Official Book Club Selection Part 1

Official Book Club Selection.

Kathy Griffin.

FOREWORD.

Dear Oprah.

Hi, how are you? How's Gayle doing today?

Nice to hear.

Get ready, cause after you read this barn burner, you're gonna want me on for sweeps week. You're gonna want to open a school in my my name, and have a special edition white ladies' legends bal , just for me. Barbara Walters can cater. Maybe. name, and have a special edition white ladies' legends bal , just for me. Barbara Walters can cater. Maybe.

I know you have questions about what's wrong with me. Cal Dr.

Oz, he can be on with me during my hour, too. You don't have to cal Nate. He's already on my team. But don't act like you don't want to see my post-op plastic surgery photos, if you haven't already flipped to that chapter. You probably don't remember that I was actual y a guest on your show. Once. I'm on a lot of shows once, for some reason. But just know that if my house ever catches fire, I'm grabbing my two dogs, my picture with you, and running for my life. My mom is on her own. By the way, don't even think about Skype-ing my mom for this episode. She'l throw me under the bus in a heartbeat. She's got a thing for Gayle. Ring a bel ?

Let's establish some ground rules for my much-antic.i.p.ated appearance on your show. First of al , I'd like to sit on your lap, at a moment of your choosing. Please wear peach. I love you in summer colors. We're going to cold-cal Steadman, because I'm no longer convinced he even exists. And you wil have to introduce me using your signature vowel-elongating bel ow. Repeat after me: "KAAAA- THAY GRA-A-A-A-FF-A-A-A-A-A-N!" I already have chil s.

Here's my promise to you. This wil be the most talked-about episode of your career. Wel , after the one where Dr. Oz showed pictures of your poo. And maybe the one where the Olsen twins shocked the world with their tales of the difficulties of living in the public spotlight while trying to sel their sa.s.sy-themed tween fas.h.i.+on clothing line.

I know that you like to do episodes that help women put themselves "first on their list," that inspire "lightbulb" moments, and that lead to revelations that are big. "BIG, PE-E-E-E-PUHL!" Our hour together on camera, in front of your global audience, wil surely motivate, chal enge, and most important, help the children. After al , it is about the children. They are our future.

Here is what you wil admire about me. I'm living the life you secretly wish you could. I've got the dysfunctional family story just like a lot of people. I've bitten, scratched, and clawed to get where I am, just like you. But I don't have to be nice about it. I'm naming names and tel ing tales out of school. I wil be your guilty pleasure. I wil be your new s...o...b..z confidante. I wil be your new Julia Rob-iston-altrow-avolta-angelou.

So strap yourself in, O. You may be the only person who wil stil be talking to me by the end of this journey. Keep a bunk open at that school in South Africa. I may need to lay low for a while.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure you can handle this book. I'm going to Tyra.

XXO O O.

Kathy Griffin

"Go f.u.c.k yourself."

Have you ever looked at the online photos of Britney's peesh?

I probably shouldn't start my book with that question, but I just can't get enough of those photos. I find it nearly impossible to turn away from an online snapshot of any celebrity's peesh. Al right, Kath. Focus. This is the story of your life.

Wait! Have you seen that TV commercial with Wynonna Judd where she hawks diet pil s? Look, I don't mean to be rude, but maybe a gal with a big voice and a bigger ... um ... talent shouldn't be hawking diet pil s. Come on, you know know those pil s are just tiny donuts. Teeny, tiny powdered donuts. those pil s are just tiny donuts. Teeny, tiny powdered donuts.

Al right, that wasn't very nice. In fact, it was inappropriate, and nothing short of cheap gossip. But let's face it, that's why you bought this book.

That's right, I'm bringing it: gays, women, and the occasional DL (down-low) husband. The pages you are about to read have a lot of gossip, but guess what? Most of it's about me. I'm going to try to make this book a recipe (shout-out to Paula Deen!) of equal parts s.h.i.+t-talking about myself and others. Yeah, I go down pretty hard on myself in this book.

