Yesterday, I worked all day on a project that won’t actually pay us any money. I’m putting together a custom coloring book for our neighbors’ kids, starring two very unlikely characters: Bob the Builder and Batman. Each of the boys has his favorite, the younger loving all things construction, and the older all things Dark Knight. The original plan was to have the two doing something cool, like saving a city from destruction by fixing stuff, but it was kind of hard to get the action right without a super-power (Batman can’t really fly a bulldozer to the site of a dam leak like, say, Superman can, and if he could, it’s not the kind of thing that makes for a good coloring book page.)
So I settled on having Bob help Batman build a wing off the Batcave to house the new Batcopter. My plan was to have this done before Christmas, but the way the holiday went down there was no time to complete it. Yesterday I busted out the pencils and wore the tip of my right index finger to the bone to finish the book. I made the signatures and stapled them at Kinko’s this afternoon, and the project is put to bed.
Meanwhile, there’s a hellish health insurance bill to be paid, the car insurance is due, the mortgage is due, and my driver’s license is up for renewal. Did I forget anything? Oh, yeah—the invoices I sent out before Christmas still haven’t arrived.
In boring and (sadly) unphotogenic house update news, I’ve worked my way around the edge of the basement with hydraulic cement and Drylok; tomorrow (hopefully) I’ll bust out the sprayer and put a coat of fresh white Kilz over the gray, dingy cinderblock. Hopefully this will brighten the place up, seal out water, and rid us of those damned crickets that invade the basement every summer.
Jen and I have not been sleeping normally the past few nights. New Year’s Eve got our systems all out of whack, so we’ve been up late and sleeping later. The other night, we saw one of those stupid commercials for phone chat lines the other night and I’d swear Kate from Lost is the chick trying to get me to call hot singles in my area. Is this old news? Probably.
Finally, in the Let’s-Get-Fucked-Up-At-Christmas Department, Jen’s sister and her boyfriend were kind enough to bring some beers with them for the Unbirthday party; naturally, not all of them got consumed, so we have three Blue Moon Belgian Ales sitting in the fridge. I have to belatedly thank them both for bringing it, because every two or three years I have to remind myself why I don’t like it. Well, I don’t like any beer that tastes like celery. Dear Sirs: Your beer tastes like a week-old vegan shake. THAT’S NOT BEER. Also, does anyone have a decent sangria recipe? The one Jen had on hand talked about adding something like a whole pound of sugar; I added maybe one-fourth that amount and it still tasted like shit. She used to have a recipe for guacamole clipped from a Texas newspaper; it called for split peas and sour cream. As any normal human who likes Mexican food will tell you, PEAS DON’T BELONG IN GUACAMOLE. I could almost make a case for the sour cream, if you had to extend the mix in a jam, but that’s still pretty gnarly. She kept this recipe for posterity’s sake—quite obviously the author was insane.
So now we have two Blue Moons and a half-pitcher of sangria that melts the plaque from your teeth sitting in the fridge. If you want it, bring me some avacados and I’ll make you some real guacamole.