Mystery Postcard

The correspondence in my life is just getting weirder.

I received a postcard at work with the following text:

For the Life OF Me, do NOT know why you Would Want To have your PICTURE TAKEN With the Femi-NAZI shoes?

CERTAINLY, I hope u don’t Ride with the Femi-Nazi Shoes!
What a TRAVESTY!

A _ _ [unreadable]

Addressed to me, care of my work address.

Background:

I was featured in a recent magazine article about biking to work. My name and work place were published, along with a picture of me wearing a business suit, helmet and heels next to the Breeze.

This wasn’t email or a snarky comment on my blog. This was a postcard with a stamp. Someone put at least some effort into getting this message to me – not to mention looking up the address of my workplace in the first place.

Interesting clues:

The postcard is from the University of Chicago Magazine, and shows a painting of the campus. I went to law school there.

There is a yellow LIVESTRONG sticker on the postcard, indicating a bikey person.

I thought it might be my friend Arline – an interesting dyke with a somewhat militant streak who doesn’t hesitate to call me out when she feels I am betraying the grrrl gender. [specifically, she hates my frequent use of the term ‘chick’ to describe myself or other women]. She also went to the U of C, so it sort of made sense.

However, the use of femi-nazi seems completely backwards, and Arline isn’t one to make such a weird error. My mental image of femi-nazi shoes would be completely practical, sturdy, no-frills, no-heels, ugly as sin shoes. The author of the postcard instead seems to imply the opposite – that I am furthering the oppression of womyn by submitting to and perpetuating the torture, restraint and control of womyn through misogonistic footwear.

Arline denied the postcard – but did share in the giggling and opined that it was a freaky letter.

Damn it – unless the author contacts me again, this will remain a mystery. Maybe NOT having contact is actually better. I really don’t have time to deal with a stalker or freak, and my hackles rise pretty quickly when I get scolded for not being enough of a feminist.