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

  Salads are always two pieces of dead lettuce and salad dressing that comes in that astronaut package. As soon as you open it, it’s on your neighbor’s lap. “Could I just dip my lettuce, ma’am? Hm, that’s a lovely skirt. What is that, silk?” But you know, should that happen, club soda’s gonna get that stain out immediately.

  That’s the answer to anything you ask up there, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that.

  “Excuse me, I have an upset stomach.”

  “Club soda, be right back.”

  “Excuse me, I spilled something.”

  “Club soda, be right back.”

  “Ooh, the wing is on fire!”

  “Club soda, be right back.”

  I thought the food would make me feel less frightened. But it didn’t. Maybe if I stretch my legs and go to the restroom it will help.

  That was the tiniest bathroom I’ve ever been in. I guess they figure since the food is so tiny, the bathrooms should be minuscule, too. I read a book once where two people had sex in an airplane bathroom. I don’t see how that’s possible. I barely had enough room to sit down. There is a lit sign in there that reads: “Return to Seat.” “Return to Cabin.” Why do they think that needs to be lit? Because we’ll relax in there for a little while? “Miss, bring my peanuts in here, please. This is beautiful. The water is so blue, it reminds me of the Mediterranean. I don’t ever want to leave.”

  You have no concept of time when you’re in there—it’s like a casino: no windows, no clocks. I could be the only one to get up out of my seat to go to the bathroom—everybody else is sound asleep when I go—but after I’ve been in there for what I think is thirty seconds, I open the door and everyone in the plane is lined up, looking at their watches, making me feel like I’ve been in there forever.

  And now I’ve got to explain the smell that was in there before I went in there. Does that ever happen to you? It’s not your fault. You’ve held your breath, you just wanna get out, and now you open the door and you have to explain, “Oh! Listen, there’s an odor in there and I didn’t do it. It’s bad. You might want to sprinkle some club soda, if you uh …”

  I think my only hope of escaping my mind-numbing fear is to sleep; to sleep and perchance to dream. The only trouble is when I fall asleep on a plane, I always have a nightmare.…

  I’m in a department store walking through the area with the makeup counters—then all of a sudden I’m a penguin on ice skates—Florence Henderson is cooking macaroni and cheese in my kitchen and my brother has gained 200 pounds and is being fed by three Haitian women wearing disco clothes and in the background the Bee Gees are arguing over what outfits to wear for their big comeback.

  Then I turn into myself again and Bruce Willis calls me up and asks me to go out with him and drink some wine coolers. So, we’re sitting in an outdoor cafe in Italy called Louis’. He’s telling me his life was meaningless until I came into it. I tell him I’m not ready to make a commitment. Just then I give birth to three sets of twins: they’re nine years old, one has false teeth, two are great dancers. The rest move to South Dakota for schooling.

  Now I’m dancing with Lewis and Clark (my two children) and an iguana who’s making eyes at me (he’s not that good of a dancer). Bruce punches him in the nose. The iguana turns into Sean Penn, who knocks Bruce unconscious. Sean and I start walking, and he tells me his life has been meaningless up until he met me, then we see one of those photo booths, four for a dollar. He urges me to pose with him. So we get in and have our pictures taken. He covers his face for all of them. He asks me to keep them. He beats up the machine.

  I fly back to the States alone. The pilot announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ll be landing in ten minutes. Ellen, I just want to say my life has been meaningless until you came into it.” We land. I go to the baggage claim, and my bag comes out first. I think to myself, “Ellen, you must be dreaming—that’s impossible.…”

  “Fuck, we’re going to crash!!”

  False alarm. The plane just landed. I guess I’m alive. Oh well, that wasn’t so bad. But what about that dream! I don’t know what it means. I’m pretty sure it’s sexual.

