Welcome back to the Socialite Life Celebrity Book Club where you don’t have to pretend you made those mini quiche or you know why a hyperbole is different from a metaphor.
This month we have Sarah Silverman‘s The Bedwetter: Stories Of Courage, Redemption, And Pee up for discussion. Remember this moment? The typical, bland, pat-everyone-on the back award night, was knocked on it’s ass in hysterical laughter thanks to Sarah. So where the hell did this ball buster come from?
Sarah’s book is a glimpse into the life moments that helped fertilize the vulgarity and rebellion that we so adore. She brings the same candor of her humor into telling her personal story (parents divorce, firing from SNL, break up with Jimmy Kimmel, and of course being a bedwetter). The memoir lets you to know the girl behind the comedy while you laugh hysterically, hopefully without peeing yourself.
Best of all SLCBC members (i.e. you) get a chance to read the book for free!
Check out your “reading assignment” and how to win your own free copy after the jump. Then answer the reading group question just for shiggles.
Find out how to enter after the jump.
On August 16, 1977, Elvis Presley saved my life. The previous afternoon, I played with my six-year-old peers in Heather Peters’s backyard. Heather was a towheaded, Aryan dream of perfection. She had one of those pageant moms who resolved that her daughter would be the princess she herself never was. Every other week, Mrs. Peters set Heather’s long blond hair in hot curlers, and sent her to school in tight Shirley Temple banana curls. Heather despised this constant humiliation, but I’m sure she understood, as any first grader would, that having your head vandalized is a small price if it can ease Mommy’s emptiness. Plus, her father built her this really awesome, gigantic jungle gym. I was blissfully helping myself to pizza and cake, and to the backyard jungle gym, when Heather asked me where my sleeping bag was. Heather explained–because I had somehow missed, or perhaps willfully ignored–that this party was a sleepover. Fuck me, this is a sleepover? It’s helpful to mention, at this point, that I was–and would be for many years to come–a chronic bedwetter. The word “sleep over” to a six-year-old bedwetter has roughly the same impact of, say, “liver cancer” to a forty-year-old alcoholic. The moment the word is spoken, gruesome images of your near-future flood your mind. At least with liver cancer, people gather at your bedside instead of run from it. I had one reliable means of escaping these situations. I’d explain that I needed my mother’s permission to spend the night. I’d call her from somewhere with sufficient privacy, then rejoin my friend with the bad news that my mom wouldn’t let me sleep over. But Heather eagerly stood right next to me as I called Mom. Like a hostage with a gun at her temple, I put on an act to satisfy my captor. I “pleaded” with Mom to let me stay over, and, not detecting my insincerity, she granted permission. “Of course, Sweetie. Have fun.” I won’t offer much advice in this book, but here’s one tip to bedwetters or parents of bedwetters out there: have a code word or phrase. So if your child calls and says, for example, “Your package from Zappos is on its way,” or “The man from Moldova wants more lemons,” or just “fuzzy dice,” you’ll know that your child is in danger of pissing herself in someone’s house, and you should order her to come home at once. I hung up the phone, turned to Heather, and harnessed the momentum of my plummeting heart to sling it upward into a joyous, “She said yes!!” It was settled. I would be sleeping in the same living room as Heather and about eight other girls. By this age, I’d peed myself on numerous sleepovers, but here was a chance to do it with a substantial audience.To enter for a chance to win a copy of The Bedwetter, send an email with your name SOCIALITEGIVEAWAYS@gmail.com with Bedwetter in the subject line by midnight PT Friday, June 11, 2010. Five winners will be picked at random to win. United States and Canadian citizens only.