In which I wipe a tear of gratitude from my eye and thank the Academy.

Like, wow, you guys! Thanks for the comments on my last post. They have re-inspired me and will keep me going. I do like blogging, even if I get tired of my own voice (and that's not a dig for more comments, by the way. Sometimes I feel like the pressure is off when I don't know if anyone's reading this or not. I do, however, get that blogger's thrill when I see comments listed.). I don't have the kind of life, thankfully, that makes for constantly exciting postings. I'm just lazy and can't think of new things to say.

Your encouragement (everyone) and advice (FOF) are all valuable to me. Thanks.

And on that note, I put here a link to a blog posting that kept me laughing hard enough to cry for a full 30 minutes. It's funny anyway, but if you're familiar with the stereotype of Utah Mormons (LDS) this blog is hilarious. If you're not, you'll get familiar with it after reading it for a while. Keep in mind that TAMN, the author, spells words just as the Utah accent says them. She's got some great idizz. Hale ya!

Echo...Echo...Echo...

I am bored up to here with this blog. I have to rethink the format or something, cause otherwise I may abandon it. Stand by for further developments; and if you have any suggestions, feel free to comment!

Greener grass is always just over the next fence.

Oldest Child may be re-thinking her desire to be homeschooled. She would rather be homeschooled, however, than go back to her junior high. She puts so much pressure on herself. We had a long talk today about the poison of "shoulds."

The Naked Home Decorator

I've calmed down somewhat after my last ranting.

Okay, who am I kidding? I haven't.

But I'm not writing about politics today, even though I'm heavily immersed in Cleon Skousen's The Naked Communist (which does not actually involve any naked people, communist or otherwise. I know. I was slightly disappointed as well.).

I remembered it was Valentine's Day on Saturday early in the morning, before I had dragged myself out of bed to face making breakfast for a bunch of kids. Then I forgot. Then I remembered again when Husband reminded me while I was driving the car full of said kids (and Husband) down to IKEA for yet another buying trip (this one much less successful, and I came away from the experience with a stress stomach-ache; shopping with six children and trying to make important visual decisions about lamps and lighting just don't mix). Then I forgot.

In the end, we did nothing. We had managed to finagle my mother into babysitting the children on Friday night while Husband and I ran to the nearby Village Inn for a quiet and peaceful dinner.

Ambience? No. Good food? It was okay (I had the Reuban Sandwich, although it was a huge diet-buster. Hey, I gotta enjoy a dinner out with Husband, don't I?).

Time together and alone? Priceless.

What was also priceless is that Husband then suggested going to Bed, Bath and Beyond to look at clip-on curtain rings for the drapes I am sewing for the living room. One does not look a gift-horse too closely in the mouth; one just smiles happily and skips along into a store full of expensive and useful household items. He's also practically become a regular at JoAnn's Fabrics. Can life get any better?

Last night, after I had finished one side of the drapes and hung them on the rod (and, in the end, decided to make a rod pocket instead of using the clip-on curtain rings), Husband sat in the living room, just looking around at the things we've done. I joined him after the kids were in bed. We just sat and thought about things.

"I didn't think re-doing a room would cost so much money," he sighed. "And we're still not finished."

But we're happy we're doing something finally, after talking about it for so long. Husband knows much more than he ever thought he would about this kind of thing. Fabric, furniture, patina, decorative accents, trim...these things have become part of his vernacular now.

Happy Valentine's Day to me!

Just so much chatter.

Greetings from one of the Chattering Class. That's me. I'm just a chatterer. With no class. Sure, I might have an opinion and I might follow with great interest and also great trepidition the insane actions of our President and his cronies, and I might even be smart enough to wonder who can buy this "stimulus" crap and still look in the mirror; but I'm not in the IN crowd in Washington, not educated in the halls of sacred double-speak and inheritance legacy. And I don't think President Obama is the messiah foretold. Therefore, I'm in the Chattering Class, according to Senator Charles Shumer.

Since when are We the People of the United States of America just a Chattering Class? I don't care if you agree with me politically or not. I'm offended for all of us.

This chatterer is just a little upset today.

On the other hand, something like this is what the soul really needs.

Architectural Dreams and S.W.A.T. Teams

painting by Thomas Kinkaid

I've talked about Danger Dreams before, but last night I had my favorite type of dream. I call them Architectural Dreams. Although it was combined with a Danger Dream, what I dwell on most was the architecture.

