I was sitting at my desk at work last spring talking to my mother, the receiver clamped between my neck and shoulder as I absentmindedly organized a spreadsheet.

“So,” sighed my mother. “Your sister’s entering a beauty pageant.”

I started.

“What?”

“She’s applying for Miss Long Island and I think she has a good chance of making it.”

“DEBBIE IS IN A BEAUTY PAGEANT!?”

“Yes!”

“But…but…” I sputtered, trying to keep my voice down. “But she’s so tiny.“

“I know!” said my mother. “But what does that matter? Besides, her height doesn’t need to be listed in the application. They have no idea how short or tall she is and who cares?”

“I don’t,” I admitted. “But I just thought pageant girls were tall, like models.”

“No idea,” said my mother.

“Well, what about talent? What is she going to do for her talent?”

“There is no talent.”

“What?”

“This particular pageant doesn’t require talent. It’s just evening wear, bathing suit and an interview, which is good.”

“It is?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said my mother knowingly. “We all know Debbie doesn’t have talent.”

“MOM!”

“It’s true! I mean she has talent in other areas but she doesn’t have any beauty pageant talents.“

“Please don’t let her ever hear you say that,” I warned.

“What? I already did. She agrees with me.”

…

Walking across 47th Street a few weeks later, I scrambled to answer my vibrating cellphone while taking pains not to upset my full bag of audition gear and a cup of coffee. I caught it right before it stopped buzzing.

“Hello?”

“WHAT ARE MY HOBBIES?”

“What?”

“MY HOBBIES! MY HOBBIES! I need to fill out my hobbies on the application! What are they?”

“Deb,” I answered slowly. “Isn’t that something you should know?”

“No! I mean. Unless..”

“Unless?”

“Unless I can say bartender?”

“Since when you are a bartender?”

“I’m not. I just mean like, that’s something I’m good at.”

“I don’t think that’s an acceptable answer. I mean, I don’t know. What do you like to do?”

“I LIKE TO DRINK.”

“Deb? Can we steer this conversation away from alcohol? What else do you do?”

“I don’t do anything! I go to college!”

“And drink! I know, I get it. Well, why don’t you just tack on some stuff you did in high school? Field hockey? Student government? Or just make up some things that sound good?”

“Like what?”

“Like…knitting? You knit, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You bake? Why don’t you say you like to cook?”

“Because I don’t. I like to bake.”

“Say that then!” I blurted out, exasperated. “Debra, none of those girls actually tell the truth on their pageant applications. It’s a well-known fact that everything is embellished. Come on, think about when you applied to college. How much of that was true?”

“Good point. I’ll get back to you.”

Click.

…

A few weeks ago, Ivan the mailman made his usual pitstop at my desk.

“What are you doing this weekend?”

“Going to a beauty pageant on Long Island,” I confessed.

“Wait wait, HOLD THE FUCK UP. You’re going to a LONG ISLAND BEAUTY PAGEANT?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“DUDE!!!!” he cried out, slapping his hands together. “THE AMOUNT OF FAKE TAN IS GOING TO BE INCREDIBLE!!!!!”

…

The pageant was held at a country club which sat majestically on a sprawling golf course somewhere out in Suffolk County. The lawns were immaculate, the skies clear, the temperature settled at a perfect crisp September degree. My family stood around awkwardly, making conversation until it was time for the doors to open, eyeing the other families who seemed to have the hang of how things were going to go down. We hadn’t a clue, this being the first pageant any of us had ever attended.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked my brother and his wife.

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA,” they replied.

It is probably not necessary to mention this but my family is so not a pageant family. With the exception of a 1994 dance recital, my family members have only ever sat through one of my many plays or musicals, something scripted, something with music by Andrew Lloyd Webber. But a PAGEANT? An event that left Debbie up on a stage in an evening gown and also, GULP, a BATHING SUIT!? A competition where there was a clear WINNER? How do we handle our pride when she LOSES!?!?

The seven Debbie Supporters dutifully filed into a row of fold-up chairs in a large conference room with a makeshift stage at the front of it. I knew immediately by glancing around that the Dlug family was way out of their league. Other competitors had families that took up seven rows at a time. They also had SIGNS, made out of posterboard, splattered with glitter. One perky row of relatives wore headbands with antennae spouting out the top. To the antennae, they had glued pictures of their daughter’s face. You had to give them an A for effort.

My older brother, Paul, tapped me on the shoulder.

“I think it’s time we start drinking.”

“AGREED.”

We stood in a line at the cash bar at the back of the room.

“Dude,” I said to Paul. “THIS IS SO INSANE. Does Debbie even stand a chance against girls that have done this their whole lives?!”

“I have no idea,” he said. “But the sheer Long Islandness of this room will make it allllll worth it.”

Alcoholic beverages in tow, Paul and I made our way back to our seats and eagerly waited for the opening number.

