While my husband and I were living in the mansion in Rhode Island, because our life is really hard like that sometimes, we celebrated my 22nd birthday. My mother came out to visit, and my husband (then fiancé) made me a cake. I was taking my birthday afternoon nap when my fiancé came to wake me up.
He gently rubbed my shoulder and said in a soft soothing voice born of years of experience with post-nap Megan rage, “Come on Birthday Girl, time for your cake.” I smiled happily and rolled over wrapping myself in my nice warm blankets murmuring “two more minutes.” He left me to sleep, but came charging back into the room a second later screaming, “Your cake is on fire! Blow it out, blow it out!!”
I ran out of the room and to the dining room table, and sure enough, my cake was on fire. I blew with all my might, and after a few moments of genuine fear that the mansion might burn down, I blew the candles and the cake out. My fiancé had lit the candles before he came to wake me up so I would have a nice surprise as I stumbled sleepily out of my bedroom. Unfortunately, he had bought one of the rice paper edible cake toppers in the shape of Scooby Do’s head, which had been licked by a flame, causing the birthday inferno.
After removing Scooby’s half burnt head the cake was still edible, though I was in such a hurry to blow out Scooby that I never made a wish. I suppose I can’t really complain too much since I have accidently done worse things to his birthday cake since.