  Maybe it just means I shouldn’t be flying.

  ellen’s new

  hobby

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  I need a hobby. Something to pass my time—a goal I can work toward. I’ve tried knitting, square dancing, social work. I need to have passion about something. Here I am, sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my pancakes and coffee, feeling the emptiness of a life with no meaning.

  It’s like I’m sitting in a car but the engine is idling. I’m not even on the road—just off to the side. I see the others swoosh by me. I can recognize the shapes of the cars but not the direction they’re going. I’m alone, all alone in a car on the side of the road.

  My dogs are staring at me, trying to give me hope. “You can do it, Ellen,” they say. “Get out of the house, find your path and follow your heart.” I want to find it so bad, I do. But all I can do is turn on my TV and watch Regis and Kathie Lee. I can answer those trivia questions. Maybe they’ll call me and put a pin in my city. I want a pin; I want to share a hot-air popcorn popper with number 35. That’s who I would pick.

  I just saw a flash of a woman with dogs on the screen. She races or something; she used the word Iditarod. I looked it up in the dictionary, but it wasn’t there. I was so upset, I started to cry and scream, “Why—why—why?” I was pounding on the table with my closed fists. I was filled with anger—raging with fury—I was a wild stallion rearing up on its hind legs, snorting and whinnying and kicking and … Wait a minute. Hold on just a cotton-pickin’ minute. This is passion I’m feeling. This word Iditarod has moved me. I must find out what this Iditarod is and do it—I will Iditarod and I will win.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  I am beginning to feel frustrated. It is my fourth week of training for the Iditarod and I am seeing very little progress, if any at all. The big race is two months away, and I worry I won’t be ready. I already have one strike against me: My sled barely moves along the concrete-paved roads.

  Having only two dogs is also not helping. Since I don’t believe in hitting, I certainly won’t strike my dogs just to make them pull me. So I encourage them strongly. “Please, let’s go, come on.” But they come toward me and get in the sled. Seems they’re conditioned to come to me when I speak, not away. I’ve tried dog biscuits, but as I place them down several yards ahead of the dogs, by the time I run back to get in the sled, they’ve run to get the biscuits without me in it. Also, one of my dogs is rather small so the times we do move at all, it’s in circles—the larger one sets our course off balance.

  I am sweating so much in those big Eskimo clothes because of the warm California climate. I should warn others to wear a cooler version here. Ah, well, I must not give up. It’s a dream. I will race! I can’t let the neighborhood children’s silly taunts stop me. Let them laugh all they want. I will race in the Iditarod one day.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  I’ve given up returning phone calls. I’ve given up my so-called “normal” life. I can’t be bothered. The race is but a month away. I eat, drink, and sleep Iditarod.

  I’ve begun to question aspects of my training. I had heard that carbo loading was good, but now I am not so sure. My dogs have gotten fat and lethargic. I may need to change their diet of spaghetti, potatoes, pound cake, and ice cream. Now, when I bring them to the sled, they just roll over and fall asleep. Sometimes, to my eternal shame, I do the same.

  Perhaps I should quit. No, no, no!! I cannot allow a negative thought. My will cannot be broken or bent. I must continue chanting my mantra:

  Icanwarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod.

  Icanarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod. Icanarod, Iwill-arod, Iwinarod, Iditarod. If I chant loudly enough, I can barely hear the jeering from the neighborhood children. They are ignorant philistines. No matter how many times I correct them, they get it wrong. I scream to deaf, uncaring ears, “It’s pronounced Iditarod, not idiot!”

  I have ended my quest for corporate sponsorship. The only offer came from a place called Uncle Huey’s Dry Cleaning and Donut Shop and only if I wore a vest with their motto: “If you get some jelly donut on your clothes, we’ll clean it before you’re finished with your second cup of coffee.” I have too much pride. I will not look ridiculous, so I turned them down. They can keep their $35.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  I do worry that I will not be ready in time to race the Iditarod after all. It is only two weeks away, and I have made little progress. The dogs sense when we are about to begin training. They watch me get dressed and know that when the big boots come out, we are headed for the sled. It’s 87°, unusually hot for this time of year. I have lost fifteen pounds just from wearing these big bundly clothes and sitting in my sled, but I must get used to the bulkiness.

