Sometimes, I do things just because I think they�ll be funny to write about on JamieStar. Honestly. My online journal officially runs my life.
And that�s how I ended up judging a pageant this past weekend.
The pageant folks had contacted me several months ago, hoping Co-Host Kim and I would allow them to appear on our talk show to promote the state finals, which would take place in the Upper Keys. They�d also mentioned that they�d like Kim and me to sit as judges.
I sweetly agreed, then proceeded to compile every anti-pageant argument I could summon, while figuring out how to present each zinger on the air in the nicest way possible. The pageant rep was surprised at my challenges, but sort of kept her cool while shooting flaming tiaras at me with her eyeballs. When she left, I noticed she didn�t mention the judging gig again, and then I noticed that I didn�t really care.
I forgot all about the pageant.
Until I received a call a couple of weeks ago, once again inviting Kim and me to judge. I thought about it, then decided I couldn�t possibly turn down the Grade A writing fodder that would be, �I Was A Bitter, Feminist Pageant Judge.� So I agreed.
�Heh, suckers,� I thought.
But damn if the pageantheads didn�t get me in the end.
Because the collective 8 hours - yes, 8 HOURS, I spent judging this thing on Saturday and Sunday afternoon were among the worst of my life. Man.
I arrived Saturday in my �business attire,� ready for free lunch and chock-full of snark. The judges were served chicken Caesar salads and handed a packet with our score sheets and profiles on each of the contestants. I was having a fine time eating around the croutons and mocking the contestants, until I realized� some of these girls were as young as 13.
Crap. It�s not nearly as fun to snark upon kids who don�t know better. It�s only fun to mock the adults who should Damn Well Know Better.
Deflated, I finished my lunch and headed outside to fulfill my stupid damn commitment.
The pageant host was one of the most terrifying women I�ve ever encountered, and I�ve compete with middle-aged women, shoving my way close enough to put a dollar in the G-String of a male stripper. Middle aged women with LONG NAILS.
She had white skin and a severe, short-cropped helmet of auburn hair. She only dressed in black velvet evening gowns. But the make-up. Oh, Sweet Lord In Heaven, the make-up.
She was not only one of those people who insists on drawing a brand spankin� new lip line outside of her natural one, but she filled in the shape with flaming, glowing hot pink. Her heavy eye make-up was topped with eyebrows that had been plucked bald and drawn in.
But it wasn�t until she got close that I realized she�d drawn the eyebrows using a NAVY BLUE pencil.
Swallowing my shrieks of horror, I told myself that I was NOT a shallow person, and I would NOT judge a person based on appearances. (Well, until I had to, you know, in the pageant. Damn. These things crank out hypocrites like there�s a shortage. Um, there isn�t.) I told myself that is the Scary Lady was a good emcee, I�d forgive her faux pas and appreciate the event she�d directed.
She was not a good emcee.
First up was the Teen Division.
Each contestant participated in a timed interview. Most of that time was filled with Scary Lady jabbering and giving out TOO MUCH INFORMATION. I now know that she used to be anorexic and had to be in the hospital for two weeks and almost died. This, she reveals while interviewing a 15-year-old contestant.
The poor contestants were woefully unprepared, too. Stammering, not making sense, overtalked answers. In the end, I chose the ones who were the least hypocritical. No easy task.
Up next was something I really, really didn�t expect. Writing fodder or not, had I known this was part of the deal, I would have gracefully bowed out.
Scary Lady announced the start of the swimsuit competition.
13, 14, and 15-year-olds. Skimpy purple one-pieces. Tall, clear plastic stripper heels. I need to go jump in the shower right now, because almost a week later, I still feel dirty. I couldn�t even look at them. I felt like the town pervert. Co-Host Kim found some amusement in pointing out which ones had put in falsies, and I snickered at that, until it dawned on me how horribly sad it was that a 13-year-old was made to feel inadequate enough to insert fake boobies. Then I wanted to cry.
The parents of these girls should be thrown in jail, because if this isn�t a crime, I don�t know what is. Judging teenagers on their BODIES in a SWIMSUIT while wearing HEELS. Christ. Surgical self-esteem removal would be much more efficient, don�t you think?
(I stuck with my original choices, based on the interview, through the ENTIRE competition. I didn�t know what else to do, because I�m certainly not qualified to judge how other women look in a swimsuit, for heaven�s sake.)
When it was time, I practically sprinted out of there, and went home to a nice kegger.
Only to have to return for the next day - the evening gown competition.
�After yesterday,� I thought, �This will be a froo-frilly piece of cake.�
Oh, no. They made the girls parade around in their swimsuits again, first. I�m not kidding. Not to be judged, or anything - just for the hell of it. The competition was being filmed by a South Florida TV station, and watching the camera man rake that camera up and down these children�s bodies almost made me throw up all the Jell-O shots from the night before.
This competition was LOOOONG, despite it only being scheduled for a couple of hours. They honored Scary Lady, and she cried. Last year�s Miss Teen Blahblahblah �entertained� us with an �I wanna be JLo� number. Too bad the poor dear can�t sing. We also were treated to a performance by a B-singer - how do I put this so I don�t get googled? - Keeto Schmentay, Punior. He�s just like a big teddy bear.
I tried to leave after the judging was over, before they announced the winners, but Co-Host Kim wouldn�t let me.
Finally, finally, the hell was over. I went and soaked in a hot tub in an attempt to get the evil off of me, but I�m not sure it worked.
Never again. Never.
Unless it�s a pageant for MEN. Now, that would be some good writing fodder.
