“Where all my Divas at?”
So all I really remember is a Pageant Mom oozing that “Brock is truly a Diva inside. He likes his glitz, he likes his sparkle.” Then I remember Beyonce’s hair extensions being blown around by stage floor fans while she sang “Diva is a female version of a Hustla.” Then I spit out my flipper and the rest of the evening is kind of a sequined, glue gunned haze.
Toddlers and Tiaras is broadcast cable’s nickel bag of cocaine. Let’s call it what it is. You swear that you will never do it again. It’s too disturbing. Too creepy. It makes you feel gross the day after. Never again. And then suddenly it’s Wednesday night, and you’re running that long red light on the Expressway off ramp to make sure you get home in time for Outfit of Choice. Just don’t tell anyone.
I still haven’t quite figured out where and when you are supposed to discuss this show after the fact. There’s a fine line between yakking it up about All Things Reality and your creepy Uncle Steve in the sweater vest, if you know what I mean. Who are the people who discuss this show on Thursday morning? I’m betting it’s not water cooler/Monday morning quarterback talk for most of the work force. I can’t really picture anyone at the NASDAQ dishing on Mackenziiiieeee or Savanaaaaaah’s spray tans before the day’s trading begins. (We’ve already discussed the proper way to enunciate contestant names. Please don’t make me relive that again. Pay attention.) No one at Starbucks the next morning has ever been going on and on about how big Laura Lou Lee’s hair piece was as I waited for my mocha locha grand supreme. (There’s a small chance I may be confusing my beverages with my pageant levels. It’s been a rough night.) And I certainly have never seen a dude with one foot up on the locker room bench comparing notes on who had the best parade wave. So where do these people go after the show is over? Who are they? Ratings are through the proverbial trailer roof, but no one will ‘fess up.
So anyway. Brock. I was already stressed out because the girl who had no front teeth yet had already scored over $50,000 in Savings Bonds. I know, right? Shut up. $50,000? I was about ready to punch out my own enamel and blow finger kisses to some judge. (And wouldn’t you love to see that job application? Why Sir, as a 55 year old retiree do you want to judge Little Miss Louisiana Pootay Pageants?)
Brock, the self professed 7 year old Diva, is all buzzed up about taking on those Pixy Stix Beeotches in his age category and bringing home the crown. The Girl’s crown, no lie. They asked him which one he wanted when he won some JV level sash, and he picked the gigundo glittery Barbie version. Higher the crown, the closer to God, or something, right? Good luck hiding in that blinding thing while you’re being chased down a back alley in a few years.
Don’t get me wrong. The kid was a cootie patooty. And props to any Mom and Dad who support their kids in whatever they want to do in life. For realz. But….whoa. There is suddenly something to be said for wrapping yourself in your Cloak of Invisibility and sticking to World of Warcraft, dude. Live your dreams. Live your passion. Yes. But when you fan yourself with both hands like you’re Aunt Edna in her best Sunday hat about to Testify to the Lord with Uncle Beebo, all while saying “I’m Hot”….well, not so much.
And he discovered his love for pageants when he was two. Two? That’s One year older than One. Seriously? When I was two my greatest loves were hitting my head on the kitchen cabinets, and hitting my head on the coffee table. I’m pretty sure a two year old didn’t come up with that one on his own. Any Moms need validation? Show of hands? Anyone?
Thank goodness there was Betty the emcee there to keep me grounded. She was nice enough to take time off from screaming “BINGO!” at the Lodge to run the show. You totally know that there are at least 6 half-smoked Camels on the window ledge outside that Ballroom. Take your little nephew’s Tonka truck and roll it backwards down the gravel driveway. That’s Betty calling Sarah Suzaaaaaaaaaaaaane to the stage. I love her. And I kinda love the show. Not in a creepy way. But in a jaw dropping wide open for a full hour until my mouth gets dry kind of way.
I just can’t talk about it. So don’t ask me.
