Maggie is 8 years old now. I cannot believe it. In fact, I am in denial so deeply that it has taken me over a week to write this post when her birthday is actually on New Year’s Day.

She fell asleep early and didn’t make midnight on New Year’s Eve. The next morning we made breakfast, loaded up in the car and drove up to Glenville, CA to go hiking, eat pizza and watch Maggie enjoy a ginormous piece of home made banana cream pie. I will tell you that no banana cream pie I have ever had comes close to the pie up at Hassano’s in Glenville.

Maggie is a unique combination of Mike and I. Mike likes to say that she has his sense of humor and my temper which = laugh at my jokes or I’ll kill you. It’s mostly true, although my temper really isn’t that bad and rarely do you have to threaten anyone to laugh at one of Mike’s jokes.

Maggie is mostly just her own unique self. While her parents wage a facebook debate on whether or not right or left socks exist (Mike believes in them religiously, Kate and I find it ridiculous and our friends seem to be split down the middle), Maggie hates to wear socks at all and can often be found jamming her feet into her Ugg boots barefoot.

Like her sister, she hates asparagus but loves broccoli. Unlike her sister, she isn’t fond of sushi but will threaten to cut anyone trying to take a bite of her shrimp fried rice. She insists on “salad” (usually fresh spinach) on every sandwich, but isn’t a fan of salads on their own unless we’re out at a restaurant. She’s not a big fan of peanut butter and jelly. She considers it a tragedy not to have a bowl of chicken noodle soup (even in the dead heat of summer) with her sandwiches. And, almost without fail, she insists on a doggy bag every time we go out to eat because “it’s so good I want to have it for breakfast or maybe later tonight for a snack!”

Maggie is the animal activist of the house. When her scorpion died a few months ago she sobbed for most of the day. Weeks and even months later she will tear up remembering Luke. Almost every night of summer vacation was spent chasing her turtle, Joe, around and fishing him out of our pond. Cut to this winter when a field mouse managed to find its way into the house and I discovered a different side of Maggie.

Maggie was very interested in the mouse traps. I was concerned that perhaps she didn’t realize what a mouse trap would really do to the intruder. Maggie overheard me voicing my concern to Mike (who was getting ready to show Maggie how a trap is set and how it works) she flew around the corner and said, “MOM! I’ve watched EVERY FREAKIN’ EPISODE of Billy the Exterminator! I KNOW how a mouse trap works!”

Later that night… “MOM!!! We caught him! He’s dead… he was so cute, I almost feel bad. They are dirty creatures…”

Not too long ago Maggie gave me a nickname, Mother Kadam (KUH-dam) Pooskie, no clue where or how she came up with it, but it cracks me up. She told Katie once, “If you call mom, Mother Kadam Pooskie, she almost always says yes.” Maggie isn’t really manipulative as much as she just calls a spade a spade and works the system to her advantage whenever possible.

Today my little 8 year old is still on Christmas break and managed to come down with a nasty cold to finish off her winter vacation. She has spent her day tucked in quilts on the couch, dozing, sipping hot cider and watching cartoons. Every once in a while I’ll hear, “Mother Kadam Pooskie…” followed by a request of the usual sick child variety. As usual, she’s working the system to her advantage, it’s an enviable life, that’s for sure.

I spent much of 2011 going through various transitions. I guess every year has transitions and changes but 2011 was fairly significant for me. I’ve struggled with blogging for the past few years and it seems like every time I think I’m finally done something pulls me back here. I’m just not quite willing to give up my little spot on the ‘net yet.

For so long I’ve kept things very quiet and private around here (and Facebook has not helped this either ) because there are people that are no longer in my life and I don’t want them having the privilege of this tiny window to peep through. The problem is that I’m me and what made blogging so much fun from the start was being me. When I felt the need to circle the wagons and close the blinds I didn’t know how to keep blogging when my blogging has always been based in the off-beat antics of my family.

