One Classy Broad

So, I've been scanning photos to put into a fun slide show for my MySpace page, and I ran across what is probably one of my favorites of all times. I was the maid of honor in my best friend Naomi's wedding. The reception got a little wild, and the photographer was really able to capture it...


See those legs in the air in the background? Yeah, those are mine.

Four words for you: I'm. A. Class. Act.

Yes, I am.

Overheard in New York

I just had my very own Overheard in New York moment, only I'm not going to submit it because I keep hearing how the Overheard in New York moments are fabricated. Here it is...


Crazy Person 1: I have a steel plate in my head, you wanna know why? From feeding stray cats.
Crazy Person 2: Wow... that sucks.

--Wyckoff Street b/w Smith & Court (Cobble Hill, Brooklyn)


I suppose it's not as funny reading this as it was for me hearing it and seeing it (the woman had like 100 buttons on her shirt like she worked at T.G.I. Fridays and was wearing a crooked baseball cap.) I'm pissed I didn't have my camera with me because I would've taken her picture. But then again, maybe I wouldn't have, because that would be kind of mean, wouldn't it? But she didn't seem homeless, just crazy, so maybe not. But I suppose mental illness is nothing to make fun of either. Gosh, being politically correct takes all the fun out of things, doesn't it?

She waved to Beverly (or as she's now being called by all my friends, "Yorkie Vagina." "How's Yorkie Vagina?" they all ask. Or they call and leave messages, "Hey, just wonderin' how Bev's jy-nie is..." See post below for details.) as we walked by.

Okay, that's it. Bye for now.

If You Happened to Be in SoHo Yesterday...

I have a totally gross story.

A TOTALLY gross story.

Like if you get grossed out easily, STOP READING.

My dog Beverly was sitting on the couch yesterday, doing her thing. And by "doing her thing" I mean licking her thing. She was cleaning up down there... you know what I'm saying?

When she was done, she looked up at me, all scraggly-faced. Yes, she had done some serious spring cleaning down there and had the wet face to prove it. To show you what I mean, here's a photo of her that was taken on a different day, right after she drank a bunch of water:

And a close-up:

She looked pretty much the same way yesterday right after cleaning her thing.

So now flash forward thirty minutes or so. I had to run an errand so I was on Broadway in SoHo, heading south. Bev was with me, sitting in her bag. (There are too many people on the street for her to walk. She gets freaked out.) Here's a photo of her in her bag, taken on a different day. Her head kind of hangs out of it.


Okay, enter a woman. A woman who likes puppies. A LOT. A woman who likes puppies so much, in fact, that she allows them to kiss her on the face.

Everything happened so fast... One second this woman was like, "Oh, you're so cute!" and the next second she was bending down, putting her face up to Beverly's, letting Bev lick her. I didn't even have a chance to pull the bag away.

When the woman eventually stood back up, I just stared at her for a bit with my mouth slightly ajar. I didn't know what to say—I was speechless—but all I was thinking was, You poor thing... you have Yorkie vagina all over your face and you don't even know it.

I told you to stop reading if you get grossed out easily.

There's a reason I'm sharing this story with you. There's a lesson here. In fact, this post should be required reading in schools all across America. This post should be published on page one of The New York Times.

DON'T EVER LET A STRANGE DOG LICK YOU ON THE FACE.

I don't care how cute it is.

It may have recently licked its vagina.

To the woman in SoHo yesterday who became intimate with my Yorkie (you were walking on the east side of Broadway, heading north toward Houston around 6pm), if you're reading this, the next time you feel inclined to walk up to a strange dog and let it lick your face, you might want to ask the owner if it's okay first. I would've said no.

UPDATE: This post was linked on Gawker. Thanks!

Bottle o' Bubbly

Aaaaahhhhhh... relief.

It's a hot day in NYC and I just received a bottle of champagne (good stuff, too! Veuve Clicquot) from Transworld, my UK publisher, to celebrate publication. It's chilling right now and I'm going to crack it open later today!

THANKS!

