We were going to make tacos. We’s been simmering black beans all day, and everyone was on the way with their assigned ingredients.

Perfect day for tacos, too. A friend’s birthday. Recovering from a weekend of celebration. A touch homesick. What we all needed was some homemade tacos…like the ones Mel used to make.

And then the stove stopped working. And the TV, and the internet. Two of the main outlets and our electric stove stopped working.

After a little banter, seven girls ended up sitting around two boxes of pizzas, drinking wine and playing some of the most ridiculous games of MASH.

As I get older, I’m finding that I like almost like the things that replace foiled plans better than the original idea. They’re messier, sure, but with the right people around, disaster turns easily into perfection. The only times we ever talk about are the ones that were ridiculous.

The time I grated cheese by cutting it into tiny strips because Brad’s new place didn’t have a cheese grater.

The time the cops busted us on Sara’s 18th birthday.

The friends I made because I fucked things up and had to stay away from Portland for awhile.

The boy I started seeing because that other relationship didn’t end the way I thought it would.

Something wonderful seems to always come from the broken ideals. Sides sore from laughing, a closer connection, new relationships. When plans unravel, it leaves me exposed and open. I’m finding, though, that that’s not a bad thing — it leaves me open for something better.

Like seven girls, a couple of pizzas, and a lot of laughs. Tacos can wait.