This is the second and concluding post about my encounter with Danielle Staub of Real Housewives of New Jersey infamy. Need to catch up? Read Part One!
* * *
Feeling refreshed and several hundred dollars lighter the next day at the casino, we hit the pauper’s breakfast buffet with the Mohegan Sun’s main clientele. After navigating our way through the portable oxygen tanks and wheelchairs, we head upstairs to valet parking.
As we wait for the Minivan of Manliness to appear among the Lexuses, Navigators and H2s and wonder why none of these car owners were at the buffet with us earlier, a guy as tall and skinny as a telephone pole strolls up the sidewalk in a track suit, greets the doorman by name, fist bumps him, then enters the hotel.
"Let me guess," I say to the doorman, "that guy's a pro basketball player?"
The man used to play in the NBA and now clowns with the Harlem Globetrotters, the doorman tells me.
"Wow -- this is celebrity sighting weekend for me,” I say proudly. “Last night, we dined across from one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey."
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Danielle, I think."
"Yep, that was Danielle," says a man in a gray FDNY T-shirt who had just come up next to us. "She's the crazy one."
“That’s funny. That’s exactly how the guy who told me who she was last night described her to me.”
“Well, I should know,” says FDNY Guy. “My wife is her publicist.”
(After this, maybe now ex-publicist. Or ex-wife. Sorry about that, FDNY Guy.)
Two minutes later, I’m relaying this bizarre coincidence to My Love. But something is amiss. I notice her eyes are not on me.
“She’s standing right behind you,” she says sotto voce, which is Italian for “in a manner so as not to make an ass out of you, dearest.”
I turn and there she is: Danielle, the PROSTITUTIONWHORE! herself. She dressed down from when I saw her last in this:
This Sunday, she’s in flats, a loose-fitting long sleeve blouse and jeans not nearly tight or low-cut enough for me to even venture a guess as to whether she had underwear on.
“Dear,” I say in a tone I plan on using again on the day I meet Thing 1’s first boyfriend, “give me the camera. … Not the iPhone – the REAL camera.”
Danielle is hugging someone, a man I don’t recognize. There’s no squealing. No snippiness. No drama. She’s smiling. In these few moments, she seems – and I know this may disappoint some you – perfectly normal.
"Excuse me,” I say, “I'm sorry to interrupt -- but are you Danielle from the Real Housewives?"
She instantly smiles with teeth whiter than any Vermont college town.
"Yes, I am!" she says.
She’s upbeat, dare I say it – perky – and I’m not referring to her boobs because they are modestly concealed under the gentle flow of her taupe-colored top.
"Would you mind if I got a photo with you?"
"No, not at all!" She chirps, stepping to one side so I can stand next to her.
I hand the camera to the guy she had been hugging.
"My wife and I sat across from you at dinner last night."
"I was MUCH taller last night," she says as we slide arms around each other's backs, without hesitation or awkwardness.
"Yes, my wife was admiring how you could actually stand in those shoes,” I lie.
“Not very well! Did you see how many guys I had holding me up?" she says, gesturing and there they are -- the future heads of the Jerry Springer Show security team from the night before. They are standing on the sidewalk, giving them a few more imposing inches of height. I see no expressions, just muscles and the pain they could cause someone they don’t like.
It was then, and there, I decided it was best not to bring up the whole PROSTITUTIONWHORE! thing. Or, as was suggested to me by someone on Twitter, that I yank on Danielle’s hair extensions.
It was then I realized how much I enjoy having all my own teeth.
Even if they’re not as white as Danielle Staub’s.
* * *
Since that day we met, I’ve done a little more Googling and thinking.
n alleged sex tape (NO! NO! NO! NOT ME! Her!!!) coming out. (UPDATED – BabyBloomr, I will never doubt you again. Ever. Now please pass the boric acid.)) I should have expected that.
But speaking of coming out, I now learn Danielle may be having a lesbian love affair (which I’m sure completely explains why she did not feel up me backside, right, love?).
She’s also trying to reshape her image doing PSAs against bullying, supporting gay rights and working with some charities.
Good for her.
Maybe she’s turning her life around, scampered up on a true morale high ground where she’s found redemption and a stable, loving relationship to make her whole.
But she's always PROSTITUTIONWHORE! to me.