First there was the pool sweep.
The oven hit 400 degrees before I realized the precious, wonderful cake, the cake for which I skipped lunch so that I might have an extra large slice after dinner, the CAKE was still in the OVEN.
If you look really hard you can see the tiny wisps of smoke. The melted buttercream. The cellophane that has become one with the cake.
The cake is clearly the third arm of the conspiracy.
It's out there, people.
This is the end of the Hannah Montana cake stories. I promise.