I was discussing this with Katie the other day and now that she runs her own website she has a better idea of where I’m coming from. I’m finally reaching a point where I realize that my children are who they are, in part, because of who I am and it’s okay to take credit for that. My daughter is absolutely amazing and is wise beyond her years sometimes. She also has this incredible backbone and deeply rooted ethics that I really respect. It was no surprise when her thoughts were very simple, “Screw what anyone else thinks, either get back to doing what you do or shut it down.” I’m not sure what else I could have expected from the girl whose email signature reads:

“There’s so much good in the worst of us,
so much bad in the best of us,
it never makes sense for any of us,
to criticize the rest of us” -Amy Grant

I think I still have a few more posts percolating in the back of my mind, I just have to figure out how to get them out. It seems I’ve been shut down for so long that it’s harder to find the words than it used to be. No worries… my husband would be the first to tell you that I’m never at a loss for words for very long.

If you get a second, Follow my blog with Bloglovin.

The Zube I adore more than she knows wrote a beautiful poem from a “Where I’m From.” prompt, I believe hers to be far, far better than any I could produce (and still do) but I couldn’t resist trying it myself.

Enjoy.
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I am from handmade doll clothes well ironed by a little girl, from Brach’s Lollidrops and glass bottles of grape Crush from the dairy down the road.

I am from the corner house with the big front porch, cheery yellow stucco and red brick, warm and welcoming, sweet and broken, glowing warm hearth and big Christmas trees.

I am from the lilac tree transplanted from Oklahoma, and the giant palm tree carved to look like a tiki totem pole.

I am from egg hunts at Easter and double jointed thumbs, from Alpha and Floyd and Auntie Lil.

I am from the hair trigger tempers and green thumbs.

From “I love you a bushel and a peck…” and “…little lambs eat ivy.”

I am from Sundays spent on scratchy tweed upholstered pews and Christmases spent dressed as an angel singing before the congregation.

I’m from the red clay of Oklahoma, peach cobbler, biscuits and gravy from scratch.

From the Carnation factory and motorcycle that wouldn’t stop, the loss of a beloved pony along with the family farm and the landmine in Vietnam that didn’t explode on Christmas Day.

I am from the doll in the closet, the lamps from the old living room now on my nightstand, and the apple dishes stored carefully in a hutch.

You’ve heard me complain and bitch about what HVCC (and even though it has been replaced with new legislation – NOTHING has really changed) has done to the appraisal industry. My husband casually mentioned last night that he was discussing what has happened to the appraisal industry to a couple of friends (who are NOT appraisers or related to the real estate industry at all) Mike explained that as an appraiser he is no longer allowed to contact his clients. He really can’t even go out and market our business any longer.

The friends’ response?

“Well, after what happened you can’t really blame them.”

Blame them? After what happened? Worse yet, this person attended my wedding and has known my husband for 20 years. It still blows my mind and angers me beyond belief when I think about it. We worked hard to build our business. My husband nearly killed himself learning his craft and even now continues to hone his skills as an appraiser to do the best job that he can.

Imagine if you had to follow the news almost religiously to find out what might happen to your family’s income only to hear people disparaging and using your spouse’s profession as a scapegoat constantly?

Stop for a moment and really think about this, please.

Do you honestly believe that REAL ESTATE APPRAISERS are 100% responsible for the bust of a boom that resulted in an economic melt down of GLOBAL PROPORTIONS?

Stop and think about the government bail outs, the CEOs with their huge bonuses, the banks that erroneously foreclosed on thousands of homes – the ripple effects that stretched far and wide, the mortgage brokers who sold people on illegal mortgages. Appraisers NEVER have the final say on who got a loan or how much a bank loaned. The ONLY people in the the mortgage/financing transaction who DO NOT make a commission are APPRAISERS. But, they have been the ONLY people who have been PUNISHED by the fallout.

Appraisers, right now all over the country , no matter how many credentials, degrees, hours of continuing education, no matter how honest, ethical, or professional they may be – CANNOT WORK AS APPRAISERS unless some flunky (usually with almost ZERO knowledge of the appraisal process) from an AMC (Appraisal Management Company) sends them an order. Just imagine if you couldn’t get your next paycheck unless the teenager down the street sent you permission to go to work.

Now, let me connect a few more dots for you. An appraiser’s job is to evaluate the fair market value of a property. Simple. But now that they have been enslaved to AMCs and the nameless, faceless, blameless moron at the AMC is the one with all the power. They question value, they pressure the appraiser to hit certain values and they require such short turn around times that it is almost impossible for an appraiser to do his/her job responsibly and effectively and, of course, if the appraiser doesn’t play ball then they don’t get any work.

