Seriously I'm Kidding Part 4

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 La.s.sie rescued Timmy from the well, Timmy sent La.s.sie 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 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 jalapeno popper.

Saunas are supposed to be great for your skin. That's what my facialist's a.s.sistant's a.s.sistant told me. And I just learned on Jeopardy! 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. 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 cuc.u.mber water that spas have. It's so refres.h.i.+ng. It's like a little spa for your mouth. It's funny how cuc.u.mber 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 ma.s.sage, I'd much prefer the lighter taste of cuc.u.mber 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 gla.s.s of pickle juice.

I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I would never have a gla.s.s of pickle juice. That's a lie. I think I'm delirious from the heat. The good news is, if I pa.s.s out at least I'm wearing a robe with a spandex bodysuit underneath it with a T-s.h.i.+rt 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 a.s.sumptions and a.s.sumptions 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 a.s.sume 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 sn.o.bs 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 a.s.sociated 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 a.s.sure 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sumed 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 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 PrincessBY E ELLEN D 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 s.e.xually 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.) She traveled all over every continent. (I think there are eleven?) One day she was walking through the beautiful streets of London when a sudden gust of wind blew her tiara right off her head. She ran into the street to get it just as a car was driving by. The driver slammed on his brakes so hard that everyone in the street stopped and stared.

Suddenly the driver stepped out of the car and Isabella couldn't believe her big, blue (fake contact lenswearing) eyes. It was the prince.

Isabella couldn't explain why, but she was so happy to see him and he was happy to see her. He picked the tiara up off the street and placed it upon her head. (He had run it over with his car so it was in about four different pieces that he had to stack on top of one another.) He explained that he, too, wanted to spend time traveling and living on his own. But now as luck would have it, there they were together again. They embraced.

(They went back to their hometown and ended up getting married about a year later. Isabella gave birth to a bunch of kids throughout the next decade. She continued to wear her tiara outside of the house, which gave her the reputation of being a full-on weirdo, and she kept her hair long well into her late sixties. After the princess's father pa.s.sed away, the queen moved in with them, which put some strain on their relations.h.i.+p. They got through it but there were definitely some rough patches. They had some money trouble on and off just like any other couple. A few of their kids weren't that smart. It seemed like they both couldn't help but wonder if they were meant to be together, even though it did seem like fate brought them back together that one day in London. Or maybe if she didn't wear that tiara all the time it wouldn't have blown off her head and they never would have seen each other again. It's one of those things that no one will ever really have the answer to.) And they lived happily ever after. (Not really.)

Talking Hard

There are a few things I didn't realize would happen when I signed on to host my talk show. One, I didn't know that for the first three months of the job, I would have a recurring dream where Maury Povich invites me on his show to tell me that Phil Donahue is my biological father. And two, I didn't realize how much I was going to have to talk. Oh my heavens, there's a lot of talking. I know the job t.i.tle is "talk show host," but I guess when I first started I focused more on the "host" part. I picked out nice candles for the guest dressing rooms. I made sure the lighting was just right. I stocked the rooms with champagne and fresh strawberries. I even picked out soft robes and underwear in case anyone wanted to get more comfortable. Sure, a lot of my guests initially thought I was. .h.i.tting on them, and that was my mistake.

I just didn't realize how much talking it would involve, and my job isn't a job where I can ever take a day off. Believe me, I've tried. The studio is always like, "You signed a contract to be here every day, blah, blah, blah."

It's a lot of pressure. It turns out if I stop talking the show comes to a complete stop. It's the same as writing this book. If I don't write, nothing happens.

Do you see what I mean? It's pressure.

And it's not just the talking. I also have to listen! When I ask my guests questions, I don't know how they're going to answer so I really have to pay attention. In real life, when I ask someone a question I can nod and pretend like I'm listening, when really all I'm thinking about is how cute it would be if my cat could play the ukulele. If I daydream like that on my show, I'm being "rude" to "Julia Roberts."

Don't get me wrong-I love my job, but let me just break down how much talking there is on my show. Every day I start with a monologue. That's all talk with some occasional singing because when you have a voice like mine you have to share it with the world. Then I sit down and I talk to my DJ. We make small talk. After that I talk to my audience about what's going on in my life. I love talking to my audience. Over the past nine years, I feel like I've developed a relations.h.i.+p with them. It's one where I do most of the talking and we eat all our meals separately, but it works for us.

After I talk to the audience, we take a commercial break, and during the break I talk to my producers. They tell me stuff like, "You look great" and "You were so funny when you said [INSERT HILARIOUS JOKE HERE]." It's not like they have to say that stuff or anything, but if they do they get entered into drawings to win fun prizes. Then we come back from commercial and I talk to my guests. Now, I love talking to my guests. I have had the chance to interview some absolutely incredible people-everyone from actors and musicians to powerful world leaders like the president of the United States and Justin Bieber.

But let me be clear. Not all of my guests are easy to talk to. Most of them are. Most of them come on with great stories to share and great energy. We have a nice time. We dance with each other, we chat, we do shots. But every once in a while, a guest will come on who isn't the easiest person to have a conversation with. I can't name any names, of course. Well, I can name one: Harry Connick Jr. He's like talking to a wall. It is impossible and I can't pretend otherwise anymore.

Meeting and talking to my guests is a lot like being at a c.o.c.ktail party with people you've only met once or twice. When you first see each other, you're not sure if you should shake hands or hug or kiss, so you end up doing that awkward handshake-half-hug-oh-my-goodness-we-almost-kissed-on-the-lips-because-I-didn't-know-which-way-to-turn-my-head! combination greeting.

Then after they sit down, I try to compliment them right away. I'll say something like, "You look great" or "It's so nice to finally meet you." And they'll say something like, "Thanks, you look great also" or "We've met before." And then they'll launch into their personal stories.

I've definitely noticed some patterns over the years in the way certain people tell stories. First of all, you can always tell how interested you're going to be in a story based on how it starts. If it starts with the sentence "Wait until I tell you about my new shower caddy," I don't need to hear the rest of it. But if it starts "I survived twelve years in the jungle on nothing but berries and thistle," I'm in.

I've also noticed that when people say, "You are never going to believe this story in a million years," I am almost always able to believe it. And when people say, "Long story short," they either say it after they've already told about fifteen minutes of an incredibly long, boring story, or they say it in the middle of what could be a really good story, like, "Well, we woke up and had breakfast out on the deck, like we do every morning. And long story short, I am no longer welcome in Mexico."

Obviously, it's my job to keep the conversation going and headed in a good, positive, upbeat direction. So I've learned that there are definitely questions to steer clear of to make sure that happens. If any of you ever decide to host your own talk show-and I encourage you to do so-here are some things you should never ask a guest:

1. How old are you really?

2. And where is that that tattoo? tattoo?

3. And where is that that piercing? piercing?

4. What an interesting story that was about your belt. Tell me more.

5. Could we see more pictures of your wife giving birth in the tub?