Mustache Guy – Part 2


I call Mustache Guy on Wednesday afternoon and leave a message, “Hi, this is Beatrice from the matchmaking place returning your call. Call me when you get a chance and let’s talk. I look forward to meeting you.”

I look forward to meeting you? No I don’t…you have a mustache. (Insert long sigh here.) But I’m keeping an open mind. I’m also keeping my commitment to that stupid matchmaking place by agreeing to at least meet the guys they match me up with.

It’s Friday night and I’m cleaning out my closet. No, I really am cleaning out my closet and color-coordinating it, and getting rid of stuff that I can send to D.I.

You don’t have to tell me how sad and pathetic that is! I already know how sad and pathetic that is! If Starbucks Guy hadn’t left me at the altar, I would be with him at dinner and a movie right now. But Starbucks Guy DID leave me at the altar, so I’m hangin’ with my dogs organizing my closet. At least I’m not just sitting here watching TV, eating chocolate, and feeling sorry for myself. Like I did last week.

My phone dings or chirps or whatever it’s called and alerts me to the fact that I have just received a text message.

“hey lady,” it reads. “sorry I missed UR call.”

One thing you should know about me: I hate text messages. No, I don’t think you understand. I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING HATE TEXT MESSAGES!

See, guys, here’s the deal: I’m 40. I actually like to talk to men. Men who use real words, not made up words like UR or gr8t. If you’re remotely interested in getting to know me, please pick up the fuckin’ phone and call me. Talk to me like I’m an intelligent, educated, classy woman who knows how to talk in complete, coherent sentences (although my mother would tell me right here that I’m not classy, because I just used the “F-word” and “beautiful young ladies do not swear”).

Ok, in my defense, it was 2008 and texting was new, and I thought it was kind of stupid, because I thought that it was a cop-out. A coward’s method of communicating. Lame, teenage “correspondence” for people who didn’t have the brain capacity to actually have a human conversation.

But now I LOVE texting, because I don’t have to waste my time making small talk. Plus, talking on the phone makes me antsy. I got shit to do, people.

Back to Mustache Guy.

I text him back a full sentence, spelled correctly: “What are you doing tonight?”


So this is how it’s going to be. This is the kind of non-sensical conversation he intends on having. I feel like I’m talking to a 14-year-old.

“Impressive,” I text. Why doesn’t he just call me? He has my phone number; I’m obviously available to talk.

“bad answer,” he replies. “ru mad? pls don’t b.”

Am I mad? Holy shit. What if I really AM talking to a 14-year-old boy? Wait a minute. It’s all making sense: the matchmaking place isn’t real. It’s a set up. This is actually an episode of To Catch a Predator on Dateline! I’m going to go to jail.

Calm down, Beatrice. You heard his voice on the message he left you. He clearly is not a 14-year-old boy. But just to be sure, I text “I’m not a big fan of texting. Why don’t you call me?”

Mistake #4,286,145.

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