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.
A plastic bag full of used cookie cutters in the shape of dinosaurs
The Complete Cookie Cookbook
A pot holder in the shape of a gingerbread man
A small baking pan
What did it not contain:
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.”