I once got a phone call in high school and an unfamiliar female voice came on the line and asked me why I was such a bitch. She hung up before I had a chance to answer her.
Very distinctly I remember my body going hot and the sick feeling in my stomach, but that soon gave way to a delicious feeling of satisfaction. Because it meant that I was somebody. Somebody that people were talking about. Good or bad didn't matter to me then. I was thrilled.
The same hot body, sick stomach feeling hit me when I read the anonymous note that was sent to me via regular mail a few weeks ago. It was typed out on a small strip of paper. It reminded me of a fortune cookie. My address was hand printed by either a child or a right-handed person's left. The envelope was taped and the stamp was a sticker. No DNA evidence.
The sender of the note wanted me to know that a dear friend of mine regularly talks behind my back and that the topics do not put me in a good light. The sender thought I would want to know.
This time didn't feel quite so delicious. It bothered and hurt me and not because of what the note said (It's not true, my dear friend is quite lovely and annoyingly is not much of a gossip or trash-talker), but that someone had gone through the trouble to disrupt my life in such a juvenile way. It made Minneapolis feel small and suffocating.
I'm not at all unfamiliar with anonymous comments. Being told that you suck is something that most every blogger gets to hear on occasion. There was just something especially creepy about an anonymous letter in my mailbox. It wasn't quite as easy to hit delete and ignore.
It was, however, a riotous time trying to profile the sad individual who sent the note. Over forty and bitter? Jealous and bored? Crazy? I tried to think of women I know who are on the verge. Or maybe it was a dude? What kind of adult would do this? And what was their motive? If it was to make me obsess about something for a few days, then mission accomplished. I brought the note to a party and my friend hung it on the wall as though it was an art installation. People flocked to it and couldn't stop talking about it. Everyone had a theory and some wondered if maybe the sender was at that very party. Everyone was a suspect. It was like a game of Clue.
I think Mrs Peacock did it in the parlor with a candlestick.
