Surreal didn’t begin to explain my feelings when I saw my cleavage on the side of a New York City bus for the first time. I was in shock when I discovered more advertisements, larger than my Brooklyn apartment, plastered in every popular subway station. It was just beyond weird to be mindlessly flipping through the latest edition of Us Weekly while getting a pedicure and come across pictures of myself.
The hair and makeup were bad enough, but that cleavage. After living with my 32 B’s for 30 years, I was pretty darn certain that those E cups were not mine. The short-lived reality show, “The Naughty Kitchen With Chef Blythe Beck,” advertised by my inflated anatomy, premiered on the Oxygen network shortly after I began to pursue my real career.
I never set out to be the next Bad Girl, Real Housewife, or Kardashian. I was working in Dallas, saving money to move to New York, where I’d been accepted at The New School’s journalism program. I’d been dabbling in real estate when my friend Megan, who managed the upscale Hotel Palomar in my Texas hometown, needed a new cocktail waitress. I was hired on the spot. I worked three nights a week, meeting fun people and making good money to fund my move. I had little reason to think anything of it when Megan mentioned hiring Blythe Beck, an infamous 28-year-old Dallas chef and local celebrity. Keep reading »
