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  And I know there’s such a thing as constructive criticism, but to me that’s still criticism. It’s just criticism with a jaunty hat. You’re still hurting people’s feelings, and I don’t like it. I don’t do it on my talk show. I don’t do it in life. I just don’t do it.

  One of the reasons I didn’t like giving criticism was that a lot of the contestants felt as if Idol was the end of the road. If they were eliminated, they thought it was all over. But that isn’t the case. One of the good things about being there was that I got to tell them that there’s a lot more waiting for them outside of Idol. In fact, the next day I had each contestant on my talk show, where I introduced them to a whole other audience, and I loved being able to do that.

  It’s the same with every career and life decision. You just have to keep driving down the road. It’s going to bend and curve and you’ll speed up and slow down, but the road keeps going. For me, I made a pit stop at Idol; it was exciting, and I’m grateful for the opportunity. But then I decided it was best for me to move on. So I got back in my hovercraft and I kept going down the road. Now I have my own record label and I can discover and nurture new talent, and that feels great.

  And I’m still a huge fan of Idol. I watch it every single week. It’s a great panel. Randy’s been there from the very beginning. He’s experienced and honest. There’s the glamorous diva with the pretty hair and the jewelry and the gorgeous makeup. And then there’s Jennifer Lopez, who doesn’t look so bad herself. I love watching, and I’m happier now that I get to watch at home on my sofa with Portia and the only thing I have to judge is Portia’s cooking. (That’s just a joke! It’s always delicious.)

  Common Courtesy

  I am never late. In fact, I’m usually early. This is partly because I believe in respecting other people’s time, and partly because I forgot to turn my watch back after I went to Europe one summer. In a recent highly scientific study I conducted among friends, family, and cable repairmen, I discovered one thing to be true: Most people are always late.

  I don’t know when it became socially acceptable to be late. I imagine it started with the person who coined the phrase “fashionably late.” What a terrible expression that is. I don’t know who came up with it, but it was obviously someone smart enough to trick people into thinking that something is stylish when it is definitely not stylish. I’m assuming it’s the same person who invented culottes.

  I remember one time Portia and I invited a couple over for dinner and they showed up two hours late. You read that right—two hours! One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand and two hundred seconds late. We told them to come at 7:00, and they got there at 9:00. By the time they showed up, we ran out of firewood for the fireplace, our candles had melted completely down, and I was capital D-runk. To be fair, I was drunk at 4:30, but that’s not the point I’m making.

  If someone invites me to a dinner party and they say to be there at 7:00, I’ll show up at noon. And if they’re not ready for me, I’ll use that time to go through their medicine cabinets. I would never be late because it throws off the whole plan for the evening. Everyone schedules dinner parties the same way. You call it for 7:00. You expect people to trickle in between 7:00 and 7:15. There’s about eighteen to twenty minutes of small talk, some appetizers, and by 7:45 it’s time to eat. You eat for about an hour, drink a magnum or two of Chablis, have a heated discussion about politics and/or the quality of the Look Who’s Talking sequel as compared to the original, and by 9:00 you’re yawning so people know it’s time to find their coats. When people don’t show up until 9:00, everything gets pushed back far too late. By the time we were ready for dessert, I was ready for bed. Literally. I had put in my night guard and taken all my clothes off.

  I understand that sometimes people are going to be late. I can deal with someone being ten minutes late or fifteen minutes late. But once you hit an hour, you better have a really good excuse—like, you gave birth to a baby in your car. And if you’re gonna be more than an hour late, you better show up with a litter.

  What I’ve realized is that people don’t care about common courtesy anymore. How many times have you held a door open for someone who walks right through it without saying thank you? How many times have you let someone into your lane of traffic without receiving the courtesy wave? I mean, who among us hasn’t picked up a drifter only to be disappointed after they steal all the money out of your wallet when you thought they were looking for gum? We’ve all been there.

  And not only are people rude, they have no boundaries anymore. I was in a public ladies’ room recently because the Port-O-Let that’s usually part of my motorcade was in for repairs. And the person in the stall next to me was talking on her cell phone. In the stall. In public. Not a care in the world. On the one hand, I was happy for her because I found out her son made the honor roll and her husband got a promotion at work. On the other hand, I didn’t need to know that her rash turned out to be nothing more than bicycle chafing.

  When I was growing up, you couldn’t take your phone anywhere because it was tethered to the wall in the kitchen. If you were on the phone, you were only on the phone because there was nothing else you could do except maybe flip through an old cookbook or rifle through a junk drawer full of pennies. You couldn’t even bend down to tie your shoe or you’d get choked by six feet of phone cord.

  Now that we can take our phones practically anywhere, everyone is completely distracted while they’re supposed to be having a personal conversation. Have you ever been talking to someone and you can tell they’re not paying attention to what you’re saying at all? They pretend they are because every few seconds they say, “Uh-uh. Uh-huh. Oh really? That’s so neat.” And you’re like, How is it neat that I have the flu?

