 |
| Della, 3 months |
Pageants confound me. Especially little girl pageants. Why would you want to do that? Why would you want your little girl to be so vested in her beauty? On the other hand, it’s oddly compelling, a freak show that I’m more than happy to watch.
We were at the breakfast buffet at the hotel in Albuquerque. There were lots of little girls with rollers/curlers in their hair. Della asked what they were all doing.
Matt said, “Let’s find out!”
He went to a nearby table where there were two mothers with their daughters. One of the mothers had diamelles embedded in her eyelids. I think I made that word up. But seriously, she had on eyeshadow up to her hairline and gemstones were glued to her face BEFORE BREAKFAST?! Both daughters, a bit older than Della, were in curlers and morning wear. Matt approached them, all dimples and charm, with a litany of questions. He was gone for awhile.
He came back to the table and Della was gone, getting some more whipped cream.
“Those gals are not f@$%@&g around.” he said to me.
I had a feeling they weren’t...with the jewels glued to her face and all.
"There’s a pageant in the hotel today. Mom was once fourth runner up in Miss Texas and the little blond girl has been competing since she was three months old."
THREE MONTHS?!
Three months? Wow. I can’t get past this. I think of Della at three months. All that really comes to mind are sore nipples (mine, not hers), bright yellow explosive diapers, and a very grubby sling that could probably have used laundering after three leaky babies had called it home. There was some sleep deprivation involved, and if I remember correctly, there was still a concern that the D might be cross-eyed.
And we could have been competing?
Well, shit.
I can glue diamonds to my face as good as the next girl and there’s no time like the present, now is there, to strut our pageant stuff. Patton style. Let’s do this thing.
Della and I take a little stroll.
Sure enough. There is a room full of women with big hair getting ready to bust some self esteem. A grandmother is sitting on a bench in the hall with her contestant. She points at Della and whispers something. I give her a very serious look and wish that I had combed my hair this week.
“What’s her talent?” she asks me, no prelude at all.
'Whipping ass and taking names' is my first thought, but I say, very nonchalantly... “Well, when Whitney passed earlier this week, Della decided to arrange a tribute of her greatest hits, pre-Bobby Brown. Her voice was at it’s strongest then, of course. She accompanies herself on the piano and will then give a brief, but moving speech against drug use. And your talent?”
"Oh. She yodels and plays the saxophone.”
Della looks up at me. “Didn’t I do that when I was three months, Mom?”
"Excuse us,” I say "I left the hot glue gun in the car.”
And then I leapt into the air with a flying round house kick to a large vase of blue carnations on the registration table, and Della let out a blood curdling banshee cry and we fled the scene.
The End.
