the dream of a million girls
Because it seems so incongruous, I get particular amusement out of the fact that for my mom (and so, to some extent, for our whole family) the Miss America pageant is an event on the scale of a minor holiday.
Now, just so no one gets any wrong ideas: we are exclusive to Miss America. Don’t even think we pay any attention to those lesser pageants, the ridiculous, trashy pretenders.
Miss USA : Miss America :: the Grammys : The Academy Awards
Miss World : Miss America :: Six Flags : Disneyland
My mom follows Miss America the way some people follow the Olympics. She researches the contestants beforehand, tracks who’s won what preliminary rounds, and keeps detailed notes during the broadcast in order to make her predictions. Prior to each successive culling: 51 —> 15 (swimsuit) —> 12 (evening wear) —> 10 (talent) —> 7 (onstage question) —> 5 (finalists) —> 1 (Your Ideal), she announces who her analysis determines will move on to the next round.
For my mom the pageant is mostly serious business, and for my siblings and me it’s an occasion for group-mockery. In between intermittent shush-ings and through-clenched-teeth instructions from her to go into the other room if you’re going to talk like this, we spend the whole program evaluating contestant behavior and apparel choice, speculating about who’s had work done (I have an excellent eye for breast enhancement), judging who can and can’t sing, and critiquing production values.
Our mom will join the commentariat occasionally, especially during the talent portion, as she has rigid principles as to what constitutes “talent.” She pretends at annoyance with our chatter (this, after all, is part of the fun), but secretly I know enjoys the over-conversation, because we are never as good as when we are all opining together.
Post Notes
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enormousair reblogged this from unrepentant and added:
That photo gives
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