Garage Band

The Boy (and I) had a party of sorts, to celebrate the Summer Solstice (and the fact that I'm on vacation this week). He invited two friends, and I invited The Author, and we set up the Rock Band in the garage, creating an instant Garage Band. We spent the early part of the day shopping and baking, and cleaning/setting up. We all had a very good time, but there were a few flaws in the evening: The time got away from us and there was little actual cleaning done in the garage. Not a big deal, because we certainly had fun anyway, but we all ended up a little dirtier than I would have liked. Also, we were going to have grilled pizza, but we couldn't because I gave it cancer.

I mixed two batches of dough to make eight pizzas for the five of us, and put the olive-oiled balls into the oven to rise, like I always do, pleased that it would be ready for whenever I could pry the boys away from the garage for a while and get them to eat. (Speaking of eating, I had set out baskets of chips and stuff, and a tray of veggies with dip, and do you know those good boys actually ate the vegetables? I didn't touch a single one.) Anyway, The Author brought some frozen appetizers with her, and we decided to get those ready when we started to get hungry . . . and without thinking about what was innocently (deliciously) sitting in the over, I cranked it up to 450-degree for about fifteen minutes. I believe I may have uttered a curse word or two when I opened the oven door, expecting to shove in a tray of cheese sticks, only to discover two lightly baked lumps of bowl-shaped dough--with plastic wrap melted into the tops of them. I don't know about you, but to me melting plastic into your dough is tantamount to giving it cancer. "Scatterbrained Pizza Dough--now with the cancer baked right in!"

We ended up ordering pizza once the boys gave in and admitted they were hungry enough to stop playing for ten minutes, and while I was slightly heartbroken, no one else really seemed to mind.

It was a very good evening, even once it started to rain and we had to move the entirety of the party into the cruddy confines of the garage (the whole thing could only have been rendered more trashy if I'd filled the cooler with Meister Brau instead of Coke and Sprite, tossed around a few bags of Cheetos, and maybe threw in a pack of Newports for good measure). There are few things better than spending a breezy summer evening laughing and singing.

Speaking of singing, The Author earned a Rock Band 100% on vocals with her turn at Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead or Alive. What song did I earn my 100% on, you ask? Molly Hatchet's Flirtin' with Disaster.



I am able to do a fairly good job of emulating the man on the far left, and I'm not sure I can be very pleased about that. I had no idea Southern Rock was one of my strengths.