I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE my blogging friends, the people who read this blog, my website & my MySpace page. All the postings that say, "I went to the store tonight to get your book because I couldn't wait," make me so happy. THANK YOU! Everyone is so nice! It brings tears to my eyes, seriously.

Tell me the names of the stores that say they don't have the book, particularly the bigger ones, and the cities and states they're in, so I can tell someone at HarperCollins. Then maybe they'll call the bookstore and be like, "People want the book, see? Buy some! Buy some!" My Barnes & Noble today had them, and another in Manhattan near Union Square had them, so that's good. It will HOPEFULLY be in Target stores in September. The books there run on cycles so that's the earliest they would carry it.

XXXXX, Karyn

Are you 20 Times a Lady? Take the Quiz!

How cute is this? It's a quiz on my UK publisher's site. Are you twenty times a lady? Click here to take the quiz and find out!

It's available! It's available! 20 Times a Lady is available!

It's out! It's available! I'm out of breath from telling so many people! Run to your local bookstores and buy a copy! Or better yet, buy TWO copies from Amazon - one for yourself and one for your best friend! Or even better yet, buy a copy for yourself and for all the men or women you've ever slept with! Hurry! Hurry! Make sure you get your copy! They didn't print that many and are likely to run out soon!

OMG... so my DAD is visiting right now from Arizona. AND he's reading the book in front of me. It's one thing for him to read a book that I wrote about a girl who's EASY while he's living away from me in Arizona. It's another to watch his expressions while he's reading it sitting three feet away from me. Hopefully he'll be gone by the time he gets to the guy with the uncircumcised penis.

Anyway, if you've already read the book and like it, please, please, please leave a nice review on Amazon for me. If you already read the book and didn't like it, then keep your opinion to yourself and have a nice day!

Coming soon, like in the next hour... THE LUSTY LOWDOWN... POLLS ABOUT SEX & ROMANCE! STAY TUNED!

Love, Sex, & My Ex Contest Winner - Week 3

Something Fishy in California
I've been a single mom since the 80s and have always lived on my own with my two girls. In 1994, however, I met a guy and we hit it off quickly. After about two weeks, he tried to convince me to move in with him, but I said no because I loved my little rental. It had a garage, a fireplace, an adorable kitchen—it was perfect. After three months of begging, however, he FINALLY convinced me, so after making sure that this was *forever* and not just a *roommate* kind of thing, I sold all of my furniture so my girls and I could fit into his 3-bedroom house. In addition to this, I spent $500 remodeling his bathroom and kitchen, and, the week after I moved in, I also charged a deep-sea fishing trip to the coast. (We caught a LOT of fish.)

Life was good for about two months, but then I started getting vibes that he was up to no good. He was so paranoid about things, like he'd ask, "Did you move my jacket in my closet?" or, "Have you been looking through my dresser drawers?" I of course said no, but the truth is that I had just read an article in a magazine about a lady who had written little love notes to her husband every day and stuck them in various places so that he'd find them when he'd least expect it. After she died, he would still find little love notes in the oddest places, months and even years later. I thought this was so cool so I wrote lots of little notes, too, and started placing them in boots he never wore, an old jacket pocket, under the fish in the freezer, etc. They were just little "I Love Yous" to show him that I cared, you know?

Well, his paranoia started getting annoying——it was like he was accusing me of snooping. After about a week, the truth came out. I noticed that he started going to karate three times a week and would come home smelling like perfume. So one night, I showed up at his karate class, and wouldn't you know it, he wasn't there! When he got home later that evening I confronted him about everything and he denied, denied, denied. When I told him that I was going to move out unless he told me the truth, he finally admitted that he'd been sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. Then he had the nerve to say, "I love you, but I'm not IN love with you."

Damn it... why couldn't this loser have figured this out BEFORE I sold all my furniture, gave up my little house, and uprooted my kids? Never again.