We were not disappointed. The girls exploded onto the stage performing enthusiastic choreography by a cheesy pop song. I’m not sure what it was exactly because I blacked it out of my memory. The girls were outfitted in white t-shirts, jeans and white sparkly sneakers. My sister step-touched with the best of them and I have to say, in a completely unbiased way, though she was the shortest, she was by far the prettiest.

Each contestant had decorated their own shirt with PUFF PAINT, a substance I had not personally seen since fifth grade. Most of them painted on big neon words about their specific platform. I caught glimpses of their fine artwork “SAY NO TO DRUGS” and “RISE AGAINST DATING VIOLENCE” but I kept snapping my attention back to one girl with curly brown hair. Her platform, I would later learn from reading the program was “Spiritual Enlightenment”. But I did not know that then and I spent the opening number unable to move my eyes from her white t-shirt, bare except for three huge crucifixes painted on in brown puff paint.

“That girl really loves Jesus,” I whispered to my mother.

“I KNOW!” said my mom, throwing back a sip of apple martini. “ISN’T IT GREAT?!”

The girls ran back to change for the bathing suit portion and we were introduced to our host–Miss Long Island 1989. Paul and I guesstimated that she’d used approximately 1.5 bottles of hairspray while getting ready for the pageant. It was a head of hair I have only seen down South and I don’t plan on seeing the likeness of it ever again which I have to say, makes me kind of sad.

At this point, I leaned over to my father and asked him for a pen. I spent the rest of the pageant scribbling furiously on the back of an envelope in bright purple ink.

“What is she doing?” asked my aunt.

“Oh, the usual,” stated my mom. “She’s capturing the details for her blog.”

The host kept an upbeat persona, smiling while reading trivia about all the contestants as they cautiously walked the runway in front of the judges. I noted that she also liked to throw out words of encouragement. I counted at least six instances of “GO GIRL!!!!” throughout the course of the evening. I didn’t even know that phrase existed anymore.

We sat through a seemingly endless parade of contestants, all strutting their stuff in tiny bikinis except for Miss Spiritual Enlightenment who wore a modest one-piece. I found the bathing suit competition to be an extremely uncomfortable experience. The Miss Long Island AND Miss Long Island Teen competitions occur in the same event. So, for every twenty-something girl you had working it in next to nothing, you had a shy 15 year old girl follow. I wanted to crawl under my seat, thinking of myself at 15 or 16 or hell 18. Get up in front of people in a bathing suit? NO THANK YOU. FOR REAL.

“I like her the best,” whispered my mother, pointing out a Miss Long Island Teen Contestant in a white halter top.

“Why?”

“She’s got cellulite.”

I concentrated on the host’s commentary which she read off index cards.

“Amanda enjoys playing the piano, flute and oboe. She has traveled the world and speaks five languages.”

My grandmother, clearly tipsy after her glass of Merlot, pumped her fist in the air at that point and shouted, “GOOD FOR YOU!!!!!!!”

With the exception of my very encouraging grandmother, my family was out for blood. We were suspicious of anyone who outshone my sister. The tidbits got more and more absurd as the contestants came out on the stage. The girl ahead of Debbie had some impressive if somewhat outlandish achievements.

“Stefanie enjoys participating in student government, tutoring, working for Students Against Drunk Driving and recently? Saved an autistic child’s life.”

My entire family blanched at this.

“SAVED AN AUTISTIC CHILD’S LIFE?!” I hissed to my mother. “THAT IS NOT EVEN FAIR.”

At that moment, my sister appeared on the stage, stunning in a red bikini and her so-called “stripper heels”. She was confident and easy, walking in front of the judges, striking the required pageant poses. I wanted to cheer, I was so ridiculously proud. The host continued with information about my sister.

“Debbie enjoys baking, knitting and says that good things come in small packages!”

“WHAT?!” I grabbed my mother’s arm, horrified. “THAT’S ALL THAT SHE SAID?! DUDE, SOME TEENAGER IS SAVING AUTISTIC CHILDREN AND SHIT AND DEBBIE LIKES TO BAKE?!?!?!?”

“Overachievers,” muttered my mother, finishing off her appletini.

“And now,” announced our host, her voice dripping with sugar, “We’d like to introduce our first performer of the evening! Miss Green Long Island!”

Miss Green Long Island wore gaucho pants and a tank top and performed an interpretive dance to an acoustic version of the Beatles’ “I Want To Hold Your Hand”.

I turned to my father and gave him a thumbs up. He rolled his eyes and declared, “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON.” Miss Green Long Island rolled around the stage, reaching out her hands in anguish, begging someone to help her save the planet.

“Oh, my God,” exclaimed my brother behind me. “MAKE HER STOP.”

My sister-in-law smacked him on the arm.

“I can’t,” I said. “No one can. She wants you to HOLD HER HAND. HOLD IT! STOP GLOBAL WARMING!”

“Laura!” hissed my sister-in-law. “STOP BEING A BLONDE BITCH.”

“Dude,” I calmly said, eyeing Miss Green Long Island as she pounded the stage with her two fists. “I am keeping it real.”

