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Summary
Summary
You know Judy Greer, right? Maybe from The Wedding Planner, 13 Going on 30, Carrie, Arrested Development, or The Descendants . Yes, you totally recognize her. And, odds are, you already feel like she's your friend.
In her first book of essays, I Don't Know What You Know Me From , Greer writes about everything you would hope to hear from your best friend: how a midnight shopping trip to Walgreens can cure all; what it's like to wake up one day with stepchildren; and how she really feels about fans telling her that she's prettier in person. Yes, it's all here--from the hilarious moments to the
intimate confessions.
But Judy Greer isn't just a regular friend--she's a celebrity friend. Want to know which celebs she's peed next to? Or what the Academy Awards are actually like? Or which hot actor gave her father a Harley-Davidson? Don't worry; Greer reveals all of that, too. You'll love her because, besides being laugh-out-loud funny, she makes us genuinely feel like she's one of us. Because even though she sometimes has a stylist and a makeup artist, she still wears (and hates!) Spanx. Because even after almost twenty years in Hollywood, she still hasn't figured everything out--except that you should always wash your face before bed. Always.
Author Notes
Judy Greer was born in Detroit and studied at The Theatre School, DePaul University's prestigious theater conservatory program. She is one of the most prolific actresses of her time, appearing in more than eighty roles across film, television, and the stage. Greer also stars in her own Yahoo! series called Reluctantly Healthy . She currently resides in Los Angeles.
Reviews (3)
Booklist Review
Greer, who has had a good deal of success as a working actress in movies, including 13 Going on 30 and The Wedding Planner, as well as a memorable recurring role in the TV series Arrested Development, is a recognized face if not quite a household name. Her charming memoir is a series of vignettes covering her childhood in Michigan, her adventures in stepparenting, and her experiences on film and television sets. The title comes from the question Greer is often asked by people who approach her, knowing they have seen her somewhere, but they can't recall the movie or TV show they saw her in. Occasionally, they insist they have seen her in a movie she wasn't in, such as Bridesmaids. Greer also shares her hilarious trip to the Oscars for The Descendants, which involved her dress unraveling and her initially being unable to find anyone to talk to before the ceremony. Greer's bubbly best-friend personality and self-deprecating anecdotes will have readers rooting for her, and will likely win her new fans.--Huntley, Kristine Copyright 2014 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
Celebrities, from Rob Lowe to Diane Keaton, narrate the audiobooks of their memoirs. LET'S BE HONEST: Celebrities don't usually write great memoirs. But the best ones offer up dish and dirt and some sensationally bizarre yarns. I got hooked in my 20s with Desi Arnaz's "A Book" and Kirk Douglas's racy "The Ragman's Son" and Sammy Davis Jr.'s "Yes I Can." Friends might shake their heads at my choices, but did they know that Kirk Douglas seduced an anti-Semitic hotel owner so that he could whisper at the moment of climax that she was in bed with a Jew? You see my point. When actors record the audio versions of their memoirs, the experience of peeking into their lives can be even more intimate. Not all actors excel at narration, however. Sean Pratt, who has been recording books since 1996 and took on the gargantuan task of reading "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace, told me that what works in front of a camera doesn't necessarily translate to the intimacy of a studio and microphone. "It's a whole different kind of performance," he said. "It's jazz. It's bebop. You're always changing the delivery style." Testing Pratt's thesis, and hoping to satisfy my craving for some popcorn listening, I took on four recent audiobooks by actors. Pratt was right: When it works, it's magical. And when it doesn't - well, you know Audible lets you "return" books you hated and get a refund, right? You probably won't be returning Rob Lowe's LOVE LIFE (Simon and Schuster), though. His first memoir, "Stories I Only Tell My Friends" (2011), established him as an engaging riffer with outrageous stories. The new book is more loosely woven, with passages about going on a date with Madonna and his growing love of offbeat roles that undermine his pretty-boy reputation. (Check out what they did to his face in "Behind the Candelabra.") He also touches on politics and his shift from lifelong Democrat to independent voter