Bunny dropping

I pull in the drive and get out to unload the Mini. As I round the bumper, something catches the corner of my eye. It is on the turn-around concrete pad that covers a corner of my yard (I am the last house on a dead-end street and the pad was poured by the city to facilitate the turning of municipal trucks in lieu of a cul-de-sac.)

I go to investigate.

I am standing in my yard looking at an ornate egg-shaped cake that is encased in plastic packaging. (see above).

There is no evidence to suggest how the cake got here. No other groceries spilled about, no bunny tracks, no elf-dust, no nothing. There is only the cake. And there is not one smudge of frosting on the packaging.

It is perfect.

By some miracle, I resist the urge to tear open the package and feed on the cake like a wild dog. Instead, I go to check my copious reference material on "procedures, cakes, found, holiday, egg-shaped." I emerge minutes later, camera in hand.

I take photos of the cake.

Then it is Erin and the cake. I look at the cake. The cake does nothing. It is just a cake. I am a human being. I feel the relationship should be simple, but of course, it is not.

"Why?" I ask the cake.

I deduce--perhaps nonsensically due to the flawless condition of the cake--that it must be associated with my neighbor across the street and the top of a car, but instead of calling said neighbor, I do nothing. Perhaps someone will retrieve the cake. Perhaps the cake is a sign. Perhaps the cake will transform into a giant hopping creature. Perhaps rays of light will shoot from it and I will find Jesus. Perhaps I will shrink to the size of a blade of grass and the cake will be my new home.

I unpack the groceries and load the ice cream (French vanilla), cold cuts (smoked turkey) and milk (2 percent) into our refridgerator/freezer, get back in the Mini and leave to complete my errands.

When I come home, the cake is still there.

I approach it once again. "Cake?" I say. The cake does not reply.

I shrug, go inside.

Several hours later, the cake is gone.

I call this neighbor, I call that neighbor. No one knows anything about an egg-shaped cake. I sprinkle Tide onto dirty clothing. I sing an aria. I sculpt a seven-foot hand from plaster of Paris.

* * *

Notes: The weather in Cleveland is currently about 70 degrees and fair. This episode actually occurred in 2005. As evidenced by the white mound in the picture, the snow lasted a bit longer last year. But I was not blogging in spring of 2005 and I thought the story was worth repeating. I trust the good reader does not feel deceived.

Thus far in 2006, no mysterious cakes have appeared in my yard.

To those who might think I have staged this episode: Eff off. I wouldn't buy a cake like that if the effing Easter Bunny knocked on my front door and offered me an effing joint.

For more information on weird erin cakeness, click here. And if you do and you are wondering, the answer is: yes, I still have it.