My Point ... And I Do Have One (9 page)

H
ey, Debbie, this is Ellen. That’s a real cute phone message. You sounded just like Elmer Fudd. Geez, I hope you were trying to sound like Elmer Fudd. If you weren’t, I’m terribly sorry. Thanks for saying that you’d watch my house while I’m gone next week on vacation to the Luxembourg Soft Cheese and Jazz Festival. I know you said you would water the plants, bring in the mail, and turn some lights on so that it looks like somebody is home. But if it’s not too much of an imposition, could you also make sure that the mobile over the crib isn’t tangled? Otherwise, the baby is just going to get bored. I never knew having a kid was so much responsibility! Bye bye
.

I’m just joking. I don’t have a baby. I do, however, have a mobile and a crib. I enjoy those things, so I have them. And, even though I don’t have a baby, I have hired a nanny. In case I decide to have a baby, it’s nice to know that Bok Choy is there. (To keep him in practice, I have him read me a bedtime story every night and occasionally I let him burp me.)

I want to have a child. I really do. I think about it every day—and every day I change my mind: I want one now. I’ll wait a year. I want one now. I’ll wait a year. Well, you get the idea.

I think that part of my dilemma is that even though I want to have a baby, I don’t want to
have
the baby. I can’t imagine
having
the baby. Giving birth is just so much pain. I know it’s a beautiful child you end up with. I’m aware of that. But if I want a new washer and dryer, I wouldn’t necessarily want to
have
a new washer and dryer, if you know what I mean (and if you don’t, I really don’t care to explain it in any more detail).

I don’t think I could go through that pain (having the
child
—let’s just forget the washer and dryer now, okay?). A lot of women I know believe in natural childbirth. No matter how much discomfort they’re in, they refuse to take drugs. Mercy, mercy me! Just thinking about that pain makes me want to take drugs (sometimes I even drive down to the hospital and demand an epidural).

I don’t need a baby growing inside of me for nine months, either. For one thing, there’s morning sickness. If I’m going to feel nauseous and achy when I wake up, I want to achieve that state the old-fashioned way: getting good and drunk the night before. I know that a woman glows when she’s pregnant, and that sounds neat. But, I can get a pretty good glow by enjoying a steam bath followed by some assorted skin creams. The thing that I don’t understand most is when a pregnant woman joyfully talks about feeling her baby kick. To me, getting kicked isn’t as big a thrill as others make it out to be. I’ve never liked getting kicked from the outside, why should I feel any different about an inside kick?

But I would like to have a child. So, one day I’d like to adopt a baby who needs a loving home and be a mother who will adore him or her and teach it important things. I think I’d make a great mother. I’m great with kids. I know this because I’m the godmother to a precious little two- or five-year-old boy or girl (I’m not sure of the specifics). I probably would be overprotective of my child, though. She (if it’s a girl) or he (if it’s not a girl) would always have to wear a helmet (even if it’s just to eat cereal; those spoons can be mighty dangerous!); would be on one of those protective leashes until, at least, senior year of high school; and would, in general, be raised like people raise veal—confined to a crate by itself somewhere.

I
think my best quality as a mother would be the ability to communicate complex ideas simply, I think all parents dread the old “How are babies made” question. I know my parents had a problem explaining this to me.

“Mommy, Daddy—how are babies made?”

“Well, Ellen honey, there’s an egg.”

“Like a chicken egg?”

“No, smaller.”

“Like a robin’s egg?”

“No, much smaller—it’s very small. And Daddy gives Mommy … Well, there’s a Papa Bear and a Mama Bear and the Mama Bear has the baby in her tummy—”

“So I grew in a bear’s stomach?”

“No, but if you were a bear you would’ve.”

“But I’m not a bear?”

“No, you’re a little girl.”

“So, where did I grow?”

“In Mommy’s tummy.”

“How did I get there?”

“Daddy gave her special sauce.”

“Like McDonald’s?”

“Who knows? Maybe.”

“How did he give it to her? In a hamburger?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“I like hamburgers. Good night.”

“Good night, sleep tight.”

I know that I could do a much better job answering that question than my parents. Other people sense this, too. In fact, hardly a day goes by when somebody doesn’t ask me, “Ellen, how can I explain sex to my children?” Unfortunately, it’s always the same person who is asking me that question. He’s the man who runs the cheese shop I go to—Cheeses ’N’ Things it’s called (I’ve always been afraid to ask what the ’N’ Things are). Anyway, this man’s only child works in the store with him, is in his mid-twenties, and from the way he handles a sharp cheddar, can probably explain more about sex to his father than vice versa.

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

W
hen 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.