  It’s crazy to me that people don’t realize we can hear what’s going on in the background of wherever they are. I know you’re watching television because I can hear Anderson Cooper and I know he’s not your roommate. I know you’re in the grocery store because I can hear that grapes are on sale. I know you’re at the gym because someone is telling you to feel the burn. At least I hope you’re at the gym.

  Everyone tries to multitask now and do twelve different things at once. I once saw a woman talking on the phone, putting on makeup, reading a newspaper, texting, and Twittering all at the same time. I went right over to her and said, “Hey! You need to focus right now. You are my therapist.”

  I guess what I’m saying is that politeness seems to be lacking in our society nowadays. In the 1950s people were much more polite. They used to say “G’day, ma’am” and “G’day, sir” and “G’day, mate.” I might be thinking of the Australian outback. But still. People were polite. Wally and the Beav were never late for dinner. After Lassie rescued Timmy from the well, Timmy sent Lassie a handwritten thank-you note and a gift certificate to Denny’s. And one of the biggest songs of the decade was called “Don’t Be Cruel.” Another one was “Be-Bop-A-Lula.” (I don’t know if that has anything to do with politeness, I just thought you might want to know.)

  I’m not saying we should return to those times entirely. I mean, most ladies wore girdles and I don’t think we need to revisit that situation. I’m just saying we can all work on our manners. We can say please and thank you. We can be punctual. We can just be nicer to one another. It’s something we have in our power to do. It reminds me of that Margaret Mead quote: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” That’s either Margaret Mead or it was my horoscope in last month’s issue of Yarn Today. My point is, be nice and be on time.

  Please.

  Thank you.

  Sauna

  One of the best things you can do for your mind and body is sweat. That’s why I usually wear undergarments made out of thick memory foam. It’s also why I’m in a sauna right now. It’s going to help me relax, rid my body of toxins, and clear my mind. Out with the old and in with the new!

  It’s
very hot in here. I know I’m supposed to be sweating, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to be sweating this much. There are little puddles of moisture collecting in the sleeves of my robe. I should probably take off my robe, but I’m just not that comfortable being naked around strangers. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for most of the women at the spa today. It’s like a nudist colony in here. I’ve never been to a nudist colony, but I imagine this is what they’re like. A lot of naked people bending and stretching like they’re preparing for a race.

  Now my eyes are burning. Not because of the naked people. Well, a little because of the naked people. But mostly because of the heat. It must be about five hundred degrees in here. One time when I was a kid I stuck my head inside an oven because I wanted to get tan. This is much hotter than that. This feels more like the surface of the sun, or the inside of a jalapeño popper.

  Saunas are supposed to be great for your skin. That’s what my facialist’s assistant’s assistant told me. And I just learned on Jeopardy! that the skin is the largest organ in the human body. At first when Alex Trebek said, “This is the largest organ in the human body,” I screamed out, “Leg!” Obviously I was just kidding. Well, I wasn’t kidding but everyone laughed at me as soon as I said it so I pretended I was kidding. Sometimes I do that when I say something wrong and everyone laughs like I’m making a joke. They’re always like, “Oh, Ellen, you’re so funny.” And I’m like, “Yep, gotcha again, you sillies!” And then I try to change the subject to Matt Lauer or something.

  You know, I might be sitting too close to the heater. My eyelashes are sweating. I’m sure if I get some water I’ll be okay. I love the cucumber water that spas have. It’s so refreshing. It’s like a little spa for your mouth. It’s funny how cucumber water can taste so much better than pickle juice, even though it’s from the exact same source. I love pickles, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that after a massage, I’d much prefer the lighter taste of cucumber water to the saltier taste of pickle juice. Whereas after a long day at the office, I might kick back in front of the TV and enjoy a large glass of pickle juice.

  I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I would never have a glass of pickle juice. That’s a lie. I think I’m delirious from the heat. The good news is, if I pass out at least I’m wearing a robe with a spandex bodysuit underneath it with a T-shirt and shorts over that. The bad new

  Answers to Frequently Asked Questions

  Yes.

  Yes.

  No.

  One time in high school.

  Three times in my twenties.

  Rocks no salt.

  Yes.

  Four.

  Never. And how dare you!

  I will take no further questions.

  Labels

  Unfortunately, I get labeled a lot. I’m often labeled as a “gay talk show host” or a “vegan animal lover” or a “dancing superstar the likes of which this world has never seen before.” I remember after I became a CoverGirl, people started labeling me as just another “gorgeous blond model with a pretty face” and they stopped taking me seriously. And that was hard. That was really hard.

