There She Was

I just found out that the Miss America pageant was over a month ago. This is a huge shock to me and I am not handling it well. I haven't actually watched the broadcast in years, but there was a time when it was more likely that I'd turn into a merman than let this completely slide off my radar. Ever since I can remember I was obsessed with Miss America - for one thing we had one LIVING ON OUR ACTUAL BLOCK (Barbara Walker Hummel! Lovely woman but her Afghan Hound, Guido, was a canine Rudy Eugene; he ate his way through the neighborhood's cats like he was me with a sleeve of Thin Mints), and my mother was FRIENDS WITH ANOTHER ONE! (Linda Mead Shea! Also lovely; no dog problems of which I'm aware. Like me with a sleeve of cauliflower.) We were positively filthy with Miss Americas. It wasn't that I aspired to be Miss America or even really cared about the pageant process; in retrospect I think that it was more that this was, really, our first reality show, and on top of it I knew people who'd participated! It just appealed so much to the nosiest side of me. Which is all sides of me including mining and airspace rights because I'm the nosiest person you'll ever meet. So you give me fifty different women (along with delegates from the District of Columbia and our exotic friend to the south, Puerto Rico, which I was certain was somewhere around Antarctica) confiding their truest ambitions, their deepest desires, and swirling around in shiny dresses even prettier than that blue thing Barbara Mandrell wore last Sunday on "Hee Haw" and you expect me not to be taken in? Throw in the suspense of just who was going to be wearing the famously charmed Duckett "supersuit" for the swimwear competition, and I can't eat one more bite of my Raviolios, I'm so excited.

I would sit smack in front of the television with my face maybe a foot from the screen and soak in every single detail. As I got older I would even score the contestants myself (with a heavy bias towards Miss Tennessee, naturally). The best part of the whole thing was, of course, when the new Miss America was crowned; I don't know who would boo-hoo more, the winner or me. This was my cathartic cry vehicle years before "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" came along, or before I really had anything to cry about, for that matter. This continued throughout college and well beyond, and was enhanced by the fact that my best friend/roommate was as obsessed as I was (note: to protect her reputation I will henceforth refer to her as "John Stamos". He was easily the most fun roommate on "Full House" so that's what I'm going with). To John Stamos and me, "Miss America" night meant a case of beer, two packs of Marlboro Lights and a solid 3 hours on the couch. Because John Stamos and I together created the most delusional and mutually reinforcing echo chamber of all time (her words...John Stamos is kind of a genius), it wouldn't take more than 10 minutes before we'd start in on how we could TOTALLY be up there on stage and could TOTALLY win, but we were just SO much better than that and should we crank call my parents during the commercial and just burp really loud over and over? I remember one year specifically that I had to watch mostly out of one eye because a giant zit on the side of my nose was pushing my glasses up and hampering my vision. So, yes, clearly, Miss America material. Just didn't want to do it. Sure, John Stamos and I would dabble in some of the lesser pageants - "Miss Universe" was okay if there wasn't anything else going on, and we were always up for a good mother/daughter competition. Even "Mrs. America" worked in a pinch. "Miss USA" was alright too, but that one always felt like the morally flexible, kind of dumb little sister who'd probably debased herself behind the 7-11, and that was even before Donald Trump got involved with the whole thing. Plus, none of those had what really legitimized "Miss America" for us - the talent competition. The talent competition was also why I, no matter how formidable the zit, would beat out John Stamos ten times out of ten in our personal theoretical pageant.

Let me rewind. When my sister and I were growing up, my parents had a rule that we could pretty much do any sort of extracurricular activity we wanted (don't get dirty, you know what I mean) as long as we took music lessons until we graduated from high school. We both chose piano, and while my sister was a natural, I hated it. I never learned to read music well and just became surly about the entire enterprise. By the time I'm a rising senior I have had it with the piano, but I'm still obligated to take some sort of music lesson for one more year. What to do? Well, I hate practicing, so what's a musical instrument that is so cost-prohibitive that my mean parents wouldn't buy it even though it would make me miserable? Cello's no good, you can rent those. Same with drums. Not so, my friends, with the harp. And this is how I bested John Stamos in "Miss America" year after year. It brings to mind the reclusive comic book aficionado who's kind of a sad loser, but then Comic Con comes to town and no one's making fun of that custom-made replica Batman costume now, are they? 364 days of the year I lived in shame and silence about my musical pursuits during senior year, but it's "MA" night? Back your shit up, fool John Stamos, I'm a HARPIST. Don't get me wrong, John Stamos could - and still can - belt out a mean "Wind Beneath My Wings" (and I've already referenced her burping prowess...it's legitimate), but unless she learned to master the marimba she never stood a chance. I don't mind admitting those were some heady years.

Looking back I can't really come up with one specific year that I consciously decided to stop watching. I guess it just sort of fell by the wayside when John Stamos got married and I wasn't allowed to live with her any longer. It also didn't help when the pageant fled the major networks for CMT, so I never saw any commercials that would get me fired up about watching it. Plus, let's be honest, at this point it's a little Miss Havisham of me to sit in front of the tv and weep over a woman who, given the right combination of opportunity and bad judgement in high school, could mathematically and harpically be my daughter. Still, it stings a little. I'd normally go grab a sleeve of Thin Mints to dull the pain, but this has gotten me thinking about one of those mother/daughter pageants...John Stamos has a daughter, too. Stay tuned, check your local listings, and get ready to see John Stamos get crushed.