Soon enough, it was time for the evening gown portion of the evening and for each girl, they played a snippet of a love song from the 1980′s. When Debra appeared on the stage, the music abruptly shifted into Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings”, a cliche heaped on a cliche with a side of cheese. She was breathtaking in a cream-colored floor-length gown. Her green eyes were alive and bright and she smiled confidently.

I felt all the “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?” arrogance drain out of me. The feminist inside me who I had been pushing down all evening to keep from screaming was suddenly silenced. Yes, okay. I was at a PAGEANT where girls are judged on their FACES and their BODIES and yet, wow. There was my petite little sister, all grown up.

As Bette Midler belted her heart out, I felt tears form in my eyes and tumble down my cheeks. Debbie who was moody and aggressive, snarky and unpredictable had morphed into a lovely young woman. She was radiant in her evening wear and I wanted to jump to my feet and clap for her, to let her know that I loved her and I was proud of her and my God, she was the prettiest woman in the contest and in the room.

But pretty soon Bette Midler disappeared and the contestants filed out on stage together to await the selection of the top five. I immediately snapped back to reality and began judging everyone. My family held their breath to see if my sister’s name would be called.

It was.

The host excitedly went down the line of finalists, asking them their FINAL QUESTION. Debbie looked alert and ready while my entire family inched forward in their seats, nervous and sweating in anticipation.

“DEBRA,” smiled the host. “What do you think about women getting plastic surgery?”

“I…” started Debbie. She took a breath. “I think it’s really sad that women feel the need to do that. But, if it’s going to boost your confidence and make you feel better, then I think it’s okay.”

My grandmother took this opportunity to raise her fist again and let out a huge cry of triumph. You would’ve thought that my sister just announced that she could raise people from the dead and save our entire economy to boot.

The judges took a moment to deliberate, handed the envelope to Miss Big Hair 2008 and she painstakingly listed the winners, beginning with fourth runner up.

“PLEASE,” I begged. “DON’T LET HER GET CALLED FIRST.”

“I know,” whispered my mother, agitated and nervous. “She’s come so far!”

“Yeah,” I said. “Besides, we are SO NOT FOURTH RUNNER UP PEOPLE.”

Fourth runner up was someone else. I think it was the girl with the antennae family.

We collectively sighed.

Third runner up was another contestant.

Second as well.

And then, it was just Debbie and one other girl, standing face to face, gripping each other’s arms, pretending to smile, pretending to be happy for the other person, NO MATTER WHAT.

“This is NOT HAPPENING.” I turned to my little brother, unable to watch.

“DUDE, SHE HAS TOTALLY MADE IT TO THE END.”

“And the first runner up for Miss Long Island 2009 is…”

I gasped, waiting. We all leaned over, practically falling out of chairs.

“DEBBIE DLUG!”

We all went crazy, applauding and howling like fools.

“DAMNIT! SO CLOSE!!!!” shouted my brother, slapping me on the back.

“But dude, FIRST RUNNER UP! Debbie freaking almost won a BEAUTY PAGEANT! HOW DID THAT EVEN HAPPEN!??!?!?”

“I KNOW!!!!!” shouted my mother, jumping to her feet. “AND TO THINK SHE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE ANY TALENT!!!”

“OH MY GAWD,” said my dad, astonished. “DEBBIE ALMOST FREAKIN‘ WON DAT THING.”

“I know, dad! That is kind of insane!”

Families stood up to stretch, trying not to be disappointed for their loved ones, the signs and posters laying still under chairs. The girls were ushered off the stage and told to get ready for pictures. My relatives stood, unbelieving, unable to digest the fact that my sister had come close to winning something so spectacular.

It was incredibly hilarious and touching to think that my sister had applied on a whim and every other contestant had been participating in pageants for years, investing in coachings, bathing suits, gowns, and consultations. Debbie had to be taught everything a few days before–how to walk, how to pose, how to hold herself. She hadn’t had any expectations at all and she nearly won the entire thing.

Later at the reception, after the flurry of hugs and pictures and flowers, my sister sat with us at a table and dug into a plate of pasta.

“What did you talk about at your private interview?” asked my father. He was curious to know about the part of the pageant that we hadn’t been able to witness where each girl meets the judges individually to talk about their platform. My sister had chosen “Alternative Treatments for Cancer”.

“I talked about you, dad,” she said. “I mentioned the treatments you’re getting and how I’m applying to chiropractic school and how I’m really interested in alternate therapies.”

“You talked about me?” asked my dad, his lip twitching.

“Yeah, dad! You’re totally my hero!”

My father began to speak but was overcome with tears. He cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee.

“You didn’t have to tawk about ME!” he said, embarrassed.

“But I did!” insisted my sister. “And they LOVED IT!”

“See, dad?” I said. “You are the reason for your daughter getting crowned RUNNER UP in a beauty pageant.”

“Well,” said my dad, smiling broadly. “Don’t I just have da best family in da world?”

“You do,” I said, squeezing my sister’s tiny hand. “You do.”