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Show I Love My Wife, But Oh, You Beauty Queen! By MORT WEISINGER I havea little black book bulging with the telephone numbers of the most gorgeous blondes, brunettes, and red- headsin the country. Frequently I have to lunch and dine with these pretties, or study their 36-2436 dimensions as they strut before me in swimsuits. My wife didn’t object when I was asked to judge the contestants for the Little Miss Americatitle, naturally, for they ranged in age from five to 10. Nor did she get upset when I became an observer at the Most Glamorous Grandmother Pageant. But she put her spiked heels down when I told her I was going to observe the Miss Nude America contest. Mywife is, on occasion, understand- ably upset. Yet how can I convince her that this is business and not pleasure? It all started three years ago, when I began research for a novel, “The Con- O.. day my wife’s eyes held the triumphantgleamofa jailer who hasjust found a file in a prisoner's bread-loaf. “I was getting your suits ready for the test,” which reveals what happens be- cleaner, and this fell out of a pocket,” hind the scenes when beautiful girls converge on “Surf City,” dreaming of she said. She exhibited a silver religious medallion. “Look at the name engraved on the back,” she went on. “ ‘Mary Lou Jensen.’ Isn’t she the girl you voted to winning the “Princess America” pageant. Are the contests rigged? Are the chaperones ever-vigilant? Why do girls enter these contests? These were some of the things I wanted to find out. To learn the answers, I of course had to interview scores of ex-beauty queens, judges, chaperones, and officials. In addition, I became an observer or a judge. name Miss Stars & Stripes?” while I was transcribing an interview from my tape recorder, my wife appeared just in time to hear the sugary drawl of a Miss Georgia saying: “Mort Weisinger, you are one of the nicest judges Ah’ve ever met.” Once again my wife gave me that loox. “I know what you're thinking, dear,” I said. “I asked this girl to auto- Weisinger warily watches for wife while chatting with Miss American Teen-Ager. graph my menu. But she told me it is against the rules for a contestant to write her name on anything but an authentic autograph book. No menus. that your Miss Finland loves raw fish.” I think the happiest moment in our marriage was whenI told my wife that No napkins. No programs. This rule my research was over, and that from here on I would be glued to my type- has beenin effect ever since some joker handed a girl a paper to sign that turned out to be a petition for something. So, instead, she dictated one for my recorder.” writer. But a few days later she reported gloomily: “Guess who our new neighbor is? Linda Bement, Miss Uni- verse of 1960. She’s a knockout!” Naturally, I would haveto call Linda “Honey,” I said, “don’t you know "Then there was the time I returned home from Miami after a week of that inmost pageants ban participants watching t!.e Miss Universe finals. I from wearing religious medallions because it might prejudice the judges? Mary Lou asked meto hold it for her. I forgot to return it.” was surprised to see my wife wearing This worked, but a few days later, I picked up this Scandinavian outfit to a dirndl skirt and an embroidered blouse. “You told me on the phone that Miss Finland was your favorite, so celebrate our reunion,” she said, While she got dinner ready, I told her of my hard week’s work interviewing Miss Thailand, Miss Greece, Miss France, and others. “Around the world with 80 girls! But you did like Miss Finland best, didn’t you?” my wife pursued. “Yes,” I said. “Then here’s your dinner, in honor of Miss Finland!” She shoved a plate before me, bare but for an uncooked mackerel, tail and all. As I stared into the sunken eyes of the dead fish, my wife pouted: “I read in some column on the phone often to discuss some aspects of my book. “Do you have to yak with her so much?” my wife asked. “Honey, it's pure research,” I said. “Linda just gave me a nifty anecdote.” She hmpfed. But when the book was finished, we celebrated with caviar and champagne. “NL more beautiful girls,” I said, lifting my glass. “My next book will deal with astrologers.” “Pll buy that,” my wife said. But the next day I received a cable asking if I'd serve as a consultant to the 1971 Miss Venus Pageant. 1 had heard aboutthis contest. It will be the supercompetition of all time. Allegedly, over 250,000 contestants throughout the world will vie for a huge prize. “Do it,” my wife prodded. “It'll be gteat publicity for your book.” I accepted. A few weeks later, I phoned my wife. “Honey, guess what? They've appointed me as a judge. I'm to serve on an internationai panel with OmarSharif, the movie star, and David Merrick, the producer.” “Great!” she said. “. . . also Gina Lollobrigida and maybe Raquel Welch, and. . .” “Spare me the details,” she said. “Just remember to state on your in- come-tax return that you're a gil ay, PTS i. Beauty-contest researcher Weisinger is surrounded by shapely “subject material” (above) during a pageant. But his wife prefers it when he works with younger beauty queens (right). Family Weekly, January 17,1971 watcher, not a writer.” But my wife is really a good kid. She knows she is my favorite beauty queen because the dedication of my book reads: “To my wife, the fairest of them all.” @ |