I found a place in two days and moved out... but not before getting my revenge. I told him that I preferred that he didn't hang around while I moved my stuff out because it "hurt too much," so he left me alone in the house for a weekend. After I got everything done, I left him a little surprise for when he got home on Sunday evening. Remember the nice batch of fish we caught? I put a few of them under the waterbed mattress and turned it up full-heat. Then I found all my little love notes and replaced them with ones that said "I hate you," and, "You're a cheater." A week later I drove by and saw his waterbed lying in front lawn, getting aired-out. LMAO.

Serves him right.

I heard through he grapevine that the nasty fish smell stayed in EVERYTHING he owned for weeks—even months. You know what they say about a woman scorned...

New Support Group

Everyone, I have a confession to make. While looking through old pictures the other night, I ran across one that I found to be incredibly disturbing and have been contemplating sharing with you ever since. It's not an easy thing for me to do, but after giving it some careful thought, I've decided to come clean. Before doing so, however, I have to make an announcement. Okay, here goes...

I, Karyn Bosnak, was an ugly baby. (Cue Psycho music here.)


Yes, I know. Frightening, isn't it? I look like a hairy man-child. Click on it, make it bigger, really get a good look at the horror.

I thankfully straightened out by the time I was two years old or so ->, but there's no doubt in my mind that being an ugly baby scarred me in some way. Because of this, I'd like to start a support group for ugly babies everywhere. If you were an ugly baby and would like to be a member, please e-mail your name and ugly baby picture to me at mail [at] prettyinthecity.com. I'll add the pictures to this post as I get them. Thank you, and.... UGLY BABIES EVERYWHERE UNITE!



UPDATE: Ugly toddlers are welcome, too—we don't discriminate.

---

NEW MEMBER ADDED 6/23/06:

I, Karin McA*****, have a confession to make.. I was an ugly baby. This story, as told by my father, is quite sad. I was born in one hour. Yes, I couldn't wait to be shot out of my mother. Because of this fast entrance into the world, my face was smashed on the way out -- everything was flat and swollen. My father looked on in horror, praying that I'd have brains because he was afraid I wouldn't get anywhere in life with my looks. (Lovely what a father says about his daughter.) Luckily for me, after a few months, everything filled out. So here it is -- the ugly smashed Baby Karin. ENJOY!


The one time ugly duckling,
Karin McA*****

An Open Letter to Dateline NBC

Dear Dateline,

By now I'm pretty sure that everyone in America knows about internet predators prowlng through the world of MySpace, luring pre-teens away from the safety of their homes. With that said, please, please, PLEASE find another news story to report on. Seriously, unless you plan to officially change your name from "Dateline" to "Dateline: To Catch a Predator" - NO MORE PERVERT SHOWS.

I don't mean to sound insensitive—I realize that these creeps need to be stopped and that parents need to monitor their children's internet usage—but I realized that last week when you ran the same show, and the week before that when you ran the same show, and the week before that when you ran the same show. Catching child predators was an explosive story when you first reported on it, but since you've now run 87 or so shows on the topic, it's kind of old news. ENOUGH ALREADY. Enough, enough, enough, enough, ENOUGH.

Say what you want about Britney Spears' air quotes, loose false eyelashes and gum-chewing—I was THRILLED to see her mug flash across my TV screen last week. I'd take her talking about her "boos" any day of the week over watching another internet predator show. Anything to break up the monotony, really.

Sincerely,

A frustrated Dateline fan

Last Comic Standing

My friend Rebecca Corry is a finalist on Last Comic Standing. We were friends when we both lived in Chicago. She's super-funny and lives in LA now. LCS is on tonight on NBC, so make sure you watch! AND VOTE FOR HER IF WHEN SHE MAKES IT TO THE END!

Meanwhile... enjoy this picture of the two of us back in the day. (My make-up, my hair...yikes! THIS WAS ALMOST NINE YEARS AGO... DON'T MAKE FUN!)

PS - I also added a picture of my friend Brian and I from back in the day to the post below about The Color Purple. I look more normal in that one.