  I have made some progress, though. Last Thursday, Bootsie, Muffin, and I were out in the street sitting there, same as every morning—we’ve chosen to go out at 3:00 A.M. to avoid both traffic and cruel neighborhood children. Suddenly, Bootsie and Muffin took off with a start that caught me unawares (I had dozed off). I was thrown from the sled and the dogs ran for a half a mile or so. I caught up to them and encouraged them profusely. “Good doggies,” I said. “Good dogs—two good girls.” I’m not sure, but I think they saw a squirrel or something. It’s too bad there wasn’t another squirrel to get us back home. We walked; I carried the sled. I sure hope we’ll be ready. Maybe there are squirrels in Alaska.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Well, we’re in Alaska and I’ll tell you something, it’s cold. It’s so cold it’s snowing—looks like it has been for a while. The dogs are not taking to the snow the way I’d hoped they would. Muffin, the smal
ler one, is being downright stubborn, refusing to step foot (or paw) in the snow. I can’t really blame her—she sinks into it so far, her ears are barely sticking out.

  I feel we are in trouble with both dogs pulling—and there’s no way to try with only Bootsie. Also, Bootsie has, it seems—and this is terrible timing—just gone into heat. I was debating whether I should neuter her before the race and then I totally forgot. You can imagine the scene she’s causing. I’ve never seen her act this way. I keep apologizing to all of the other contestants.

  So far, no one is talking to me. They’re kind of snobbish folks. And real serious about this race. I think some are cheating, too. Some have as many as eight dogs. They must all know each other—all of the dogs look alike and are well-behaved. They look at my dogs a lot—probably very curious about the breed. It’s hard to tell what they are with their little sweaters on,

  Uh-oh, I hear a ruckus outside. Sounds like Bootsie is into some trouble with other dogs. I’ll sign off for now. The big day is soon upon us.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Anchorage, Alaska. Five A.M.

  I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m very worried about the race. It starts tomorrow, and since arriving here I’ve learned a lot more about this event. For instance, you’re supposed to have somewhere between fourteen and twenty dogs per sled. Wow! That’s crazy. I mean—where do all of these people live that they’re allowed to own that many dogs? I know for my own neighborhood there is a zoning law that prohibits a person from having any more than three dogs. Nevertheless, I must adapt to the circumstances and move forward. I will go to the local animal shelter today and get more dogs. Since Bootsie and Muffin are somewhat familiar with the routine, I won’t need the full twenty dogs. I’ll just get fifteen. A nice seventeen will do just fine. I figure these dogs will be so grateful to be adopted they’ll do anything I ask of them. After the race I’ll simply find good, loving homes for them.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Uh-oh. I think I’m in trouble. For some reason the shelter didn’t have that many dogs. I got seven—that’s all they had—and eight cats (I was desperate). I see no reason why I can’t train the cats to pull. I’ve seen movies and TV shows where they use cats (for what exactly I don’t remember). Besides, with the nine dogs total, they should be able to get it going, and once we have momentum it should be easy pulling for the cats (well, kittens—they’re ten weeks old). Maybe I’ll just keep the kittens in the sled with me. They can’t add any weight. I wonder if I can push the sled in addition to the dogs pulling or at least just run alongside. I’ve picked up a pamphlet on the race—hopefully I will get a little more insight on this Iditarod

  Bye for now.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Oh my—Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I’m afraid I’m not as prepared as I would like to be. My intentions were good, but Bootsie is having a problem with the kitties. I’ve tried to introduce them slowly so as to avoid the problem we had the first day. I’ve never seen Bootsie so aggressive. Luckily, I got there in time to stop her violent charges at the poor kitties. I can’t imagine why she hates them so!