Woah! Wait a second, HVCC was supposed to save us all from undue influences on appraisers. Yeah, that worked out well, didn’t it?

And, if someone turns a crappy appraisal in to a state licensing agency do you think the AMC gets in trouble? Nope, the only people who are disciplined are the appraisers.

Now, who do you think OWNS an AMC? A private individual who fell into a very profitable niche? Actually, the top 3 largest AMCs in the nation are OWNED BY BANKS.

Woah… so wait a minute. The companies influencing value are owned by the companies making the loans on the properties?

Yup. And, if you think it doesn’t affect you – I encourage you to think again. The next time you want to sell your house, buy a new house, or refinance – you are a victim in this giant web of misinformation, manipulation, and deceit. In short, the foxes are in charge of the hen house and guess where you live?

Damn those crafty, weasel-y appraisers.

Imagine if you got a memo tomorrow that next week you were not allowed to work unless you signed up for a management company with no knowledge of what it takes to do your job? Imagine that all you can do is hope to impress them with your resume and then hope that your name came up at the top of their list when they needed the work done that your job entails? Worse YET, if you elect NOT to work with them your income will be reduced by 90%

I’m beating a dead horse trying to make this clear to you and I know that for 99% of the people who read this – it won’t make a bit of difference. You’ll roll your eyes, you’ll say appraisers and irresponsible borrowers caused the problem, and most of all you won’t care because it doesn’t affect your job, your paycheck, your family, or your livelihood and that ambivalence is what allowed sneaky, backroom deals like HVCC to be inked into existence.

Okay, so my birthday was a couple of days ago. I’m okay with admitting that I’m 35 now, unless my dad’s around and then I only admit to being 25 because, as my dad puts it, that’s a win-win situation for both of us. But, for the record 35 is not old.

It’s not!

Having a birthday on a Wednesday really sucks almost as much as having a birthday a month after Christmas. Which is why any formal celebrations of the day of my birth are scheduled for tomorrow, a Saturday, because that is more conducive to partying and merry-making than a freaking Wednesday.

Let me give you an idea of how much a Wednesday birthday sucks… first, unless you are Charlie Sheen – having a birthday on a day notoriously referred to as “hump day” just isn’t going to work out.

Everyone is still at work or in school even though Maggie tried to convince me that she should totally take the day off to help me celebrate. I got the old stink-eye look when I suggested that taking a day off from Spanish might just delay her plan of ruling the world a bit.

Around noon UPS pulled up in front of the house and I just knew better than to get excited at all. Good thing too, it was a delivery from Cabelas for Mike – a new fishing pole. My birthday – he gets a fishing pole. To be fair he ordered it weeks ago and it took this long to arrive and just happened to be delivered on my birthday.

I cleaned the kitchen, made lunch, worked and managed to scald my hand when hot tea sloshed out of my cup. By that afternoon I was desperate for a beer (or six) and I grabbed an ice cold St. Pauli Girl from the fridge and ninja’d my way upstairs hoping no one would stop me and ask me about dinner or any of the other 8 million tasks I handle on a daily basis. I had a backup plan. If anyone saw me I was fully prepared to clap my hands over my ears and sing, “La la la la it’s my birthday I can’t hear you la la la!”

I was on a mission – pure, uninhibited “me” time for MY birthday. I ran a bath but was so focused on lighting candles and burning my finger with the lighter (note – bring the candle TO the flame not vice versa!) that I didn’t pay much attention to temperature and while I’d have been happy scalding my rear end I instead ended up in something just slightly warmer than tepid. I soldiered on, determined to have my own little mini-birthday celebration and solidly refusing to let a poorly run bath put a stop to it. Twenty minutes later I had happily given up on my lukewarm bath and ended up in bed knitting while watching Two and a Half Men reruns.

Ahem. That should not be seen as defeat. I was alone, I love knitting, I had chocolate AND beer… it was not defeat. It was a carefully planned strategy to ensure peace, solitude and not having any bodies to bury later that night.

Most importantly, I’ve been assured that this does NOT indicate my being old because I wasn’t watching Wheel of Fortune and shopping for double recliners or things of that nature. I’m secure in my knowledge because I consulted both Google and Facebook! In spite of a couple of smart-assed friends I’m confident that knitting in bed at 6pm does NOT make me old.

It was my birthday, dammit!!!!