Sneak Peek of 20 Times a Lady

Prologue
Stop the Insanity

So I feel like I’m at a twelve-step meeting, like I stood up just as you opened this book. You’re staring at me, waiting for me to introduce myself, waiting for me to tell you why I’m here. And I’m sweating, sweating because I’m nervous, sweating because I don’t belong here, sweating because never in a million years did I imagine I’d end up this way. But since I did and since you’re here, I might as well come clean and explain myself, so here goes:

My name is Delilah Darling. I’m twenty-nine years old, I’m single, and well... I’m easy.

There, I said it. I’m easy, I am. Now you know.

I’ve always suspected I was easy but never knew for sure, not until about six months ago, when I broke up with a guy named Greg, a guy I like to call Greg the East Village Idiot. Although it was my decision to end things, I was angry about the breakup, angry for two reasons.

For one, I wasted four months of my life on him, a guy who didn’t even have a real job. I met him while shopping in Soho one day. He walked up to me, all cute and charming, and was like, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question about your hair?” Yes, he was one of those guys — a young, good-looking stud hired by a local beauty salon to butter me up so I’ll buy a bunch of coupons. Needless to say, I fell for his spiel and for him.

But forget all that now, forget that he had the face of a Baldwin (Alec or Billy in their younger days, not those other two jokers) — where was he going in life? Nowhere, that’s where. I might’ve overlooked this minor flaw if he had a personality, but he didn’t. Talking to him about anything other than hair was like talking to a box of hair. He was dull, wrapped in a pretty package. He was a foxymoron.

The second reason I was angry is that even though I knew our relationship wasn’t going anywhere, I slept with him. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, which, ironically, is how it ended up becoming a big deal. To be honest, I was getting a little self-conscience about my “number.” It was getting rather high, and sleeping with Greg didn’t do anything except make it higher. When I say my “number,” I’m of course referring to the number of men I’ve slept with.

Exactly what number is considered high for a woman my age, you ask. Well, it’s hard to say, because people rarely tell the truth about their number. They don’t; it’s no secret. Men usually up it, believing if people think they’ve slept with forty women even though they’ve only slept with four, they’ll appear to be a bigger stud than they are. Women, on the other hand, usually lower it, leaving out the guys they’d like to forget. (You know... the ones they met on spring break, the two who were brothers and the three who are now gay.)

I’ll admit, I’m just as guilty as the next person is when it comes to fibbing about this. In fact, my number even changes depending on who I’m talking to. For example, every boyfriend thinks my number is somewhere around four. (They also think they’re the only one of those four to give me an orgasm, but that’s beside the point.) My gynecologist thinks it’s closer to seven, all done with protection, of course. (Oh, come on... everyone’s had at least one slip-up, and you know it.) My mom — even though I prefer not to talk about sex with her — thinks it’s somewhere around two. (I needed someone to pay for the pill when I was in college.) Even my best friend thinks my number is a little lower than it really is, because no one — I repeat, no one — tells even their best friend everything.

All these numbers are primarily the reason I was so worried about my own. It seemed high, yes, but with all the lying that goes on, who’s to say?

The New York Post, that’s who.

On the very day Greg and I broke up, my favorite newspaper printed the results of the world’s largest-ever sex survey. I had just finished reading a thought-provoking piece of journalism (two blind items on Page Six) and was about to learn how to get the most from my MetroCard (how to find love on the F train), when I ran across the incriminating piece of information. It was right there, nestled in between the average age people first have sex (17.7) and the average time spent on foreplay (19 minutes).

The average person has 10.5 sexual partners in their lifetime.

Yes, 10.5. I almost had a heart attack when I read this because the truth is... well... Greg the East Village Idiot was the nineteenth guy I slept with. Yes, nineteen, as in there were eighteen others before him. My number was almost twice as high as the national average.

Quickly realizing I needed to take control of my number before it got any further away from 10.5 than it already was, I took the advice of my favorite infomercial star, Susan Powter, and decided to stop the insanity. How, you ask. Well, it's simple. I decided to stop having sex. Not forever, don't get me wrong - I just decided to put a limit on my number, a cap, if you will. I mean, if I kept doing what I was doing, if I kept having sex at the current rate, then my number would be 78 by the time I turned sixty years old. Yeah... ewww.

