It's hard being the daughter of a former beauty queen, even if that former beauty queen is the only female who doesn't snicker about her daughter's bralessness.

As a child, she would drag a chair up to the bookshelf and (straining on tip-toe) pull down her mother's dusty photo album. She'd curl up between the couch cushions and flip through the plastic covered pages with their brochures and newspaper clippings. There, behind the yellowed article anouncing the event, her mother, complete with sash, crown, roses, and a radiant smile. And at the back, the wedding photos next to the gold embossed invitation -- her mother, in white, before the wrinkles at the eyes, before the gray hairs, and her father, an upright, handsome, smiling plastic stranger.