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

  Whatever the case, I’m sure there are many other reasonably sane people who are troubled by this problem. And the more children there are (and I’m not sure where these children are coming from), the more explaining about sex there is to be done.

  By sex I mean, of course … sex. You know what I’m saying. There are many different types of sex, but for the purpose of this explanation I’m just talking about … you know, sex. In other words, you might have two consenting adults, a coconut, a pound of confetti, and a very thirsty yak. What they do may be very beautiful and spiritual and fulfilling, but it’s not necessarily something you’d care to explain to a child. Okay, I think we’ve defined our terms, so let’s get on with the explanation.

  If you’re nervous about explaining sex to a child, a good technique is to imagine that the child is not a child but is instead an alien from another planet. If it makes it easier for you, paint the child green and put a fake eye on its forehead. When the child asks you about sex, you can then say, “That sounds like English, but it’s probably some weird alien language I’ll never be able to understand. You’re probably asking me to take you to my leader.”

  So you take the child to Washington, D.C. and insist that the President meet with the child. Then the President can explain sex to the child. I mean, what else has the President got to do? On second thought, this might not be such a great technique.

  Okay then, what you’ve got to do is just explain sex simply and to the point. You just say, “When you get older you’re going to meet somebody that you really, really, really like. Well, if you’re lucky you’re going to like that person. Maybe you don’t even like ’em a lot, but at least they don’t bug you too much. Or, okay, it’s, let’s say, closing time at the bar—it’s really late and you’ve been knocking down quite a few Rusty Nails. And you know how the lighting is at those bars. I mean, everybody looks good. But then the next morning you look at the person next to you, and you’re like, ‘Argghhhh! Help me!’ ”

  Maybe it’s better to be a bit more allegorical. Tell a little story. You could say that there’s a Papa Bear and a Mama Bear. And the Mama Bear says, “Where is that Papa Bear? He hasn’t been home in a long time. He says he’s working late at the pretzel factory, but I don’t believe that lying grizzly bastard.” So she hires another bear to follow the Papa Bear—a Detective Bear (or, if you prefer, a detective goat—don’t be afraid to add your own spin to the story).

  Well, the Detective Bear shadows the Papa Bear for a week. Then he tells the Mama Bear that every night, after work, Papa Bear goes to the same hotel room in the Poconos. Well, Mama Bear decides that she’s going to give Papa Bear a big surprise. So, she goes to the hotel, kicks down the door, and there in the heart-shaped tub, sipping champagne, as naked as the day they were born are … No, this isn’t a good way either.

  There is a big fat queen bee, and she likes her honey. So, she’s in her hive and all these male bees are just buzzing around saying, “Oooo baby, I feel lucky tonight.”

  Or you take a big tub of butter, some milk, two or three eggs, a dash of vanilla … No, I’m sorry, that’s not sex, that’s my recipe for French toast. At least I hope that’s not sex.

  You know, I think the best idea is just to let the child watch cable TV. Or go out and rent 9½ Weeks. When I was in school, they showed us a sex education film about a boy calling up a girl on the phone and asking her out on a date. Nowadays, I’m sure they show 9½ WEEKS or something starring Sharon Stone.

  So, in conclusion, that’s how. I would talk to a child about sex. I sincerely hope that I’ve been of help. Excuse me, but I’ve got to go out for a short walk. All of a sudden it has gotten very hot in here, and I’ve developed a craving for French toast.

  in the kitchen

  with ellen

  or

  as tasty as poison and just as

  deadly

  When I wasn’t famous, nobody cared about how I ate or how I cooked or how I did my laundry or how I communicated telepathically with animals. But ever since becoming well known through my appearances on television, people seem to be a lot more curious about those things. Seems kind of funny to me, but, hey, if the public wants to know some of these things, I don’t think I have the right not to tell them.

