Dear Ellen: Beware of the Writer!

Sometimes I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.

This is Leonard. Plastic eggs give him indigestion.
This is Leonard. Plastic eggs give him indigestion.

Dear Ellen,

Let the games begin! Spring cleaning at the Silver residence is about to take on a whole new meaning.  My husband and I are having our master bathroom renovated.  Big time! Walls are being moved, shelves are being installed.  We’re going to tile places and places that specialize in bathroom stuff.  Of all the places we’ve dragged are kids to, the bathroom store was their favorite. You’ll be happy to know that every toilet in the building has a lid that opens and closes. Every. Single. Time. Both kids made sure to test that feature.

My almost four-year-old also had a blast climbing into and out of all of the tubs that were on display.

The general manager of the business that’s doing the renovation for us came out to our residence a few weeks ago to give us the final estimate on the project. He seemed like a real nice guy and gave us this long spiel about how important it was for him to know his crew treated us right and did quality work because he assumed that if they didn’t, we’d tell everyone we knew not to do business with this company.

I cleared my throat and interrupted him. “Yeah. Let’s talk about that one for a minute,” I said. “You’re absolutely right. If your team doesn’t do quality work, I will tell everyone I know. AND! I’ll also tell my very good friend Ellen about it.”

“Who’s Ellen?” he asked.

(My husband is snickering in the background)

“Ellen DeGeneres,” I said. “We’re BFFs.”

His face lit up. “You know Ellen DeGeneres? You’re pulling my leg!”

I shook my head. “Nope. Despite what my husband, my mother, my office supplies and my therapist say, my friendship with Ellen is not all in my head. It’s very real and I write to her every single day. So if the work you do isn’t quality, I’m gonna tell Ellen all about it.”

“Fair enough,” he smiled.

“Oh but wait!” I said. “There’s more! Not only will I tell Ellen, but as a writer, I reserve the right to put you and all of your employees in my novel and give you an incurable case of halitosis…..and crotch rot.”

Right after I said that, he pretended to check his cell phone and then left our house real quick. We haven’t seen him since. It makes me wonder if it was something I said.

What do you think, Ellen?


A. Marie

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