I've been doing a bit of redecoration.

Like it?

I do. Very blue though, isn't it?

Blue, just in case you had not figured it out, is my favorite color.

Except navy. I've never gotten into navy.

So. I got the template from Quinn, whom I suspect is insane. It's either that, or she's a saint. Take your pick. What she does is free templates, out of the goodness of her heart or similar cliche. There are other sites that do the same, of course, but Quinn goes that extra mile and has a form that you fill out with your own personal information. Hit the "code it" button, and you are ready to rock-n-roll. Perfect for the html challenged and/or the truly lazy.

I am still in the midst of learning html, so I downloaded some other templates to mess with-- for example, I have some images that would be perfect; provided, of course, I get around to scanning them.

NB. I definitely fall into the lazy category. I promised to send a friend a pic months ago for the webpage, and the poor thing's still waiting. To defend myself, scanning requires unearthing the scanner, setting it up, etc. My "office" is the kitchen table: therefore, not all equipment can be unpacked and ready to go on a regular basis. Where would we eat? Furthermore, as big as our dining table is, it's not big enough for the both of us, and I can hardly get away with leaving my stuff up and denying Elvis the same privilege. Well, I could, but hardly with authority and moral fortitude and so forth. But I digress....

I've messed around with Quinn's template a bit. Still not happy with it, but I'll get there. Next, I'll move on to more substantial interference with images and all that, but using a different template. This one (ie. the one you're hopefully looking at) is simple and elegant and I can't bear to deface it. Poor Quinn would be insulted and ashamed, and I just couldn"t do that to a crazy saint like her. Ideally, of course-- once I've figured out what the hell is going on-- I'll make my own page and it will be unique and all that.

Spent quite a while today having Lissa explain it all to me. Lissa Rocks. Yeah, yeah-- it's a kid's site, but that's about my level. It's only kids that ever really get the hang of it, anyway. Like video games.

Little kids humiliate me at video games. It's gotten to the point that I just plant them in front of the PS2, shove the controls in their chubby little hands, and go pour myself a glass of wine or something.

I get humiliated enough in my regular, humdrum everyday life. Why ask for it?

Still no cooking Chez Dilettante. I made my vow, and I'm sticking to it. We have consumed one package of small weenies, of which I had exactly two. Elvis likes small sausages. Especially if I've made Elvis-approved BBQ sauce-- meaning smooth and luscious and bit-free. If not: Hey, he's happy. Just open the packet and go for it.

Now, I realize that there are women in this world who would be thrilled. It is rather easy: keep a variety of plain things in packets around and let him go to it. Maybe purchase the occasional rotisserie chicken, or make the occasional roast beast. Throw a potato in the oven. Easy-peasy.

Except. Except.

I like to cook. I like to cook interesting things. Clever things. Things with spices. The odd fancy, pretentious entree that you bring to the table and set on fire.

Things which are no fun to cook for one.

And wouldn't it also be nice and easy to make a cheese omelet, say, when he gets home late from work? Fry some eggs up for breakfast? I love the odd full breakfast, and I can cook eggs any way possible. But Elvis will only eat bacon, pancakes (provided they are the right texture and thickness), and biscuits (provided they're the right kind of biscuit, which only comes out of the right type of can, which they don't sell here, and I've never wanted to make mad, passionate love to a biscuit anyway. Probably because I am not a Southerner. So shoot me. Although I do like grits. Elvis-- you guessed it!-- does not like grits.)

I will leave this topic alone, at least for now. You know, it's been long enough that I should be used to it. And I am. And usually it doesn't bother me; at least not too much. Sometimes, though, it does annoy me, and I let myself dwell on it, which I shouldn't do.

In fact, I was well aware of the situation before I married him. It is truly OK with me. (Which, of course, it is. If Elvis didn't have his funny eating habits, he wouldn't be Elvis, would he? And I love him, not his menu.) We discussed it, and he was amazed that I was not nonplused. But, then again, he hadn't met my sister yet.