Not as hard as Steve Martin does, or my drunken Irish Catholic relatives do, perhaps. But I've had some heartaches and b.u.mpy pa.s.sages on this road to notoriety. Basical y, I take great pride in the fact that I'm a professional. You're in good hands. This is a job I've been training for my entire life.

How did I get here, then?

I'l start with a statement so shocking you might have to burn this book immediately: I was a kid who needed to talk. Al the time.

I mean, what's a beleaguered Mary Margaret Griffin to do when her mouthy little daughter won't shut the f.u.c.k up? Breathe a sigh of relief, for one thing, whenever I would bolt out the front door of our house on Home Avenue in suburban Oak Park, Il inois.

But Mom was real y of two minds about my exit. While part of her was thinking, Thank G.o.d, get her out of my earshot Thank G.o.d, get her out of my earshot , the other part surely thought, , the other part surely thought, Uh-oh Uh-oh. That's because I'd just go next door to the Bowens'

house, where I first learned the power of juicy material.

The Bowens were an older couple, and they lived with Mrs. Bowen's mother, Mrs. Tyres. The Bowens, Mrs. Tyres, and I had a mutual understanding. They would bribe me with Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies, and I'd freely spil our family secrets, al to my mom's horror, of course. She knew exactly what was going on because she could see it al through our kitchen window, which had a perfect view into the Bowens' formal dining room. Mom would be doing dishes, occasional y nursing a nice highbal -boxed wine innovations hadn't arrived yet -then look up, see my mouth moving, and then see the Bowens shaking their heads.

It was good stuff I was slinging, too. I'd reveal how one of my older siblings would have had a kegger the night before, and I'd run right over with the latest. "Yeah, Joyce had a party and one guy just fel asleep right on the lawn!" I'd excitedly report. "He was real drunk and everything!

There was puke everywhere! My mom made me promise not to tel anybody! I don't think she meant you, Mrs. Tyres! Boy, these cookies sure are good!"

From my perch at the Bowens' table, I could see my poor mom waving me over, mouthing, "Get back here! Get back here!" If either Mrs.

Bowen or Mrs. Tyres looked over, too, my mom could turn on her party face instantaneously and be al smiles: "Oh hel -o-o-o-o-o-o, Mrs.

Bowen!"

Everything was so prim and proper at the Bowens', with doilies on the table, and cookies neatly laid out on a plate. It was like high tea. At our packed house, it was a bag of cookies thrown out and al of us diving for them like animals, with no Kate Gosselin there to spank some sense into us. So natural y I thought it was my job to go next door to these fancy people and try to tel the most graphic, shocking, and horrible stories I could. I mean, haven't you sold your soul for a good slice of cake? (More on that later.) Mr. Bowen, of course, wanted nothing to do with me. Typical straight-guy audience. He would come home in his suit, grab the newspaper, and sit in his Barcalounger, tolerating the freckly, redheaded, seven-year-old spinning top who came over and just talked constantly constantly. Poor Mr. Bowen. The ladies, however, knew what was important, egging me on with widened eyes and a gently prodding "What?"

"My dad swore FOUR TIMES last night!"

"Joyce got kicked out of school again!"

"Keith Norman let me watch him pee in his yard today!"

"My brother had a party where everybody was drunk and my dad had this antique sword and it was stolen and my mom is FURIOUS!" (By the way, my family is still still talking about that d.a.m.n sword.) This arrangement with the Bowens went on for years. It started when we moved into that Home Avenue house and continued til I was in high school. If the Bowens had had Flip cam technology, they could probably sel it on eBay for tens of dol ars. Today, the story of my trips next door is one of my mother's favorites, but I guarantee you it caused her no end of grief back then. talking about that d.a.m.n sword.) This arrangement with the Bowens went on for years. It started when we moved into that Home Avenue house and continued til I was in high school. If the Bowens had had Flip cam technology, they could probably sel it on eBay for tens of dol ars. Today, the story of my trips next door is one of my mother's favorites, but I guarantee you it caused her no end of grief back then.

