I live in Chicago.

Some days I am so glad I don’t live at home anymore.

My mom, who has had quite a long fixation on one Mr. Elvis Aaron Presley, had a dinner the other night to mark the 25th anniversary of his passing.

Grace consisted of “Dear god…thankyaverymuch.”

Dinner was stromboli, prepared by my cousin Victoria, whose brother is currently staying with me. That wasn’t too Elvis-y, but the centerpiece was yet to come.

My mom baked a cake. Not just any cake. This was a cake fit for The King.

It had chocolate frosting, with a ring of vanilla around the outside. it had a bunch of edible glitter in the middle, making a record label, then my mom took the tines of a fork and made grooves. And then she put “Elvis- Love Me Tender” on the label. Hopefully not with a pen.

My friend Mark, who was subjected to all of this along with Victoria and her parents, said the cake itself was actually pretty cool. However, this is a man who has had to walk past a life-size cardboard cutout of Elvis every night to go to bed all summer this summer, and most of last summer.

So he has gotten used to this madness. I, on the other hand, am in Chicago, and don’t have to deal with it.

At least not for another two weeks.

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