My birthday week has included two interesting situations that could put an Alfred Hitchcock psychological thriller to shame . . .
Here’s the first: I received a mysterious piece of mail two days ago. Now before you panic . . . let me explain. The mail was addressed to me, but did not include a return address. Could this have something to do with The Case of the Anonymous Poo and Porn (2/24 post)? I pondered that idea for exactly 39 seconds and even considered taking the envelope to the police station as evidence. But then I saw that the mystery mail had a postmark from Minneapolis. My instincts tell me that our poo/porn killer is a local creep, not a Twin Cities dandy.
The postmark was dated March 22 and the handwriting was neat and legible. The letters were printed in all caps. Black ink. Interesting. V-e-r-r-r-r-r-y interesting.
The back of the envelope said ‘Flying Leap.’ Hmmmmm. That’s pretty disturbing. Is someone suggesting I take a flying leap? The front of the card pictured two attractive ladies enjoying some dessert while one says to the other, “Only the good die young.” I certainly like dessert, but such a cryptic message for my special day?
When I opened the card I let out a gasp and struggled to catch my breath. What was written inside is shocking, so take a moment to collect yourself before reading any further:
Let’s put the clues together, shall we? We bitches live forever? Such obscenity! Guess who? Over the hill? Clearly this card was sent by a former boyfriend or secret admirer who has spent decades dreaming about me. His heart is probably still broken and his life hasn’t been the same since we were last together. In order to keep his identity a super secret, he covered his tracks by sending a birthday card with two women on the front. Here’s the truth: they don’t call me Nancy Joyce Drew for nothin’.
Who could this broken-hearted card sending admirer be? Could it be Don Magrin who helped me chaperone the high school dance the night my jeans were torn to shreds (3/5 post)? Probably not. Mags broke up with me because he wasn’t ready to make a commitment. And then he dropped this bomb: he said he couldn’t commit to someone even as incredible Christie Brinkley. I ask you, dear Joycelander, was that true confession supposed to make me feel better?
Could the mystery card have been sent by one of my former high school students—perhaps Hill Reidmoe? Whenever I took attendance, Hill often commented that he liked my belts. In fact, he talked about my belts his entire senior year. But he lives on the West Coast—not in the Twin Cities. Strike two.
How about Bill Philanger? Anybody with the last name Philanger (which sounds very kinky) might be guilty of sending a card that includes the word bitch. And he definitely shed a tear over me back when I was more than fabulous. But alas, I think he is now happily married and a father to three beautiful girls.
So who sent such nastiness to my mailbox? I guess it might remain the great birthday card mystery. Puzzling, yes. But definitely exciting and very Hitchcockian . . .
Here’s the second Hitch sitch: Yesterday I came home to find a pair of leopard print galoshes hanging on my front door. No card–no note–no fingerprints. Madness, sheer anonymous madness! Semi-cheerful flowers were stuck in one boot and a two foot long Slim Jim was stuck in the other . . .
Who would leave me a single anonymous Slim Jim in a pair of animal print boots? Don’t you think a two foot long skinny sausage is awfully suggestive? Even a tad inappropriate? (I’m not breathing a word about this to Mr. Acura RDX.)
So, by the time I turn another year older, here’s what I’m left with: (a) the dream that a bitch can live forever, (b) the snack of a two foot skinny sausage, and (c) a little cock in the old Hitch which makes Joyceland very happy.