with a libertarian streak as he found himself supporting Arnold Schwarzenegger's run for governor of California. "Like 'recreational' drug use, the idea of slavish party loyalty seems like an outdated and unhealthy concept," he says. Ultimately, this is a book about being a grown-up - about Lowe loving his wife of more than 20 years, and the emotional turmoil that struck him while dropping off his son at college. Lowe's voice grows husky when he recalls that he used to wrap the boy in a blanket "like a burrito." Some may tear up; I cringed a little. But Lowe is generally smooth and self-assured. He treats listeners to his rendition of the "Ohio Scream," a bloodcurdling shriek that plays a part in a campfire prank in which he dresses up as Bigfoot. Wackiness ensues. A groin is kicked. It is his. A different kind of pain runs through HANDBOOK FOR AN UNPREDICTABLE LIFE: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (With Great Hair) (Random House). Rosie Perez takes the reader through her rags-to-riches story with great energy. Perez was abandoned by her mother for her first three years of life. The mother later reclaimed little Rosie only to place her in an orphanage. Perez would visit her mother's home occasionally, where there was no warmth but plenty of violence, and a half-brother who she says sexually assaulted her. Perez learned to live with adversity, and even to thrive. At the orphanage, she made friends with girls with names like Crazy Cindy and Puerto Rican-Jew Evita Feinstein. They survived the fierce tutelage of some very tough nuns, who maintained discipline with beatings. Little wonder that years later, Perez would receive a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. Perez was entranced by television and music, and was mad for "Soul Train" and the movies of Woody Allen and Neil Simon. She also gets to know her father, a brazen ladies' man who introduced her to the wonders of his native Puerto Rico. Eventually her love of dancing lands her a gig on "Soul Train" and a career as a choreographer before Spike Lee cast her in "Do the Right Thing." That film provides one of the book's funniest scenes. Her father took his friends, family and pastor to see the movie. But Rosie hadn't warned him about her nude scene, which incidentally involved ice cubes. "When the ice cube scene came on, my father gasped, jumped up, grabbed his heart, and fell out cold - no lie!" It turned out to be a panic attack; he asked her to warn him in the future when she makes an "'artistic' film." "Handbook" is a careering ride, crowded with family struggles and reconciliation and therapy-inflected observations. Perez says of her siblings, "We were kids that were all abused and didn't know how to articulate all the pain and anger." The cuteness can pile on at times, with memories of happy moments in childhood - whether watching television in the orphanage or getting a treat - punctuated with "Yay!" which she pronounces "Yayee!" Moments of pride are followed by "Holla!" Her delivery can be uneven, her spoken rhythm occasionally falters. But those are small flaws in an uplifting and enjoyable debut. Diane Keaton's new book, LET'S JUST SAY IT WASN'T PRETTY (Random House), follows up her first memoir, the well-received "Then Again" (2011). This one is more scattershot. Ostensibly a meditation on the nature of beauty, it chronicles the development of Keaton's distinctive fashion sense and her thoughts on the body. She engages in long arguments with herself and falls into digressions. She folds in memories from her childhood, muses on raising her two children and discusses the meaning she's found in renovating homes. If you ever suspected that her dizzy otherworldliness is an act, you will be reassured of her sincerity after reading that she trips and breaks her toe while walking the dog because "I decided to try the advice of Dr. Tan, my acupuncturist, and take a backward walk with Emmie in an effort to employ the underutilized part of my brain." The book is most lively when she describes her relationship with Woody Allen, who early on told her that she would always do well in show business. "You're funny, and funny is money." He leaves voice mail messages for her in which he calls her "half-wit" and says, "The Golden Globes wanted to know where I could find someone stupid enough to come and pick up my Cecil B. DeMille Award, and all of a sudden it occurred to me, I don't know why, but your face in a beekeeper's hat came to mind." He closes a follow-up message with, "Worm, call me back." She refers to this fondly as a "healinghumor, funny-is-money phone call from Woody." If you say so, Diane. Her narration elevates the work; the warmth of that famous voice brings bubble and flow to the prose. You get