like a big tomato!”

  Not funny.

  I am glad to hear that your grammy is out of the hospital. I’m the one who sent the big basket of muffins. Nobody told me she was diabetic. She only ate a few of them, and when I called the hospital they said that at most that added three days to her stay there—maybe four.

  This part is the hardest to explain. I know that when you opened the door to your bedroom it looked like I was shaving your dog. Well, I was shaving your dog … but not for the reason you might think. I didn’t say, “Hmmm, I think Marge’s dog—I’m sorry, Morgana’s dog—would look better with less hair.” Though, you have to admit, the cut does give Colonel Chompers an interesting look and makes him seem quite distinguished (I don’t care what the judges at the dog show say).

  What happened was, in trying to spit my gum across your kitchen and into the trash can (a trick I do remarkably well, usually) I missed, and the gum landed in Colonel Chompers’ fur. I tried to pull it out, but it just made matters worse. So I snuck him into your bedroom with the hope of finding some scissors and cutting the gum out. I didn’t locate scissors, but I did find your Lady Gillette and thought, hey, this might work—which eventually it did. The gum came out. I am sorry that some got on your drapes. I thought they were tissue paper.

  But, you have every right to ask, why was I wearing your bathing suit while shaving your dog? Good question. In looking for the scissors, I found the bathing suit in the third drawer of your bureau (I didn’t look in your second drawer, so you have no reason to be embarrassed). I had seen that suit in a store that day and thought it might look good on me. So, I figured this was a good opportunity to try it on.

  I believe you see now that there was a logical explanation for everything that happened at your otherwise very successful party.

  I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me, and we can be as good friends as we were before last weekend.

  Love,

  Ellen

  P.S. Oh yes, I almost forgot. I’m also sorry that I bit your fiancé, I mean ex-fiancé, on the ass. Oops.

  daily

  affirmations

  or

  a cup of pudding a day is the

  way to stay o.k.

  A POEM

  Death, disease, famine

  homelessness, abuse

  I can’t even watch

  the 5 o’clock news

  When did we lose control

  and how do we rebel

  Take a look around

  we’re on a rocket ship to hell

  There could be an answer

  it may not be too late

  but it involves a transfer

  try love instead of hate

  All you can do

  is be good to people

  and hope that those people

  will be good to you too

  but good luck

  I doubt it

  When your life gets to be overwhelming, when you feel like too much of the world
is depressing, there are two things you can do. One, sit in your house and feel the doom and gloom and continue to watch the news, shaking your head in resignation and saying to yourself, “Oh no, my life sucks. The world is ending, there’s nothing I can do.” This is one way to go. I, personally, wouldn’t recommend it.

  “Well,” you say, “what’s the other option?”

  Here it is: If you must watch the news, turn the sound off and imagine the news anchor people are telling you all about your day. Make up happy events, adding your name into the report every third or fourth sentence.

  Sing loud with wild abandonment as you get dressed in the morning (any cheery song will do).

  And most important, get yourself some daily affirmations.

  I do daily affirmations every day—hence the word “daily.” I guess, if you’re lazy, you can do weekly affirmations or monthly affirmations or even yearly affirmations. Actually, I suppose New Year’s resolutions are yearly affirmations. But if you’re making the same New Year’s resolution every year (e.g., “I will be more popular”), and it’s still not happening (e.g., “Nobody ever calls me. I’m all alone. Boo hoo.”), it may be time to change your strategy. Your next yearly affirmation should be to do daily affirmations.

  Daily affirmations are an important way to pick yourself up. We all have bad days and you can’t always count on other people to make things better. For instance, you might say to someone, “I’m a bad person,” expecting them to say in return, “Oh, no, you’re not, you’re one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I know.” But nine times out of ten, they’ll say instead, “Really. Hmmm. Hey, could you pass the Chee-tos?” And sometimes you’re not even eating Chee-tos, you’re eating barbecue potato chips or some weird flavored popcorn!

  So, because you can’t rely on other people, for your own ego you need daily affirmations. Some obvious affirmations are: “I am a good person” or “I love myself or “I matter.” But I think it’s a good idea to start small. You should say things that make you feel good because they are easy to accomplish. (“I will wake up.” “I will brush my teeth.”) Don’t push yourself. Those can be very good morning affirmations. I guess, though, if you’re really depressed, and it’s 8 o’clock at night, “I will wake up” would technically be an evening affirmation.

  The more depressed you are, the simpler the affirmation should be. Under the right circumstances, “Who cares if I’m drunk?” is a perfectly reasonable affirmation.

  Sometimes the only way you can make yourself feel better is by putting other people down. And that’s okay.

  There is nothing wrong with that—whatever gets you through. “I’m not as fat as she is.” “I have more teeth than he has.” “Thank God I’m not as bone ugly as they are.” These are all fine affirmations. However, it’s best that when you’re in public you say this kind of affirmation to yourself. It can save you embarrassment and a black eye. These are silent affirmations.

  You probably do affirmations without even knowing it. Every time you drive over the speed limit, you’re saying, “No copper is gonna catch me speeding.” And when you put that ski mask over your head, you’re saying, “Nobody is going to recognize me while I rob this gas station.” You’re pumping yourself up and telling yourself you can succeed.

  Here are some affirmations that have helped me. Use them if you’d like. They’re yours free (except for what you paid for the book; if you borrowed this book from a friend or the library and you feel you should send me a few bucks, that’s fine, too).

  I am the world’s tallest midget.

  I’m a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout.

  I bet nobody knows I’m crazy.

