TWENTY TWENTY HINDSIGHT

Thanks peeps!

Katie, I read your blog for the first time today.  The part about your hometown being the “archive of the many small humiliations of your youth,” resonates with me.  I am contemplating a move back to Jackson, MS.  Among other things, I’m trying to figure out how I will address Mrs. Cannada when we run into each other at the grocery store.  Four years ago, I “accidentally” pissed on her daughter’s calves at an Ole Miss football game and then skipped her wedding the following year.  To make matters more degrading, my parents have said that they don’t have enough room for me to live with them, despite the fact that they live in the same house that my brother and I grew up in.  They kindly offered me a spot at my grandmother’s house.  Nana seconded the notion on a voice message that said, “Daaan, if you do live with me you can have Mexicans, Blacks, Arabs and Chinese visit the house whenever you like.”

—Dan W.

True story: My dad and I were watching Name of the Rose (Christian Slater’s first movie, a quaint little period piece about the Inquisition) in about 1986. When it was obvious that Christian, the apprentice monk, was going to lift his gowns of brown and climb atop the hot disheveled nonverbal feral trashgirl in the hay in the monastery barn, my dad stood up and approached the tv—leaving the sound on, mind you—and just stood facing it, pressed up against the screen. I dont think that he even said anything! Or maybe he did, but in my mind, it was just horrifyingly embarrassing: animal-like sex noises and my dad with his lower torso and hips pressed against the TV to block the visual assault of lusty unprotected coitus on my virgin eyes. Then he sat back down when the scene was over and we watched the rest of the movie like nothing had happened. Jesus, that was sooooooo horrible. I am blushing about it right now.

—Amy C.

Amy C. mentioned that she’d like to hear other mind-searing tales of youthful embarrassment at the hands of our elders, which will not just entertain but maybe even be a sort of therapy for you. Hmmm. Therapy. I’ve never really considered myself the most empathetic person, but therapy sounds like a potential career path. I do like secrets. Want to share your humiliation? Lay it down in the comments or email krherzog@gmail.com

Just kidding….this is really Katie here. Did I fool you? The other day I went on Match.com and filed a name and profile under Melaurmy Pierce. Look it up. I am trying to get as many hits on my site as possible. Or hit on as possible. The webernet is a beautiful thing to find dates on. So much easier than finding a date in this town. I hope to get floods of hot pictures and wordsy emails. Feel free to send me some. Melaurmy Pierce.

Sister here. I’m filling in for a moment while Katie is off gallivanting in the snow with an Anonymous Celebrity she picked up in Aspen yesterday. Her technique was pretty ballsy—throwing red paint on Anonymous Celebrity’s white mink coat—but instead of pressing charges, Anonymous Celebrity seemed rather charmed by my sister’s commitment to Equal Rights For All Earth’s Creatures With the Exception of Feral Cats. I think they’re going to a PETA meeting this evening after bikram yoga.

Anyway, I’m here to relate a story about our dear mother, Mazog….

Mazog called me a few weeks ago and said she was sending me a package for Christmas, which is not a holiday us Herzog’s are big on for various reasons: Ma and Pazog are opposed to consumerism/Jesus; Big Brother and I are broke; and Katie prefers Chinese food and sitting in a bar with orphans and/or drunks. Anyway, so Mazog tells me to expect a package and says, “I hope you’re in the mood for cookies!” Now I don’t know about your ma, but Mazog does not bake. The only care packages she sent any of us through camp or boarding school or college usually contained shit she was trying to get rid of, a trait inherited from her mother (e.g last package from G’ma Ronan: used pencils, a remote control minus the accompanying television, a calendar from 2007) or other bizarre stuff that probably shouldn’t be sent via the US Postal Service (e.g. cream cheese).

So I’m all excited thinking that Mazog’s maternal instinct to ply her offspring with baked goods has finally kicked in 30 years after popping out her first baby. When I find the package sitting in front of my door after a long day of work saving the planet, I almost piss myself thinking about the home-baked cookies inside.

And then I open the box.

Contents:
A plastic bag full of used cookie cutters in the shape of dinosaurs
The Complete Cookie Cookbook
Icing bags
A pot holder in the shape of a gingerbread man
A small baking pan

What did it not contain:
COOKIES.

When I called Mazog to thank her for the package, I mentioned that I thought she might actually be sending me cookies. “You know I don’t bake,” she said. “I was hoping you’d make cookies and send them to ME.”