The Birthday Disaster

Pictures can be deceiving.We know that most photos are probably not as perfect as they seem, but somehow we still get sucked in. Here's a little story about the epic disaster that was my 27th birthday. I had intended to do a photo-documentary style post, but in the end, the photos were just telling the wrong story. This post needed words.So, here's the brutally honest truth. 

The day started out ok. Jon had given me a fantastic new book (Sleuth by Philip Mould), which I was having fun reading, and I was still recovering from opening my mother-in-law's b-day gift.  

I had unwrapped it slightly confused. This large white plastic step stool peered out at me while I tried to determine it's purpose.  Finally, Jon explained it to me.

It was a squatty potty.

I laughed for a solid 30 minutes.

It now resides, quite proudly, in the bathroom-- a great testament to both the humour and practicality of my mother-in-law.

The rest of the day passed quietly and uneventfully, that is until it came time to make the pie.

I love pie. Why someone would choose the often dry, spongy texture of cake, over the glory that is pie is completely beyond my understanding. So, with the promise of pastry to come, I got things together to make myself the perfect birthday pie.  Afterwards, I gave her the once over. Lopsided. Darn it. The only thing to be done was try to cover it with pastry flowers. Pleased with the result, I popped my beauty into the oven. That pie was in there for FOREVER (a full hour and a half at 200*C-- is that normal?!), but in the end this gorgeous little number came out and all seemed to be as it should. 

I made dinner (soup and watermelon salad), snapped the photo below, then laid all the food out. Perfect timing! I finished just as Jon opened the front door. As always, I pulled the table away from the wall. But strangely, the two legs opposite me decided that they no longer wanted to be legs, and promptly dropped to the floor. In an instant, the far end of the table dropped, the soup and salad slipped down the surface, and smashed, rather violently, into the wall. I screamed. Jon rushed in to find my mouth agape. Soup had sprayed 10 ft up the wall in either direction, while the moist remains had begun to seep into the carpet. The injustice of such a travesty happening on my BIRTHDAY suddenly hit me and I burst into tears, rushing past my bewildered husband to find refuge with the squatty potty.   

When I finally composed myself enough to emerge, I found Jon, on the floor, trying to salvage the situation. But there is no way to sugar coat it, it looked like Fate had just barfed all over our floor. 

Somehow we saved enough for each of us to have a small portion, unanimously deciding we'd fill up on pie instead. 

We sang happy birthday (yes, I sang it to myself-- I needed it.), then cut in.

... and yes, the bottom was utterly raw. 

So there you go. Perfect 27 was fraught with life lessons. Things like:

sometimes pies come out raw

sometimes you need a toilet stool to sit on while you cry

sometimes birthday dinners suck

and sometimes the story of a photo is a lot more entertaining than perfection.