  I look good in bell bottoms.

  Archie would rather date me than either Betty or Veronica.

  I can walk through walls. Ouch! No, I can’t.

  I mean for my hair to look like this.

  The Great Spirit smiles on me. On me and only me. The Great Spirit hates everybody else. We’re best friends.

  I don’t need to exercise. I have the perfect shape.

  I’m smarter than my dogs. Well, smarter than one of my dogs.

  I look good with back hair.

  Being grubby equals being cool.

  I sing better than Bonnie Raitt. I have as many Grammys as Bonnie Raitt. I am Bonnie Raitt.

  It’s not important to know what everybody else seems to know. I don’t care how much they laugh at me.

  La la la la la la la la la la la—Talk all you want, I can’t hear you—la la la la la la la la. La la la.

  If I put my mind to it, I could do anything. I just don’t feel like putting my mind to something. So there.

  I have X-ray vision. Wait a minute. I don’t. These glasses are a rip-off.

  I meant to get ripped off.

  I’ve fallen and I can get up.

  I’m good at watching TV.

  I can come up with better affirmations than these.

  ellen

  degeneres:

  road warrior

  or

  sometimes you need a map,

  sometimes you need a globe,

  sometimes you need a map and a

  globe—but not very often

  “Aunt Ellen, tell us a story.” It’s so cute when the kids from the neighborhood drop on by.

  They just love to hear me spin a tale. It’s either that or they love that I buy liquor for them no matter how young they are. You’ve got to learn to drink sometime, so it might as well be with someone you can trust.

  “Please, Aunt Ellen, please tell us a story,” Little Tori pleaded between sips of her Margarita. Then suddenly, “Ahhhhhh! My head hurts.”

  “You’ve just got an ice-cream headache, dear,” I assured her. Then I told her that it would go away if she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and held it there for a little bit. (This really works.) Within seconds her headache was gone. “I feel so much better. You know so much, Aunt Ellen.”

  “Well, I’ve been drinking for a whole lot longer than any of you,” I quipped.

  We all laughed at that. After we stopped laughing and I freshened everyone’s drink, I said, “So, you want to hear a story, eh?”

  “Yes, yes we do, we surely, surely do! Oh yes, in-deedy, doddy, duddy, we do, Aunt Ellen,” Tori, Tony, Toni, Tone, Toby, Terry, and Pedro said in unison. “We want to hear a scary story.”

  “How about if I tell you how I broke into show business? I originally wanted to be a singer. I used to perform with the Judds. In those days we were known as Two Judds & A DeGeneres. And, well, I was always known as the funny one.” I laughed.

  “That’s not a story!” the children cried. “We want a scary story. Aunt Ellen, not some old joke from your stand-up.”

  Kids are so cute. I have no idea where they get their ideas. I never did that joke in my stand-up. I may have mentioned it on Leno or Regis and Kathie Lee, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it in my stand-up. Well, not more than once or twice.

  “I’ll tell you the scariest story I know. It’s about bad gigs that I’ve had.” Gigs, for those of you who don’t know, is plural for gig. I lit a cigarette and started my story.

  “There have been many, many bad places that I have played. One of the worst was a long, narrow, dingy restaurant that may have had fifteen tables (or, if you only counted tables that didn’t wobble … no tables). There was no way that it was created for any type of art form, whether music or comedy or anything. It was barely created for the consumption of food. I don’t remember what town this was in. It could have been any town. Though, on second thought, I don’t think there is a place called Anytown. I’m pretty sure it was either in the Midwest, the South, or on the East or West Coast. Or it could have been in Canada. I was traveling. I was on the road. It was the mid-eighties, when it wasn’t considered cool’ to know where you were.

  “I was with some comedian, and I didn’t know who he was either, even though we were doing fifteen dates toge
ther, driving from city to city. When we got to the restaurant, there was a chalkboard sitting on the street out front. It said: Soup of the Day—Cream of Asparagus. Ellen DeGeneres.

  “That’s when I had the Funniest Person in America title. That’s the only reason I got top billing over the comedian I was with, who was the opener. He didn’t even get on the chalkboard. And soup of the day had top billing over me. People would really have to want cream of asparagus soup—that would lure them in. And while they were there for the soup, well, I was just there. Nobody knew who I was. And, I’m sure my name was misspelled. My name was never spelled right. And even if it was spelled right, what did that mean to anybody? That’s pretty scary right there, isn’t it?”

  The kids stared at me, which I took to mean, “Yes, that is pretty scary.” Just then, who should come in the door but little five-year-old Mercedes and her twin brother, Oldsmobile. I had forgotten that I gave them the keys to my car to drive down to the neighborhood mart for some salted nuts and a two-pound bag of swizzle sticks. My grandmother used to say, “What’s a party without swizzle sticks?” And, even though I still have no idea what she was talking about, I’m never without them.

  As we were passing out the nuts and the sticks, little Toby, remembering that I was in the middle of a story, asked without a hint of sarcasm, “Aunt Ellen, how did you get to be the funniest person in America?”

  “This is how I got the title ‘The Funniest Person in America,’ ” I continued, leaning back in my BarcaLounger, remembering it as if it were either yesterday or over ten years ago. “I performed stand-up comedy in New Orleans for about a year, and then the club I worked at closed down. This was through no fault of my own, but since then my philosophy has been it’s just as easy to be funny without a flamethrower as it is to be with one. After that I was working in a law firm as a court runner. I worked there for about a year (until I was so out of breath I had to quit) and then I entered the Funniest Person in New Orleans contest.