The Website Wars: Chapter One
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Me: “What do you think of orange?”
Husband: (face pressed into pillow) “Mmm-hmm.”
Me: “Or!” (sits up excitedly) “Red-ish orange.”
Husband: (rolls over and pulls the pillow down over his head)
Me: “You think more of a yellow, then?”
The two of us are in the process of designing my website. The one I hope will lure readers of the upcoming anthology (coming soon to a store near you in 2006!) and entertain them with witty blog posts and other tidbits until somebody at Random House realizes it would be a good idea to shower me with book contracts and advance money. At which time, we hope those loyal website readers will decide it would be a good idea to mosey on over to their local bookstore with memories of witty blog tidbits in their heads.
A girl can hope, right?
So, here’s the thing. It’s my website, and I have strong feelings about how it should look. Strong, grandiose feelings – along with enough professional graphics and design experience to get pushy. What I don’t have is the ability to write in Klingon or whatever language computer code comes in these days.
That’s where my husband comes in. He speaks Klingon. He’s also a far better artist than I could ever be even with a Faustian deal with the devil. This is good, and it’s also bad. It’s good because who really wants to learn Klingon? And good because whatever he does, it’ll be gorgeous and most important free. But it’s bad because whatever grandiose feelings and pushy attitudes I may have, he has them times ten. And I know he knows I don’t know how to speak Klingon. So whatcha gonna do about it, little girl?
He’s got me, as a dock worker might say, by the short and curlies.
It’s sort of like how I feel when I take my car in and the guy says my brake hose starter switch pump needs a pedicure. And I just nod and hand him my checkbook.
I’m showering my beloved with color swatches, magazines with big red circles and folded down corners and website links, along with lots and lots of notes. “Like this, but not this.” “Color good, size bad.” “What do you think of paisley?” And he’s...well, he’s not really responding at all. He’s got that look on his face like when I suggest we might need a new gravy boat. It’s the look that for sure means he’s thinking about football or meatball subs or jock itch. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not what’s coming out of my mouth.
So when the website is finally up and you click on the blog link only to find a dancing hamster flies across your screen, it wasn’t me. I swear.
Husband: (face pressed into pillow) “Mmm-hmm.”
Me: “Or!” (sits up excitedly) “Red-ish orange.”
Husband: (rolls over and pulls the pillow down over his head)
Me: “You think more of a yellow, then?”
The two of us are in the process of designing my website. The one I hope will lure readers of the upcoming anthology (coming soon to a store near you in 2006!) and entertain them with witty blog posts and other tidbits until somebody at Random House realizes it would be a good idea to shower me with book contracts and advance money. At which time, we hope those loyal website readers will decide it would be a good idea to mosey on over to their local bookstore with memories of witty blog tidbits in their heads.
A girl can hope, right?
So, here’s the thing. It’s my website, and I have strong feelings about how it should look. Strong, grandiose feelings – along with enough professional graphics and design experience to get pushy. What I don’t have is the ability to write in Klingon or whatever language computer code comes in these days.
That’s where my husband comes in. He speaks Klingon. He’s also a far better artist than I could ever be even with a Faustian deal with the devil. This is good, and it’s also bad. It’s good because who really wants to learn Klingon? And good because whatever he does, it’ll be gorgeous and most important free. But it’s bad because whatever grandiose feelings and pushy attitudes I may have, he has them times ten. And I know he knows I don’t know how to speak Klingon. So whatcha gonna do about it, little girl?
He’s got me, as a dock worker might say, by the short and curlies.
It’s sort of like how I feel when I take my car in and the guy says my brake hose starter switch pump needs a pedicure. And I just nod and hand him my checkbook.
I’m showering my beloved with color swatches, magazines with big red circles and folded down corners and website links, along with lots and lots of notes. “Like this, but not this.” “Color good, size bad.” “What do you think of paisley?” And he’s...well, he’s not really responding at all. He’s got that look on his face like when I suggest we might need a new gravy boat. It’s the look that for sure means he’s thinking about football or meatball subs or jock itch. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not what’s coming out of my mouth.
So when the website is finally up and you click on the blog link only to find a dancing hamster flies across your screen, it wasn’t me. I swear.
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