Sending him over the hill a little early

The other day my mother ordered Ewan's tombstone birthday cake from a bakery by her house. He had asked for an owl on top and the words "BE WARE OR BE DEAD" written on it. I told my mother that I didn't want his name on it because that would be just too weird. I was initially upset that I wouldn't be making Ewan's cake because I always make the kids' birthday cakes from scratch so that when they're all grown up, they'll sit in their college dorm rooms, reminiscing just how good they had it back at home and talking about how their mama made their cakes from scratch. And because I can be dramatic, I started to worry about how I'm not making one of their cakes this year and how, years later, after Ewan robs a bank and is taken into custody and gives his first interview on "Dateline NBC," he'll tell Stone Phillips: "You know, it really started on my fourth birthday, when my mom didn't make my cake. She bought it. At a bakery. I'm not even sure if it was made from organic ingredients."

STONE: "So that's when it all started going downhill for you."

EWAN: "Exactly. It was like she stopped caring. I wanted her to be like the mom on all those craft blogs. You know the ones where the moms sew their kids their own art smocks and always make their kids these perfect cakes? She made me an Elmo cake one year and it looked like a giant bloodclot with eyes."

STONE: "Truly frightening."

Which reminds me, when we were at Sam's, the boys went nuts over these gingerbread house-making kits. Although they begged, I could see in the future the hot mess that this innocent-looking gingerbread house kit would most definitely be and I told them "no." Plus I have this thing about food just sitting out all willy-nilly. Grody.

I'm busy working on deadlines, getting my house in order to accommodate 12 people for Thanksgiving, baking, and getting ready to anchor the morning show on Friday. I've strung the first bit garland, actual bits of cedar and pine all wired together and hung in the archway between the dining and living room. I'm sure I'll regret it a week later when all the needles are on the floor.



I'm also struggling with my fourth sinus infection of the season, jeebus, I know, it's so old already. My vocal tonality alternates between that of a 90-year-old chain-smoking Bette Davis and Shaggy from "Scooby Doo." It has provided me with hours of endless fascination. I'm going to record myself a new voicemail greeting in this hot new voice.

(I've received some helpful emails about the Neti Pot but I am terrified of drowning and doubt that I'll ever come around to using it.)