  The race started yesterday. I hope I can catch up. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve attached a small motor to my sled, which should help matters somewhat. I plan on leaving tonight.

  Over and out.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Things have gotten worse and worse. All the other racers are two days ahead of me. I hate them. They are a distasteful group whose juvenile jeering made me yearn for the taunts of my neighborhood children. I dream of wiping the smiles off their smug, pudgy faces. How dare they call me a Sheila Disco Musher?

  But I fear that my dreams of revenge will just be dreams. The motor on my sled didn’t work, probably because it wasn’t attached to anything. AH it did was make a lot of noise, weigh down the sled, and scare the cats.

  I must keep my spirits up. Not so much for myself as for my team. I must not give up hope. If we do not feel like winners, we cannot win. To that end I will head to downtown Anchorage today to get the three poodles on my team pedicures.

  Whenever I ask myself, “Why go on?” I must answer, “Why not.” Miracles do happen.

  Icanarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod.

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  I won! I won! They say I didn’t. They say I cheated. They say I’ve been disqualified. All I know is I finished first. My team and I were the first ones to get from Anchorage to Nome.

  They can bitch and moan as much as they please. Nowhere in the rules does it say you can’t use a Winnebago. It was a stroke of genius and a bit of luck. Who would have guessed that there was an auto dealership across the street from the dog groomer? With the sled and dogs and cats in the back, we just took off down the freeway. We beat the nearest racer by two days and we rarely went over fifty-five miles an hour, mainly because Muffin gets nauseous if I drive any faster.

  As for the other Iditaroders, I have never seen such a group of sore losers in my life. But I pity them more than hate them. They’re just jealous.

  I can’t get rid of my posse (that’s what I’ve started calling my team). To hell with neighborhood rules, I’m keeping them all. Maybe I’ll return to defend my title next year. Back to back!

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  Life has no meaning again. I gaze into the abysmal void that is my soul and all that is reflected back is my own emptiness. I am bored and restless. The high of being the Iditarod champion did not last long. I need a new challenge. But what?

  My posse, my team, my cats and dogs: They’re listless as well. I try to maintain a happy exterior for their sake, but they’re not fooled.

  Once again I’m watching Regis and Kathie Lee. Even Kathie Lee’s stories about Cody fail to cheer me up. Before I turn off the set and do God knows what, I see an image: a boat skating across the sea. A woman mentions the America’s Cup, the world’s premier yacht race. Yes!!!!

  I bet there are no rules about having pets as part of your crew. Me and my posse start training tomorrow. Until I get a yacht, we’ll just use an inflatable raft in my pool.

  The dream lives.

  ellenvision

  I feel extremely lucky to have my own TV show. Every day I pinch myself because I’m sure I must be dreaming. Actually, I don’t pinch myself. It’s one of my manager’s jobs to pinch me and say, “You ain’t dreamin’, kid!” Then I pinch him, he pinches me back, and it usually ends up in a slap fight. Sometimes the slap fight lasts until midnight. Then we call it a day, go to sleep, and repeat it all again the next morning.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m so happy that my show is as good, and as based in reality, as it is. You wouldn’t believe some of the shows that were offered me by network executives before I accepted Ellen (which, by the way, is named for Ellen Burstyn).

  In one show presented to me, I was going to be a single news producer for a small TV station in Minneapolis. I said, “That sounds an awful lot like Mary Tyler Moore.” They replied, “Who’s going to remember?”

  Other shows I was offered included Hello Ellen (with MacLean Stevenson), Ellen the Chimp Lady, and a sitcom version of The Piano—I was going to play the Holly Hunter part, and either Siegfried or Roy was going to play the Harvey Keitel role.

  I think the worst idea I was subjected to was a show called Inky Dinky Do. “Inky Dinky Do,” I said, “what’s it about?” The network executive said, “We don’t know yet. All we’ve come up with is the title.”