  The problem with labels is that they lead to stereotypes and stereotypes lead to generalizations and generalizations lead to assumptions and assumptions lead back to stereotypes. It’s a vicious cycle, and after you go around and around a bunch of times you end up believing that all vegans only eat cabbage and all gay people love musicals. (For the record, I find musicals very unrealistic. If I suddenly turned to Portia and burst into a song about how we’re out of orange juice, I don’t think she would just immediately join in. I think she would be confused and concerned for me.)

  Stereotypes obviously come from somewhere. There are similarities among certain groups of people, but it would be dangerous to assume that all stereotypes are accurate. You can’t say all New Yorkers are rude or all Californians are hippies. You can’t say all blondes are dumb or all white men can’t jump. You can’t say all rich people are snobs or all celebrities have big egos and are self-centered. That’s just not true.

  But going back to me for a second. I know there are a lot of stereotypes associated with being gay. However, I didn’t realize just how many there are until recently when a woman asked me how many cats I have. When I told her I have three, the first thing she said was “Oh, you really are a lesbian!”

  And at first I thought, Well, yes I really am a lesbian. That secret’s out. But then I thought, Wait, what? When did that become a stereotype? I thought most people who had a bunch of cats were single and lonely. No. See? That’s another stereotype.

  I was so taken aback by her comment. How does the number of cats you have make you a lesbian? And why is three the lesbian number? Would having only two cats mean I’m straight? Would having four make me a super-lesbian? I’d like to make it clear for anyone who may think otherwise, I assure you that having cats does not a lesbian make. There are a few other characteristics that define one as a lesbian.

  When she said that, it reminded me of when I came out. At that time there were extreme groups that didn’t think I was gay enough. There were other groups of people who thought I was too gay. It didn’t occur to me that when I announced I was gay I would have to clarify just how gay I am. What does it matter? What does it mean? All I can say is I’m gay enough for me.

  To me that’s why stereotypes and labels can be so damaging. People make these sweeping generalizations and have preconceived notions of what you’re supposed to be and of who you are based on a few tiny, little words. I think it’s important to actually get to know someone before you make generalizations. And you can do that pretty easily just by talking to them, asking questions, or reading their diary.

  Despite all the labels, in most ways I’m really not that different from anyone else. I guess if you had to label me, you could say I’m like the girl next door. Well, maybe not next door. I’m like the girl a few doors down.

  For the Children—Part One

  One of the things I love most about my talk show is the fact that everyone from babies to great-great-great-grandparents watches it. My show is fun for all ages, kind of like an amusement park or a strip club that offers day care.

  Believe it or not, I have a loyal fan base made up of toddlers. I always assumed it was because they were impressed with my comedic timing and interviewing skills, but it turns out they just like to watch me dance.

  I love that kids love my show. In fact, I love it so much I want to devote this chapter to them. On the next few pages you’ll find pictures of cool things kids love that your son or daughter can color in. It’s like a coloring book! Only better because it’s my book! Please feel free to color it in yourself. You know that old saying: “You’re never too old to play. You’re only too old for low-rise jeans.”

  For the Children—Part Two

  If there’s one thing I know about children it’s that they have a hard time understanding the meaning of the words “priceless Warhol.”

  If there’s another thing I know it’s that they love a good story. If it were up to them, kids would have you read them the same book five hundred times in a row. That can be very frustrating on the days you decide to read them War and Peace.

  The real problem with kids wanting to hear the same story read over and over again is that as the reader, you get incredibly bored. So once again, Auntie Ellen is here to help. What I’ve done in this chapter is written a story that your child is going to want to hear many, many, many times. But the good news is, so will you! The parts of the story that are in parentheses are for adults, so as you read along be sure not to read any of that aloud.

  Now get those kids into their pj’s and let’s get reading!

  The Endlessly Exhilarating Adventures of a Pretty, Pretty Princess

  BY ELLEN DEGENERES

  Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there was a pretty, pretty princess named Isabella. She had long, flowing blond hair (most of it was a weave) and wore a tiara upon her head.
She was often ridiculed for wearing her tiara because she never took it off—not when she ate breakfast or when she swam in the lagoon (or when she went out with strangers she met on Craigslist).

  Many townspeople thought the king and queen had a peculiar daughter but the truth was Isabella didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She was a free spirit. (And she slept with a lot of older men.)

  The king wanted Princess Isabella to marry a wealthy prince who lived in the next town over. But the princess didn’t want to marry the prince because she wanted to explore the world before settling down, which in her mind meant she wanted to do a great deal of experimenting both sexually and with the illegal drug ecstasy—

  Oh no, I’m so sorry. That was supposed to be in parentheses. I hope you didn’t read that part aloud to your children. I’m so sorry!

  The king and queen were both shocked that their daughter didn’t want to marry the prince, for every young lady in all the land was envious of her opportunity. But Isabella meant it and so the king called off the wedding.

  The princess was ecstatic. She immediately packed a bag and left for an exciting and magical trip around the world. (Her first stop was Amsterdam, where she immediately got a tattoo and started doing improv.)