the feeling that she could be a terrific audiobook narrator if she had better material. The surprise charmer of the stack is the memoir by Judy Greer, I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU KNOW ME FROM: Confessions of a Co-Star (Random House), a grab bag of essays by a comic actress who has appeared in more than 90 movies and television shows, but whom few people might be able to identify. (She refers to herself as "the ultimate best friend.") Her stories are sweetly weird and scatological, such as her night at the Oscars when she decides she has to take off her Spanx or lose her mind. This effort lands her in a toilet stall wrestling with her undergarments and wondering what would happen if the Big One, that predicted earthquake, were to strike. She fantasizes the news story: "Recognizable actress whose name we can't place is found naked in the rubble that was once the bathroom of the Kodak Theater." Her voice, zinging somewhere between chipper and chipmunk, might grate on the ears of some listeners. But for people searching for a loyal gal pal, this could be just the thing. My long voyage through the seas of four me-me-me memoirs was done; I'd gorged on fluff. After finishing the last book, I was ready for "Moby-Dick" - a version I'd been saving, narrated by the great Frank Muller. Did you know that Ahab's last words were taken from a Star Trek movie? Wait. Reverse that. Maybe I've been spending a little too much time with Hollywood. JOHN SCHWARTZ is a national correspondent for The Times and the author of "Oddly Normal."
Kirkus Review
A memoir by a rare breed of Hollywood actress: happy, well-adjusted and working. Greer, who has appeared in nearly 100 movies and TV roles (this is her first book), knows she is lucky. Her unconventional parentsher mother was fired from a convent before she could take her final vows as a nunwholeheartedly supported her teenage ballet and acting aspirations, and she got cast, after her first audition, in a movie with David Schwimmer. This is not a Hollywood roman clef; Greer doesn't dish and is amazed by and grateful for her good fortune. She embodies the role she calls "the ultimate movie best friendfunny, cute, sassy and approachable." She is so approachable, in fact, that people who believe they recognize her routinely ask, "What do I know you from?" Her initial response: "First of all, hi." During her 15-year career, she has become proficient at what she calls "fan profiling." Eager to help, she asks, "What are you into?" and intuits by the questioner's clothes, age and sex which productions they may have seen her in. It could be from one (or several) of her wide-ranging roles, such as Arrested Development, Two and a Half Men, The Wedding Planner or 13 Going on 30. Greer is an engaging and witty storyteller, at turns wistful (of her beloved hometown, she writes, "Detroit is America's sad family member who can't catch a break") and unsparingly honest ("I used to be more ugly"). She is also willing to laugh at some of her more absurd can-you-believe-it storiese.g., when she finally got the apartment she always dreamed of, beneath the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign, it turned out to be full of cockroaches and thieves and constantly under the watch of police helicopters. Readers will wish Greer was their conspiratorial best friend.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Excerpted from the hardcover edition. Chapter 1 Detroit-ish i grew up in a suburb of detroit, michigan. no, not Grosse Pointe. Not 8 Mile. To everyone who is not from Michigan: there are more places besides Grosse Pointe and 8 Mile in the Detroit area. Grosse Pointe is for superrich people, of which I was/am not. And 8 Mile is a road, not a place. It is a long road that goes from Eminem-land all the way to McMansion-land. I am from Livonia. It's basic. It's clean and there are no tall buildings that I can remember, maybe the city hall, or the hospital, but I'm only talking eight floors, tops. There are a lot of strip malls and two-story colonial houses and many good public schools. It is your typical midwestern suburb. In Livonia our high schools were named after foreign statesmen, the junior highs were named after poets, and the elementary schools were named after presidents. I went to Kennedy for elementary school, Frost for middle, and Churchill for high school. But I hated school. I pretty much hated every second I had to be there. I can't really remember why I hated it so much, but I think some of it had to do with having to leave my house in the cold so many months out of the year. It was always so cold, and there was a lot of snow. I took the bus to high school, but most of elementary and all of junior high I had to walk. It was