"What are you airin' our GAHDd.a.m.n dirty laundry for?" she'd always unload on me, her Chicago accent in ful flight. "Mrs. Bowen and Mrs.

Tyres, they don't want to hear your GAHDd.a.m.n mouth, for CHR-EYE- SSAKE. JEEZ-us CHR-EYE-ST."

Sorry, Mom. You and everyone else in the family might cal it tattling.

But to me, they were my first live shows. From the Bowens to Madison Square Garden, it's been quite a ride.

Who knew the one in the overal s would cause al the trouble?

With al the craziness this past year surrounding the Octomom and her fourteen kids-I'm on suicide watch for her, by the way-it's worth noting that my mother was herself the youngest of sixteen. Suck it, Octomom.

Before fertility drugs let Nadya Suleman set some kind of land-speed record in childbirth, there was good old-fas.h.i.+oned Irish Catholicism.

Of course, I've told Jesus to suck it, too, which earned me a certain measure of notoriety, because you have to make fun of any religion that would let you have sixteen kids and say it's G.o.d's wil . I mean, bless my grandparents. They seem like they were wonderful people. I didn't know them, real y, because most of them had pa.s.sed away before I was born.

But that amount of children is clearly insane. They were big believers in the rhythm method, and you can see how wel that worked out for them. I don't even know my grandmother's first name, because my mother only refers to her as "The Saint." For instance, I would say, "Mom, don't you think it might not have been the best choice to keep on having children, one a year, like she was punching a clock?"

She'd reply, "NO, don't say that! The woman's a SAINT!"

My mother's father was just cal ed "The Governor," or "Himself."

Which, if you have sixteen kids, probably isn't as crazy as it sounds.

"Himself is comin' home!" Grandma would supposedly announce in her Old Country brogue. I had to clarify with my mom who exactly she was talking about when she'd use this term. I would say, "Mom, do you mean your dad?" And she'd say "Of course. Himself."

Apparently, "Himself" liked to get into fistfights with his sons, well into well into their twenties their twenties. That's right. My mother would talk about this as if it were cute and adorable. Um, no. There isn't supposed to be any fisticuffs as a matter of everyday parenting.

I know I'm making fun of my family-mostly because I love teasing my mom-but there was also real tragedy in that situation. For one thing, you can't keep track of that many kids, and the likelihood of something horrible happening because of that just increases. This is a true Irish Catholic story: One young child in my mom's family died when he pul ed a pot of boiling water off the stove and was scalded to death. Her sister Angeline died of tuberculosis when she was twenty-one. This was a time when scurvy and polio were real dangers, when a family member would go into a veterans' hospital and never come back.

My mother's family came over on a s.h.i.+p in steerage cla.s.s from Ireland, but she and her four siblings nearest in age were born in America, so I'm second generation. They settled in the west side of Chicago, and life became al about the parish, or church community.

Presentation was the name of the Catholic church they attended, and this is what I love about the Irish: My mother became known as the second second prettiest girl at Presentation parish. prettiest girl at Presentation parish.

"Why was that okay?" I once asked her.

"Oh, because everybody knew Mary Griffin was the most beautiful girl at Presentation," she replied.

My mom was happy to be on the D-list! Just like I'm not trying to be Brooke s.h.i.+elds, she wasn't trying to be Mary Griffin. Now, she did go and marry the prettiest girl's brother, my father, John Patrick Griffin. That probably helps you accept the mantle of second prettiest girl at Presentation.

My dad's family, on the other hand, was something of an embarra.s.sment at Presentation, because-get ready-my dad was the youngest of only five only five kids. You can imagine trying to be happy with only five children in the family. I'm sure you're dampening this page already with tears of pity. kids. You can imagine trying to be happy with only five children in the family. I'm sure you're dampening this page already with tears of pity.