Considering the current situation was so dire, after careful thought, I decided to make my limit twenty. Yes, twenty. I was giving myself one more chance to get things right. If I blew this last chance (excuse the pun) and wasted it on some random Tom, Dick, or Harry (excuse that pun too), then I’d force myself to live a lifetime of celibacy.

Maybe setting a limit is crazy, but there comes a point when one drop of water will send a full glass overflowing. I was at that point. Enough was enough. Twenty was it; it was as simple as that.

Twenty.

No more.

Not ever.

Two weeks to publication! I hope you like!

Love, Sex, & My Ex Contest Winner - Week 2

Tales from the Tennessee Tooter
I've got a few embarrassing stories, all with one common theme: passing gas at inopportune times.

The first time this incredibly embarrassing thing happened to me, I was with my ex. Let's call him Shane. Shane was the typical bad boy/jerk/asshole/cheating boyfriend that I think every girl dates at one point in her life. He was gorgeous, liked his girls skinny and toned, and was total trouble. As it turns out, he's gay now, but that's beside the point.

For reasons unbeknownst to me at the time, Mr. Shane rarely wanted to have sex. (Totally great for my self-esteem, right?) One of the few times he actually blessed me with his sexual attention (can you read my sarcasm?) and was focusing his attention DOWN THERE, I farted. We were totally in the heat of the moment, too.

Can you believe it? HOW EMBARRASSING!

Needless to say, all sexual activity ceased immediately and we never spoke about it again. I might've felt better if Shane could've at least laughed about it, but he didn't. I know it was awkward, but silence? Was he kidding? We never had sex again and eventually broke up.

On to the next occurrence...

One might think that God wouldn't make me go through something like this again, but one would be WRONG. One night, my next boyfriend and I were in the spooning position, seconds away from drifting off to sleep, when suddenly, BAM! I farted again.

This wasn't a "cute" little girly fart either, but a full-on, fraternity-contest winning fart that, looking back, should've blown him right off the bed. Our relationship was new and this was only the the fourth time or so I had slept over his place, so I prayed to God that he was a deep sleeper and already off into dreamland. When I quietly turned my head around to see, I saw that he had a huge grin on his face and was trying hard not to laugh.

Since I had no idea what to do, I quietly said, "Um, excuse me," which caused him to start laughing (in a fun-natured way), which caused me to start laughing, which caused me to fart again. My boyfriend was now so hysterical that he was struggling to breathe. Fearing that I might fart a third time, I tried to stifle my giggles as I once again said, "Excuse me." Eventually things calmed down and we were able to fall asleep. Fortunately, he still wanted to be my boyfriend after the night's episodes, and we went about our lives happily and fart-free until...

Things between us got to be pretty hot and heavy. Once I felt comfortable enough with him to really let loose in the ole bedroom, I did just that. It was somewhat quiet and didn't smell this time (you gotta thank God for the little things, right?), so my boyfriend laughed and continued on with his activities.

This second boyfriend is now my fiancé, and we look back on these instances and laugh. Since we've been together for a while and live together, I can fart freely without feeling judged. (Don't think I do that all the time, though - I promise I'm not a gassy person.) I like to think of my farting as fate telling me that I have a good guy - is that dumb?

I hope you like my embarrassing memory and it gets me a copy of your book. I love the one you've written because I can totally relate to it. By the way, my number is 15 (or is it 14?), and I'm in the middle of my own "Save the Tennessee Tooter" financial crisis right now.

Amanda Holden, My New Favourite Brit

The British actress Amanda Holden is reading 20 Times a Lady right now. I'll be honest, I had no idea who she was until my British publicist told me about an interview she just did for the Daily Express, but she's my new favorite celeb in world. (Nothing personal Amanda; I'm just American.) She said, "At the moment, I'm reading Twenty Times A Lady which is about a woman who is trying to resist the urge to sleep with Man No 20. She is wondering whether it's possible to turn her life around - it's a really entertaining read."