  Well, I guess I do have the right to not tell. I mean, there’s no law that says any person of famous or semifamous stature or reputation shall find it incumbent upon said person or personage to divulge eating, cooking, laundry, or animal-telepathy habits to the general public at large, or even in small groups. This is strictly a matter of choice for me, and I choose to say, “Yes. Yes, I will tell you what you want to know about me.” And one of the things you seem to want to know most about me is my recipe for French toast.

  It is one of my favorite recipes, and I bet dollars to donuts that after you try it out, it will be one of your favorites, too. Come to think of it, I’m not exactly sure I know what the saying “betting dollars to donuts” means. Maybe it used to be “betting donuts to donuts,” but then … no, that still doesn’t make sense. I don’t even know when people started betting donuts. I do know that if you’re in Las Vegas, you can’t just go up to the roulette table, put a jelly donut on number 17, and shout out, “C’mon. Mama needs a big mess o’ crullers!!” Believe me, I’ve tried. Oddly enough, you can put a chip down on any number. But it’s a plastic chip and not the kind that you eat. So maybe it isn’t all that odd after all.

  But I digress.

  Anyway, this is something that I cook up whenever people drop by, whether it’s invited guests (Gus, my mailman), or tour buses filled with screaming fans (who tell me that I serve better food than Kevin Costner or Madonna).

  Believe it or not, Ellen’s Real Frenchy French Toast is also a great alternative to candy for trick or treaters on Halloween. Ah, the look on the little children’s faces when I drop the still-steaming hot bread into their bags followed by a generous dollop of butter and a splash of maple syrup. You can see their faces because in Hollywood children don’t wear masks on Halloween. They usually dress up as agents, valet parkers, or second-unit directors instead.

  Now, on with the recipe.

  Ingredients

  BREAD

  “What kind of bread should I use?!” you might say, panicking a wee bit early. Well, there are many types of bread: wheat, rye, white, Italian, Swiss, Dopey, Doc, pumpernickel … Do you know if you took every type of bread there is and laid them end to end—and I’m not counting crackers—well … Sorry, I’m not exactly sure of the point I’m trying to make. Maybe, just that it would go really really really far.

  In the 1960s, bread was slang for money, as in “Hey, man, gimme some bread so I can buy a psychedelic headband.” I don’t know why that was. Maybe it’s because in the 1940s, dough was slang for money, as in “Excuse me, Mister, can I borrow some dough so that I may purchase a spiffy fedora.” One theory is that dough rose and eventually became bread. My point being that you shouldn’t put money into this recipe.

  EGGS

  How did people ever figure out that eggs were edible? Did they see something come out of a chicken and think, “Boy, I bet that would be tasty?” There had to be a first person who ever ate an egg. I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant. In fact, there are pictures in a cave in the south of France showing a Neanderthal crunching into an egg and getting a big mouthful of egg shells; to the side there are other Neanderthals pointing at him and laughing. But who got the last laugh? I don’t really know, I wasn’t there. Also, this might not be true. It’s possible it’s just a dream I had one night after eating a bad clam.

  People probably started eating some foods because they saw other animals eating them first. For instance, somebody saw a pig digging up truffles and eating them and said, “Say, that pig must know what he’s doing. Otherwise he wouldn’t be a pig. Hey, I can talk. Listen, everybody, I’ve invented language.”

  There had to be a first person who ate beets. Why why why didn’t that person tell everybody th
at it wasn’t worth the bother? To this day, people are still eating huge forkfuls of beets and asking God in Heaven how anybody decided that this could be food. Or, maybe that’s just me.

  SQUID

  Actually there is no squid in this recipe. I was just thinking about them. I wonder what happened during their evolution to allow them to shoot out ink behind them. Some people think they developed this talent to avoid predators. But maybe it’s just a neat magic trick: the squid squirting out the ink and when the ink disperses, the squid is gone. He’s like the David Copperfield of the ocean. I’m not saying that a squid is married to a supermodel like Claudia Schiffer, but I’m not saying that he isn’t, either.