a particularly long walk across a huge field to get to Frost, and in the winter that field was covered in snow. There were no trees or buildings to stop the freezing-cold wind from tearing through my jacket and sweaters in order to get to the very center of my bones, where it would stay until spring. No, it wasn't uphill both ways barefoot, but still, those mornings and afternoons were rough. Sometimes my friend Nicole and I would "borrow" change from our classmates and stop at the donut shop on our walk home, and we'd cross the field almost happily, thinking of the cinnamon roll and hot chocolate we were about to inhale. And for one week during the summer I forgave that field because it would morph into a magical carny wonderland called the Livonia Spree. For one week I lived a block away from the Tilt-a-Whirl, the merry-go-round, the Matterhorn, game tents, a fun house, a house of horrors, and my favorite attraction, the Budweiser Clydesdale horses. I really looked forward to those horses coming to my town for a visit. I think that's why I cried so hard during that Super Bowl XLVII commercial. You know, the one about the horse trainer who sent his horse away to Budweiser once it was trained but then drove out to visit it during a nearby parade. And in the end the horse broke loose and ran back to find his trainer? Shit. Now I'm crying again. I sobbed after seeing that commercial. Like, sobbed. My husband was worried about me. I was worried about me; I wondered if people ever died of suffocation due to uncontrolled sobbing, because I thought I might. Anyway, as a kid I loved seeing those beer horses and marveled at their size. I always wondered if they liked being on the local carnival circuit and was slightly disillusioned when I found out there was more than one team of Budweiser Clydesdales. For years I thought I was meeting the stars of all those commercials. The day I found out differently was a real coming-of-age moment for me. Maybe that's why I cried so hard . . . Before I ever went to Kennedy Elementary, I went to Gibson School for the Gifted, a private school for "gifted" students, as named. I like that they didn't mess around when naming it. So many private schools beat around the bush with names like Dalton and Spence, why not just say what it is? Crosley School for Rich Kids, or the Teeter School for Troublemakers, Lionsfront Last Chance Before Juvie Academy. Aren't we all thinking it anyway? At my gifted school for gifted students, we went to school until about 6:00 p.m., when they started to lock the doors and call the parents who hadn't picked their kids up yet (maybe they should have named it Gibson School for Children with Busy Parents). It was an ethnically diverse school; most of the students had divorced parents or came from households where both parents worked (me). I remember that my friend Chris and I were always the last ones to get picked up. I hated leaving Chris when my mom got there first because his parents were divorced and he could never remember which one was supposed to show up, but I hated it more when I was the last one, mostly because I was eight years old and eight-year-olds aren't usually that self-sacrificing. Chris could also be a little bit naughty. One day he wanted to start a gang, but since I was the only one left hanging around with him at the end of every day, it was just the two of us. He named us the Punk Rock Pick Lockers, and we managed, one time only, to pick a lock in the cafeteria and steal a mini carton of chocolate milk out of the refrigerator. I felt pretty cool after we picked our first lock but also completely scared we would get caught. And even though it was fun that day, I was certain that eventually Chris was going to get me in a lot of trouble. I couldn't be in a gang with this boy, that was not a "gifted" thing to do. I tried a phaseout, but it was hard since we were still the last two kids to get picked up after school every day. Shortly after our one and only gang activity, Chris came to school with a homemade puzzle and tried to give it to me. I refused, trying to make my motives clear. We could still hang out in the bookbinding corner after class, but accepting handmade gifts was where I drew the line. I could tell I hurt his feelings when I marched away from him, but I didn't care. I needed boundaries if I wasn't going to pursue a life of crime with him. That night when his dad finally came to pick Chris up, his dad found me and gave me the puzzle himself, telling me that Chris spent a lot of time making that puzzle for me and I should keep it. I put it together when they left and it said "I love you" on it. I felt terrible. I didn't know Chris loved me. I thought we were just friends and fellow gang members. Now what do I do? I thought. Do I have to love him back? Or make him a puzzle that says, "OK . . ."