Yay! Thanks Amanda!

It's so neat when someone famous reads your stuff, you know? I once got an email from an "anonymous TV actress in LA" who loved Save Karyn. She said, "It's been years since a book captivated me so. I spent last night reading 246 pages straight, and went back to Barnes & Noble today and bought seven more books to give as Christmas gifts to my girlfriends."

You know who else also sent me a letter saying she loved Save Karyn? Staci Keanan, the actress who played the daughter on My Two Dads. How cool is that???

Yes, I know I'm a total dork for getting excited about this, but YOU WOULD TOO!

Anyway, back to my favorite Brit. I believe I found the text to the full article online. She talks about how everyone should schedule some 'me' time into their day to read. Here it is in case you're interested:

Actor and Mother Who Enjoys Her 'Me' Time
Amanda Holden is one busy lady. Having become a mother for the first time in January this year, she has cleverly managed to balance her working life with her personal life. When she gets some valuable free time however, she likes a good read. So much so that Aero has made her the face of their latest campaign, the Aero Book Club.

"I was approached by Aero because I recently had a baby and they were looking for someone who had a busy lifestyle and who still had time to fit books into their lives," explains Amanda. "It's true that anyone can fit some 'me' time into their day - everyone has 30 minutes when they're not being a wife or a mother to have a quiet read. Anyone - married, single, working women - can find some 'me' time to relax every day."

"I like the girlie idea, and the Aero Book Club is predominantly a female initiative," says Amanda. "I'm always on the phone to my girlfriends asking whether they've read this or that book. The Aero Book Club has a website and a huge variety of books to choose from so that people can browse and select what they're interested in. I've chosen some of my favourites and I review one each month. It's great to be able to sit down and read a book, along with a choccy bar - who doesn't like that?"

Given that the amount of time she has to relax has decreased considerably since the birth of her daughter, Amanda makes the most of her time by reading light-hearted books. "I have been used to reading heavy weights in my time but, because I'm so busy, I've been reading a lot of chick-lit books," she admits. "My book is rather like my baby at the moment as I can pick it up and pop it down whenever I get busy, and then return to it when it's less stressful."

"At the moment, I'm reading Twenty Times A Lady which is about a woman who is trying to resist the urge to sleep with Man No 20," she says. "She is wondering whether it's possible to turn her life around - it's a really entertaining read."

So why is reading so important to the actor? "Reading is really, really relaxing and it's the escapism factor that I love," admits Amanda. "It's so easy to relax and forget the rest of the world when you're reading a good book. I also think that everyone within the book is frozen when I put it down, only to awaken when I pick it up again. It's also lovely to have time away from emails and phones."

Amanda is keen to encourage those of us who don't spend enough time buried in a good book, although statistics highlight we're turning into bookworms. "I think approximately 46 per cent of 25-40-year-olds have read a book within the last year and just under that figure have bought a book," she says. "It works out that a woman spends approximately £100/€144 a year on books, which is quite a lot. It's also about the importance of getting together with friends and sitting and chatting together. That sense of community is very important."

Amanda is also keen to develop a similar sense of unity with her young baby. "I read that you could read stories to babies over six months old," she explains, "but Lexi (Alexa) is only five months old. I told her the story of Cinderella, but it was a bit darker and more like a Grimm fairy tale. But she was looking at me and seemed to be listening at any rate!"

The Wild at Heart and Cutting It actor is a seasoned script reader but admits it's great to have a say in what she can read. "It's great to have a choice," she says. "You can get good and bad scripts, the same way you can get good and bad books. Having a choice is really encouraging."

BTW... how much do you love Brit Speak? A choccy bar? I'm going to say it every day.

Time to Update the Ole Resumé!

Gates to Give Up Daily Role at Microsoft

Yessssssss.

An opening at Microsoft.

Finally.