  BUTTER

  If you have a moral or health reason for not using butter, then you can substitute some other lubricant, such as margarine, oil, or Vaseline. In a pinch you can rub a peanut really hard and fast over your pan. I’ve never tried this, but it’s possible that you could squeeze out a drop or two of oil.

  I probably should have mentioned earlier that you are going to need a …

  PAN

  You probably are also going to need a …

  KITCHEN

  I suppose you could cook the French toast over a heat source not found in a kitchen. You could try the cable box over your TV, but that doesn’t give off much heat. It might take a year or two to cook the Real Frenchy French Toast properly. The same holds true for a candle. You’d need seventy or eighty candles to do the job right. You’d have to wait for your Uncle Hank’s birthday party and cook over his cake. But, if you’re doing this, you’re just being obstinate. Go to the kitchen, use the stove, and stop being such a big baby.

  SALT AND PEPPER (TO TASTE)

  If you can’t taste it, then it ain’t salt and pepper! That’s an old cooking joke. For the life of me, I’ve never been able to figure out what it meant.

  VANILLA

  If you don’t have vanilla, you can substitute chocolate, butter pecan, or fudge ripple.

  LAIT

  That’s french for milk. Calling it lait is what makes ordinary French toast Real Frenchy French Toast. You could call all of the ingredients by their french names, but then you’d run the danger of making Really Pretentious Frenchy French Toast.

  To Cook

  Now, do what I do. Give all the ingredients to your housekeeper, sit down with a …

  COLD FROSTY BEER

  in front of the TV, and before you can say Gerard Depardieu, your housekeeper will be bringing out a piping hot bushel of the tastiest French toast you’ve ever had.

  Now, enjoy and bon appétit.

  things that

  sound like a

  good idea at

  first, but

  really aren’t

  A. Taking a shower with someone.

  B. Pet sitting.

  C. Pie eating contests.

  D. A mud bath followed by a Shiatsu massage.

  E. Having somebody read to you.

  1. Reading to someone else.

  F. Writing a book.

  ellen

  degeneres is

  a man!

  or

  ellen degeneres is a man!

  ANOTHER POEM

  I wish I were taller

  And had perfect legs

  And had easier hair to fix

  And was a man

  Sometimes I do

  But not really

  But sometimes

  But not a lot

  Just a little

  Once in a while

  O.K. only once

  When I had to use the restroom

  And somebody was in the ladies’ room so it was locked

  And the men’s was open but I was too chicken to go in

  So I wished I was a man then

  Just that one time

  Someone recently wrote a letter recently to a national magazine recently (and you know it must really be recently since I’ve mentioned it so many times) asking, “Why does Ellen DeGeneres always wear pants and never skirts?”

  I’m guessing that the person who wrote that letter meant skirt, a noun signifying an article of clothing, and not skirt, a verb defined as, “to evade or elude (as a topic of conversation) by circumlocution.” Because, if they mean the verb skirt, well, they’re dead wrong. I’m always skirting. I skirt so much that it would not be inappropriate for someone to call me Skirty, though I can guarantee that I will never answer to that nickname.

  But it’s probably pretty safe to assume that the person who wrote that letter wanted to know why instead of wearing skirts, I wear pants.

  First, let me just say, Wow! Some people have a lot of free time! I mean, it’s one thing to wonder that to yourself. But to actually take time to write to a magazine about it? I have to conclude, however, that if one person wondered that, probably others have too. So, once and for all, here’s the reason.

  If you must know, years ago when I was young and impressionable, after eating some fermented berries at Camp Tatchey-Too Too, I had both my legs completely tattooed with designs of bougainvillaea. Now, if I wear a skirt, I am constantly bothered by bees.

  I hope that clears that up. Thank you for your curiosity.