? When my parents pulled me out of Gibson after third grade, I didn't talk to Chris again until he magically showed up late in high school dating a tiny dancer I knew from the arts program. I was so happy to see his face, and happier to see that he didn't end up in jail, but we never really picked up where we left off and lost touch for good when I moved to Chicago. I didn't want to change schools when I was at Gibson--that was my parents' idea. Even though my new school was just a short walk from our house, I did not want to go. I had friends at Gibson, they were all different colors, and probably brilliant and gifted and talented, but I didn't care about that stuff--they were my friends, and I didn't want to leave them. Everyone at public school seemed so average and white to me. My parents promised if I hated it, I could go back to Gibson, but they lied. Now that I'm an adult, I can't really blame them--it was expensive and a long drive--but still, for the record, they lied. Once I left my special school, I never liked school again. It was all so normal. There were desks in rows, lesson plans, bells, after-school clubs that you had to be invited into. What's that all about? See, at Gibson we were told we were all amazing artists, that we were smart, creative, good writers, basically that we were special, but that we were equally special. I'm not saying this is how it should be, but it was hard to suddenly find out, at nine years old, that I didn't necessarily have all the talents I thought I did. For example, at my public school, there was an art club, and I didn't get invited to be in it. That was so confusing to me. Why couldn't anyone be in it if they wanted to, not just if the horse you drew actually looked like a horse? And how come in class we sat in desks instead of on couches or giant pillows? Why weren't there pets in every room? Why did I have to raise my hand to ask to go to the bathroom? Why didn't we call our teachers by their first names? It was a hard transition for me. I was graded for the first time in my life. I wasn't athletic, and I had weird hair, a combination that I blame for being a loner for a while. Is there some connection between "gifted" kids and weird hair? My old friends and I all had some crazy-ass hair, but at my public school everyone seemed to have great hair. I thought since I was at a special school for special kids, public school would be a breeze for me, but it wasn't at first. (Of course I shouldn't rule out the possibility that I was in a school for weird or slow kids, but was lied to by my parents.) Eventually, I settled in and made friends, and even had some teachers who really inspired me. I resigned myself to not being popular but finding that one special friend who would always have my back. Her name was Nicole. She was pretty and smart and had great hair, of course. She was funny and just weird enough that she understood me and didn't think I was a spaz. She was also a great artist, so I always partnered with her to work on class projects (she totally got invited to be in art club, so we couldn't walk home together on Wednesdays after school). I was thrilled that we would go to the same junior high together so I didn't have to start from scratch again and find new friends. Nicole and I walked through that freezing-cold field together, side by side, and she stayed my best friend all through high school. This time we commuted by bus, unless one of us could con our parents into driving us instead. I think that Nicole could have totally left me behind in junior high and been one of the popular girls, but she didn't. She looked like Grace Kelly when we were thirteen, and the boys really noticed her. I remember a boy asking me for my number, only to then call and ask for Nicole's. She went to homecoming with him, and I was 70/30 happy/jealous. I know I should have been 100 percent happy, but I was a teenage girl, for Christ's sake! And I am the John Hughes generation. I was waiting for my Blane, my Jake Ryan, and I am not a saint, I'm sorry, but I was a little jealous when Nicole got to go to a dance while I stayed home, wrote in my diary, and watched my VHS tape of Pretty in Pink again. In fact, the only high school dance I ended up going to was prom. I had my first boyfriend at that point, and Nicole had hers. We went together, naturally, and had a ball, kind of. My dad borrowed a fancy car for us to drive, and we got clearance to all spend the night at Nicole's date John's house because he had a cool apartment-style bedroom. I don't know how that became a winning argument with my parents, but they caved and that was the plan. I will just tell you right now I