On rare occasion, I cross state lines into the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. On this particular evening of November 14, 2014, I headed to the Valley Forge Casino for the night to meet a friend for a comedy show. I hastily packed before leaving. I went to step out of my bedroom with my overnight bag, when a fashionable little voice in my head urged me to turn around and pack a dress “just in case.” I’ve asked it before and I’ll ask it again, “Who am I to question my natural responses?” I threw a little black dress in the bag and left.
When I arrived at the hotel (the casino is in a hotel), my friend greeted me with a dirty martini. Few greetings are better than those that include a drink. Within a few minutes, my friend alerted me that while I was driving there, he had gotten a call from home and that he’d have to leave in an hour to tend to family affairs. From a logical standpoint, that should have disturbed me because I had just driven over an hour to get there and I was now going to either have to leave or remain there on my own for the rest of the night. But, it didn’t faze me. Shit happens, bro. I had no doubt there was a fun adventure to be had. I downed another dirty martini and then it was time for my friend to go. Before he left, I asked him if I should change from jeans into a dress. He said I looked fine in the jeans. But, again, that fashionable voice chimed in and told me to change. Adventures are typically more fun in dresses. I went to my hotel room and changed.
We stepped outside for him to depart. We chatted for a bit. Then, my specimen spotting senses kicked in and spotlighted a suitable specimen. I instinctively approached him and said, “What’s your story?” He told me he was at a wedding. The light then hit his hair in a certain way that called into question the color of the strands. I asked, “Are you a ginger kid?!” Despite my friend’s imminent departure, I was not prepared to associate with a soulless being. He admitted only to being a daywalker. Once he confirmed that he was not devoid of a soul, I asked, “Can I crash the wedding?” He replied, “Absolutely.” My friend entrusted me with Mr. Daywalker and was on his way. Game on.
We walked into the reception hall and Mr. Daywalker asked if I wanted a drink. We each got a Yeungling (something PA is good for). Next stop, photo booth. This was perhaps one of the most difficult decisions I had to make that night. There was a pink and purple zebra print cowgirl hat and there was a tiara. Decisions. Decisions. I opted with both. I put on the pink and purple cowgirl hat and on top of that, I asked Mr. Daywalker to place the tiara. I chose a crown for him, tossed a blue boa around him, and a pink boa around myself. Fabulous.
He signed the guest book, asked me to sign too, and attached our pictures. I hesitated to sign, but he insisted. I think that was the first wedding book I signed as Princess MoMo. Then it was time to meet the lovely bride and groom and put the dance floor to use. Surprisingly, the newlyweds were not in the least bit dismayed with my mysterious appearance. I danced with the bride and took some pictures.
Not too long after, the reception ended. Mr. Daywalker and I visited two of the bars at the hotel. Both sucked. One was a congregation of older folks sitting around doing nothing other than lecherously staring at every inch of my body when I walked in. The second one was a hillbilly convention with a mechanical bull. We kept switching from one bar to the next in hopes that one of them would eventually become fun. Then, my memory stopped recording.
…until the next morning. Mr. Daywalker and I had breakfast where we reunited with the bride and groom and some of the other invited wedding guests. Despite being surrounded by his friends, Mr. Daywalker’s attention was very much devoted to me.
As it turns out, Mr. Daywalker lives in LA. That is a drastic improvement from the last specimen that caught my attention (Mr. Hong Kong), who is of British origin, resides in Hong Kong, but is basically a wandering nomad as a result of ridiculous business travel schedule. After my tryst with Mr. Hong Kong, it seemed that I couldn’t avoid British guys or everything British for that matter. Perhpas it was just a case of baader meinhof. So, when this guy said he was from LA, I was relieved. Yes, it’s across the country, but it’s IN the country. Come to find out, Mr. Daywalker had just returned to the US from England but mere days before our encounter. I must have smelled the British on him. He later confessed to having English currency in his wallet. Perhaps that’s what drew me in.
In any event, not wanting to pine over another distant specimen, I figured, it was a fun evening wedding crashing and that was that. As he walked me to my car, he grabbed ahold of my hand. A different voice in my head spoke to me. This voice is the “what the fuck” voice. It basically just says one thing: “What the fuck?” Why was this dude holding my hand? I had had an amazing time with him, but I didn’t want it to extend beyond crashing weddings and ruining lives other than my own. We arrived at the MoMo mobile and it was time to bid Mr. Daywalker farewell. He once again caught me off guard. He said, “Do you want my number?” I said, “No. If you want mine, I’ll give it to you, but you live in LA and I live in New Jersey.” He reminded me that his phone was dead. Reluctantly, I took his number.
To Be Continued…