The New Rules for Blondes by Selena Coppock Read Free Book Online Page A

that. You can achieve your dreams. Heidi was right. I proved that. I did.
    Or at least it seemed like I did until I texted him the next day.
    I had a standup gig in the homosexual haven of Fire Island, New York, the next night, so I spent the day after “A Night at the Rock Show” in transit, just like so many rock-and-roll bands on the nights after their rock shows. 20 It’s a sign, right? Getting to Fire Island is like Planes, Trains and Automobiles , but I was floating on a cloud of euphoria the whole way, so it didn’t bother me. Constantine Maroulis was to be mine, and I loved sharing the story with my two fellow standup comedian travelers, Leah and Danny. I was the token hetero on this road trip.
    “I’m going to text him now so that we keep the momentum going from last night and he doesn’t forget me,” I explained to Leah and Danny on our way to Fire Island. On the train, they had dutifully listened to the entire story from start to finish. I was unrepentant in my willingness to dominate conversation with the saga that should have been nicknamed “Hair,” but with less body odor and more cheap cologne. And so once we reached our hotel on Fire Island and had time to kill before our show that night, I fired off my first text. Light, witty, and awesome, just like me.
    “Hey, this is Selena. I put a gerbil in a wheel to generate enough electricity in my old-school phone to send you this text. Great to meet you last night!”
    I was a hilarity machine . . . but was Constantine ready for this jelly? What guy wouldn’t fall for this witticism? Apparently a random schmo who wasn’t expecting a text.
    “617—is this Boston?” was the response.
    Huh. That was weird for a guy with whom I talked about Boston last night . No matter. We were going to fall in love, and this was simply a bump in the long and winding road. Someday when we were sitting on rocking chairs on our wraparound porch while our grandkids climbed trees, we’d laugh at this exchange.
    “Yes—I’m a Masshole through and through, so I keep it real with the Boston digits.”
    “Nice, mami.”
    Hmm . . . I’d only heard the word “mami” used by the Mexican guys who hung around outside of New York City bodegas. That didn’t sound very Greek to me, but then again, Spanish is like Greek to me.
    “Not as nice as a Greek Idol, am I right?” I tried my hardest to will whoever was on the other side of the phone to be my Greek lover.
    “You sound hot hahaha” was the response. Huh!? What was going on here?
    “Selena, you need to put the phone down,” my homo amigos instructed me. Lesbian Leah and gay Danny had been listening to the Constantine saga unfold all day, and they were understandably sick of it.
    “To be honest,” Leah said, “it seems like either you took down his number wrong, or he is a jerk and he gave you a fake number.”
    A fake number? But would my Constantine do such a thing? He pointed at me in the concert. We spoke after the show and joked around. He offered me the digits! I didn’t ask for anything!
    “Do you have another way to reach him? I mean, can you email him so that you don’t keep texting with this random Latino kid in Los Angeles?” Danny suggested.
    “ Yes! I have his email address! I can email him, make a joke of all this, and then finally we’ll be in communication and our love can begin.”
    Leah and Danny gave each other a look.
    “I’ll just need to borrow your smart phone, Leah”—because my old-school flip phone could barely send a text, much less an email. Leah handed it over, and I began slowly typing my message on her miniature QWERTY keyboard.
    “This is a pain in the ass,” I exclaimed, “but I’ll do it for Connie.” We laughed.
     
    Hey Constantine—
I must have taken down your phone number wrong, unless you’re into calling ladies “Mami” and doling out compliments such as “You sound hot.” Either way, I wanted to give you the information about this standup comedy show