don't have a good prom story. It's hazy at best. And not hazy due to alcohol consumed that night, but probably more likely due to alcohol consumed since. I bought eight prom dresses, but none of them were right, so I ended up making my own out of a pattern from the 1960s I bought at a thrift store (hello, Pretty in Pink much?) and used my dress budget on fabulous shoes. Nicole bought her dress at a vintage store, and I thought we looked so cool I made my parents take our prom pictures in black and white to really capture our vintage vibe. Prom was in a fancy restaurant/venue in Dearborn (where the Big Three car companies used to live). I have to admit it was a little bit of a letdown after watching all those John Hughes movies leading up to it. Yes, it was beautifully decorated, and we all looked appropriately dressed up, but when I stepped into the room, there was no hush in the crowd, no one was shocked at my prom makeover, I didn't look better than the popular bitchy girls, none of them gave me a hesitant encouraging smile, there wasn't anyone apologizing for misjudging me the last four years, and worst of all Jake Ryan and Blane were nowhere to be found. But most shocking was I didn't care. We sat down for a few minutes, we danced for a few songs, then John went missing, and when we found him inhaling helium out of the decorative balloons in the corner, we decided to take off. We went to prom. Milestone checked off the list. We drove back to John's house, changed into our jeans and T-shirts, and watched Sixteen Candles until we fell asleep. The best thing to me about growing up in a suburb of Detroit was going into Detroit--there was always great stuff to do there when I was a kid, and I actually did it. I am so happy, looking back, that my parents didn't hide out in their little suburb, that they took advantage of all the Motor City had to offer. There was a zoo, an awesome art museum with the most beautiful Diego Rivera mural you'll ever see, this gorgeous painting of an assembly line that is such a perfect representation of what Detroit was built on. A science center. The Red Wings played downtown, as did the Tigers. While I was in high school, they were renovating some old theaters in the city, and my first date with my first boyfriend, Eric Campbell, was to see Casablanca downtown at the Fox Theatre. It was the first time I'd ever seen the movie, and it was especially thrilling to see it on a big screen in a theater that it most likely played in the first time around. When I was little, there were lots of picnics, boat races, and Belle Isle, a little island/giant park that was connected to downtown by a bridge. But when I was old enough to go downtown with just my friends, I really fell in love with Detroit's music scene. There were great little bars and venues that local and touring bands would play in, and I tried to catch them all. I had a fake ID and I used it! There were great record stores, and with Ann Arbor about twenty minutes away in the opposite direction we Detroiters had great music at our fingertips. Excerpted from I Don't Know What You Know Me From: Confessions of a Co-Star by Judy Greer All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
| Introduction | p. xiii |
| Part 1 Early Life | |
| Detroit-ish | p. 3 |
| I used to be more ugly | p. 12 |
| Mom | p. 18 |
| Anything you can do, I can do better | p. 26 |
| Carey christmas | p. 34 |
| My first pube | p. 40 |
| Waiting tables makes you a bitter person | p. 48 |
| *2b | p. 58 |
| My stupid trip (alone) to spain | p. 66 |
| How shopping changed my life | p. 71 |
| Home is where the cops shine their helicopter lights | p. 75 |
| Part 2 Hollywood life | |
| Judy greer is my name. well, now it is | p. 87 |
| It takes a village | p. 90 |
| The week I had a beard | p. 94 |
| Press junkets | p. 97 |
| FAQ | p. 100 |
| Celebrities i've peed next to | p. 105 |
| The ultimate best friend | p. 111 |
| Your compliments are hurting my feelings | p. 122 |
| Bad oscar! | p. 126 |
| Papa, Paparazzi | p. 134 |
| A Day off on location | p. 140 |
| Ashton kutcher gave my dad a harley | p. 145 |
| Intolerance | p. 151 |
| The tortoise and the hare | p. 154 |
| Part 3 Real Life | |
| Single white male | p. 161 |
| Love not at first sight | p. 168 |
| Drugstore therapy | p. 173 |
| Dear laura a. moses: a letter to a friend | p. 177 |
| I Don't (really) have enemies | p. 181 |
| Random judy texts | p. 184 |
| He doesn't have aids | p. 188 |
| Best advice i've ever gotten | p. 194 |
| All-time lonely | p. 200 |
| How to feed your stepchildren | p. 204 |
| Jobs I could have instead of being an actor | p. 214 |
| One is not the loneliest number | p. 219 |
| Dear diary | p. 223 |
| The manifesto | p. 228 |
| Acknowledgments | p. 233 |