  All kidding aside—actually, I change my mind. I don’t want to put all kidding aside. I want the kidding right there in front where we all can see it. The main point of this book is kidding. If I put all kidding aside, there would be nothing left but nonkidding, and believe me, that wouldn’t make a very interesting book. So forget that: the kidding stays (or I go).

  Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Some people probably think that you’re less of a woman if you wear pants, and that’s just not fair (unless you’re a man, in that case you might like being thought of as less than a woman … or at least less womanly—or maybe not). So, what am I trying to say? Probably something about how unfair it is to be judged by appearances. Yeah, that sounds right.

  It is unfair to be judged by appearances. Even though I don’t wear skirts, I know I’m a girl. Of course, I forget that sometimes. Wait a minute, I should clear that up. I can already see some reviewer singling that quote out. I don’t forget that I’m a girl—I know I’m a girl (I’ve got two X chromosomes and I’m not afraid to use them)—but I think of myself as a human being first, just a person.

  I’m a person who’s a woman, and I don’t like dresses or panty hose or heels. I guess you could chuckle and say that I’m just a woman trapped in a woman’s body. But, if you did say that, nobody would know what you meant, and probably more than one person would ask you to kindly stop chuckling.

  High heels should be outlawed (at the very least there should be a five-day waiting period before you can buy them). They destroy your feet. It should be mandatory that the Surgeon General print a warning label on high heels like they do on a package of cigarettes (i.e., Warning: These shoes can lead to lower back pain, aching toes, and the illusion that you’re taller than you actually are).

  Anyway, just to reiterate, I do know I’m a girl. As proof (and I don’t know why you want proof all of a sudden), when I’m out in public and I have to use the restroom, I head straight for the ladies’ room or the door with a stick figure wearing a dress (even though I’m not wearing one myself) or, if it’s a seafood restaurant, the door marked “Gulls” and not “Buoys.”

  I guess the bigger point, though, is that fairly or unfairly (and sometimes both at the same time), we are judged by the way we look. And, more often than not, we’re the ones who are judging ourselves.

  I’m sometimes—by which I mean most of the time—insecure about the way I look. But, then again, I believe most people are insecure about their looks (though I’m not sure enough of myself to ask them). I’d bet even supermodels sometimes look at themselves in the mirror and say, “Oh, look. There’s a part of me that’s less perfect than the other parts of me that are more perfect.”

  I know that I’m being too critical. I know that I should just accept the way I look. I know that my appearance isn
’t as important to me as my thoughts and creativity and energy and relationships with people: that’s what I thrive on. But none of this knowledge stops me from spending hours in front of the mirror looking for what I’ve been told (by the people waiting in line behind me at the Gap) are imaginary imperfections.

  Doesn’t it seem that when you look in the mirror, the tiniest imperfections seem huge? And you know that that’s all people are going to be staring at all day: a blemish, a rebel strand of hair that refuses to behave, a flaming arrow in your forehead (this may not be a good example of a tiny imperfection).

  So that I don’t spend most of my day looking in the mirror consumed with self-doubt, I’ve developed some basic grooming and fashion tips that help me get started each day. And, on the small chance that they may help you, too, here they are.

  There is only one rule: You’ve got to have nice shoes—that’ll get you by. (Remember the saying: “I felt bad because I had no shoes, then I saw someone with really ugly shoes?”) Well, unless you’re wearing ratty old socks with holes in them. That would be stupid. So, nice shoes and nice socks are all you need.

  And, of course, there’s your hair. That’s important, too. It should be well-groomed—be it long or short. Here’s another tip: If you’ve ever had spaghetti in your hair, you know it’s hard to tell because, of course, it’s long and stringy. Now if your hair isn’t long and stringy, it’s easier to tell. But, just in case, always check your hair every morning for spaghetti.

  Any type of pasta aside, your hair should be trimmed regularly and have a clean, fresh appearance. Well, that goes for your overall body really—it should be clean and fresh. You should try to not have any perspiration (or very little) and smell good. Nice odor is important.