Architectural Dreams involve architecture, obviously. My brain creates some house or building in which the dream takes place, and when I wake up, I lie drowsily in bed remembering the details of the building. I've dreamt of whole houses and just one fantastic room. Last night's dream was in a cottage. It was a small cottage in a wooded valley next to a stream, and, oddly enough, close to a major highway through the mountains. The cottage's outer walls kept morphing between stone and siding, but the interior was cozy with lots of heavy wooden doors, deep pile Asian rugs in red colorways, and soft, overstuffed couches. At one point in the dream I remarked to someone that I was glad the French doors didn't open into the kitchen but into the den. The daughter of a lady in my ward was lying on the floor, sucking her thumb and staring at the ceiling. Don't ask me.

The dream wasn't all about the cottage, however. A S.W.A.T. team showed up and was patrolling the nearby quiet highway, rifles slung across their backs, occasionally running off into the forest on a mission. I never found out why. Also, snakes were slithering out of the stream and frantically crossing the road, which made me wonder aloud to some dream-friend if an earthquake was imminent. And, to top it all off, we nearly had a riot when someone found a Wii (or some other game system. That part was a little foggy.) for sale in a discount store. As everyone wanted it, we had what amounted to a town meeting to decide the lucky buyer.

I guess it was a Danger Dream after all. Are any dreams really not Danger Dreams?

Upon awakening enough to realize I had been dreaming, my first thoughts were these (I kid you not): "That was a bad place for a house -- prone to flooding, mosquitoes and fog. Plus, it was right by a major highway! The snakes were slithering right across the road, for goodness' sake!"

I'm really curious about the S.W.A.T. team. And do snakes ever slither frantically away from water when they sense earthquakes in the near future? Would very popular game systems wind up in a discount store?

Feel free to leave a comment with your educated and scientific answers. Or just a dream analysis. I'm just trying to hang on to the memory of the cottage.

Rainbow Baby, Where's my Pot of Gold?

As another example of what one very small little boy can destroy, Child Six became my little hippy baby the other day. He found the mostly full ink refill cartridge for the printer that Husband had absent-mindedly left out (and which Child Five had subsequently set on the floor). The next time I saw him (and you do know how very quiet naughty children can be!), he was covered in ink. His feet were black, as if they were about to fall off due to frostbite, his hands were also black, and his face and neck had smears and spots of various colors.

He looked, in a word, horrific. And so did the carpet in that room.

Child Five and I attempted a hopeless clean-up operation on Child Six with baby wipes. The ink changed from pitch black to layers of red, green and blue, which are still apparent in a slightly faded way. I guess Six had tried to drink some because his lips were a little black. Fortunately, ink is pretty nasty to the taste and he didn't get much in or I would have had to call Poison Control.

I really need to walk around with my camera attached to me at all times. Due to the urgency of the moment, it didn't occur to me to take pictures. I can, however, show you what that spot on the carpet looks like.

Rule #1 of Fight Club: Don't Talk About Fight Club

I only found out by accident that Child Two was the instigator and officiator of her own little fight club. We were at the First Annual Young Women Organization Spaghetti Dinner and Auction Fundraiser at church when I happened upon them. Six wasn't going to hang out at the auction, so we were wandering the halls. When Six wandered into the nursery, he happily busied himself with climbing up and sliding down the child slide, and I, hearing chanting from the Relief Society room, wandered over to the adjoining door and peeked through. A whole gaggle of the ward's boys, ages 4 to 9, were chanting the name of one of the boys, Dallin, who was circling around his twin brother, Carter, both with huge smiles on their faces. Carter slipped on the carpet and fell, and Child Two appeared from the side of the room to declare Dallin the winner. Then she picked out two more boys to have a bout.

I would have been more worried had the fight club included any actual fighting, but the boys mainly circled each other, occasionally giving the other a little push, until someone inevitably slipped on the carpet in their stockinged feet and fell, losing the bout. The losers moved off the "ring" with good grace, and the winners felt a glow of pride until the next bout was called. Two kept the feeling light and no one seemed to feel the need to see blood. I watched until one of the youngest boys, age 4, fell and hurt his knee a little and started crying. Then I stepped in and put a stop to it, at which point all the boys and my girls (Child Four was also involved and apparently won the tournament) ran off to play another game of hide-and-seek.

I don't know if I should be worried or not about this. I'm mostly laughing. No harm was done and even the little boy who cried stopped as soon as his attention was diverted. All the kids were having a good time. All those boys are from our neighborhood, and they see Two as the guru of video games and inventor of fun outdoor games. I suppose I would be more worried if Two were a moody, violent child; but she's light-hearted and optimistic, happy for a bit of fun. I just admonished her to tell me if she starts any more fight clubs.

Directions for Canning Butter

Some of you asked about the butter canning process and how long it lasts. Cynthia sent me this link. It has all the directions and they're EASY! Plus, the canned butter lasts up to five years. Thanks, Cynthia. When I get a chance, I'm buying some pint jars and canning that 30+ pounds of butter I currently have in the freezer. I may use powdered butter in cooking, but not as a toast-topper.