We don't know if Mr. Griffin the elder was shooting blanks, or somebody was partial y barren, which is apparently the worst thing you could cal a woman in those days, but it gets crazier. After my grandmother had five children-six, real y, since one baby sadly died after a week-she said, "I don't want any more kids." To which Grandpa said, "Wel , the only way to not have kids is to not have s.e.x, because we're not going to use condoms or anything."

"Yeah, that's the deal," my grandma agreed. "No more s.e.x."

"No s.e.x? I'm out of here."

I love that this was apparently a very religious man, too. What, a "bad"

Catholic uses birth control, but a "good" Catholic leaves his wife over it?

So-o-o-o religious. Anyway, Mr. Griffin moved out and relocated one parish over, where he checked tickets on streetcars for a living. But here's the kicker: Because it was such a shame to have a man leave you or get divorced, for years my dad had to tel the whole parish that his father had died died. Mrs. Griffin would say, "Yeah, my husband pa.s.sed away."

I just want to reiterate: He was one parish away one parish away. We're talking two miles. It was such a smal -town culture that no one knew. How could they not just run into him?

It gets better. As my grandpa on my dad's side got older, he took il .

So the woman he abandoned, my grandmother, actual y took him back, and took care of him! Then they had to tel the town, "Oh, right, he's ...

actual y ... not dead." But the best part is, when my grandparents reunited, they vowed never to speak to each other until the day they died. She nursed him in silence al the way to his deathbed. How sweet a deal did he get?

When his dad returned, my father was stil living at home, and he had begun dating my mom. According to my mom, their first date, which took place at the blindingly romantic setting of his family's home, went something like this: "Tel your mother to pa.s.s the b.u.t.ter."

"Tel your father to get his OWN b.u.t.ter!"

"Tel your mother I want some more soda bread."

"Tel your father he can have the soda bread when I'm good and ready!"

Maggie just looked over at the son of these two, and ten minutes later realized, "So this is the gig." But when she tel s the story now, Mom makes it sound as if it were par for the course. So freakin' Irish Catholic.

Before they started dating, my parents first met at the Formfit bra factory. Dad was a stock boy, and Mom was a secretary. Somebody introduced them, and as the story goes, that somebody said, "John, you know Maggie, the second prettiest girl at Presentation?" And he said, "No, I don't know her."

My mother was incensed. "What do you mean you don't know me? I'm the second prettiest girl at Presentation! And by the way, you're not that hot, anyway. How can you be related to a beautiful sister like Mary, the prettiest girl at Presentation?"

Wel , the sparks flew. Mom was very intrigued that Dad wasn't just fol owing her around drooling. But he real y got her with his sense of humor. He did the smart thing in the beginning: He would go out on a "date" with her and a few of her girlfriends or sisters. It wasn't heavy dating. They didn't have any money, so a night out was a bottle of booze and a trip to the park with plastic cups in the middle of winter. Now, this is Chicago. That's a f.u.c.king cold night out. It was usual y Dad, my mom, her friend Rae, and her sister Irene, and they'd al just get hammered.

Then, it would be too cold to walk home so they'd go from building to building, and Dad would ring the doorbel of each one. Then they'd be let into the foyer, warm up some, and then he would ring the bel of every apartment as a joke, and the girls would be mad at Dad but they'd laugh anyway. "Johnny, stop it!" they'd say, and he'd promise not to do it, and then do it again. Just so you know the level of entertainment we're dealing with here. This was a hot Sat.u.r.day night for them.

According to my mom, she and Dad dated almost two years before getting married. Dad was home on furlough from the war for just a few days, right before Pearl Harbor, after which he had to get back to his base right away. Mom went to meet him in Denver, hoping they could get married on St. Patrick's Day, but due to some army regulations, they had to wait until March 20 (at that time, soldiers kinda had to get approval, or so Maggie says)-lucky for them the army approved! They had their first child, Kenny, nine months and four days after they got married. We kids like to tease Mom: Perhaps she was a naughty girl?

But she's very proud that that four-day window proved Kenny wasn't an "accident baby." The rest of us came afterward in four-or five-year increments: Joyce, Gary, John, and then me, on November 4, 1960.

Right next to Election Day! (I then went on to retroactively elect my mother the prettiest girl at Presentation.) I'm the baby, just like my mother and father were in their families, and I never heard the end of it. I got away with everything, according to my siblings. But Mom doesn't think I was spoiled. Precocious, okay. Annoying, yes. But not spoiled.

She wil also happily admit that I was an accident baby, and that by the time I came along-eighteen years after their first child was born-Mom and Dad were too tired to worry about me.

Dad hams it up even on his wedding day.

This is me after my second face-lift.

But get this: When my mother was pregnant with me, it turns out she was on amphetamines. That's right, speed. This was a time when doctors thought a woman shouldn't gain more than fifteen pounds during a pregnancy-and when doctors spoke back then, mothers listened -so to keep her weight down they gave my mom amphetamines! She took them while she was pregnant, and and after she had me to lose the few pounds she had gained. Plus-I love this-she's actual y guilt-ridden about it. She thinks that's what made me crazy, or shal we say, the accomplished person I am today. Let's just take this in for a moment, shal we? In 1960 there were two doctors in Forest Park, Il inois, who were just doling out methamphetamines to pregnant Irish Catholic women with part-time jobs. Where's after she had me to lose the few pounds she had gained. Plus-I love this-she's actual y guilt-ridden about it. She thinks that's what made me crazy, or shal we say, the accomplished person I am today. Let's just take this in for a moment, shal we? In 1960 there were two doctors in Forest Park, Il inois, who were just doling out methamphetamines to pregnant Irish Catholic women with part-time jobs. Where's my Dateline my Dateline episode? I like to picture my mom with a baby on the way, bouncing off the wal s, scratching her neck, and fiddling with the rabbit ears on the TV set in a frenzied manner. This, by the way, is how I write my act: I get an idea in my head and I run with it. So granted, I was a fetus at the time, but I episode? I like to picture my mom with a baby on the way, bouncing off the wal s, scratching her neck, and fiddling with the rabbit ears on the TV set in a frenzied manner. This, by the way, is how I write my act: I get an idea in my head and I run with it. So granted, I was a fetus at the time, but I was was there. You can't deny that. Also, the way I tel it is probably funnier than the way it actual y happened. But in any case, she now believes I'm her crack baby. there. You can't deny that. Also, the way I tel it is probably funnier than the way it actual y happened. But in any case, she now believes I'm her crack baby.

I love holding it over her, too. It's real y the only thing I have on her.

"Wel , maybe if you hadn't been taking DOLLS al day!" But in my mind, she's Judy Garland and I'm Liza.

Real y, my mother wasn't alone about crazy '60s and '70s parenting. I remember the excitement about the DDT pesticide truck, how its arrival on our street was a big event. The parents on the block would alert us: "Hey, kids, the DDT truck is coming!" Then we'd al go knock on our friends' doors, because the truck would come and leave this giant haze that smel ed awesome, like incense and Fourth of July. We'd run around in it and yel , "We're in clouds! We're dancing in clouds!" Later on I saw Meryl Streep on a commercial talking about the dangers of pesticides, scrubbing fruit vigorously with soap, and I thought, Oh, you mean Oh, you mean dancing in the clouds was bad? Meryl, pa.s.s me the scrub brush dancing in the clouds was bad? Meryl, pa.s.s me the scrub brush.

In any case, we were a very typical middle-cla.s.s household. When I was in kindergarten, we moved from a smal house in Forest Park, Il inois, to a bigger house in Oak Park, and I remember my mother thinking our new place was very grand: four bedrooms, a sun room, wood floors, a gal ey kitchen with a breakfast area. There was a fireplace that may not have been operable but could be made to look like a working fireplace, and that was fine by us. I'm pretty sure my parents got the house for under $30,000, and Mom thought it was the Taj Mahal. They worked hard for it, too. Dad was managing a hi-fi stereo store six days a week, which meant al of us kids each had ful -on stereo