I was flipping through a catalog the other day and came across a treadmill with no motor. “Set YOUR own pace” or something like that.

It got me thinking. Holy crap, what a joke! You know what MY pace is? Standing still. I don’t like bouncing around, I’m not big on sweating, and I’m not big on giving gravity a boost on it’s already substantial downward trend.

I would have to have a treadmill with a freaking motor. Those things provide incentive to keep your ass moving. Once you get started you are too afraid to hop off and even more afraid that if you turn it off you’ll go flying off the back or something. Not to mention, “set your own pace”? That means that once I have all that momentum built up and it’s zipping along I’m going to really have to calculate how to stop it and get back off because – IT HAS NO MOTOR and is ALREADY RUNNING. That’s leaving far too much up to me and if I’m winded I can’t think straight.

Survival, correct me if I’m wrong, is probably the best incentive, don’t you think?

It’s like those old exercise bikes, if you got going and took your feet off the pedals you knew you had better throw in some Pilates or serious Yoga moves there in the form of the splits or something because those damn pedals were going to come around and either beat the hell out of your shins, calves, or both.

I prefer sweat to extreme bruising with the obvious exception of plastic surgery. I mean, I could totally take a week of sleeping upright to facilitate recovery from breast lift surgery.

As gruesome as it may be recovery from tummy tuck surgery would totally be worth it to remove all the extra flab I have hanging around from birthing three children – mostly without meds, thank you very much!

AND, I would gladly take the bruising, drainage, and other assorted nasty details that go along with recovery from liposuction surgery . But, I’m not big on basic bruising and injury incurred while exercising. Sore muscles sure… stitches, bruises or God forbid skin grafts – just not my bag.

Nope, I’ll take my treadmill WITH motor please and a heaping side of cute masseuse, thank you very much.

But, hey, that’s just me.

I haven’t done a meme around here in a while and this one sounded like fun. Okay, maybe it’s just fun for me but, if you are interested at all in what’s on my ipod these days then here you go. And, of course, while my children have iPod touches and what-not I have a very simple iPod Nano in a lovely blue that was a Christmas present from my husband years ago. It’s not all modern and “Ooo, la la, touch me but don’t scratch my screen!!!” but I love it anyway.

Okay, the rules are as follows (if you are so inclined to join me either on your own blog or in the comments below):

1. Put your iTunes, Windows Media Player, etc. on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.

Ever the rebel, I am flipping the bird to rule #3 ONLY in regards to Christmas music. As much as I love Christmas and all that music – I’m a tad burned out so I’ll skip holiday tunes if they pop up. Cut me some slack it’s like January 8th, I’ve got at least 8 months to work up my Christmas carol enthusiasm again.

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
Mama Kin – Aerosmith

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Petite Fleur – Harry Connick Jr.

WHAT IS LIFE’S PURPOSE?
I Get A Kick Out of You – Frank Sinatra

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
I’ve Got You Under My Skin – Michael Buble

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Turn Me On – Norah Jones

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
El-Shaddai – Amy Grant

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
You Brought A New Kind of Love To Me – Frank Sinatra

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Times Like These – Jack Johnson

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Lead Me On – Amy Grant

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Banana Pancakes – Jack Johnson

WHAT SONG WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR WEDDING?
‘s Wonderful – Ella Fitzgerald

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
We’ve Only Just Begun – The Carpenters

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST??
What’d I Say – Ray Charles

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR?
Good Ol’ Boys – Willie Nelson

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Red Wine, Mistakes, Mythology – Jack Johnson

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
The Way You Look Tonight – Frank Sinatra

Woke up to a really foggy morning, it’s such a downer after the rain and sunshine. Winter has another month or two and then we’ll get to enjoy spring. I’m already looking forward to Sunday breakfasts on the patio again. I think this year I’ll finally get around to planting pansies in the backyard and maybe in a pretty planter on the front porch.

Dreary winter days always make me long for warmer temps and sunshine, especially once the holidays are over and done. It’s funny that I’m such a major holiday freak because when I think back to my childhood most of my favorite memories were centered around spring and summer activities. Like going to the drive-in movies with my parents in my dad’s Chevrolet Silverado truck. Back then it wasn’t illegal to ride in the truck bed and my sister and I always looked forward to riding home in the back of the truck watching the stars. That’s another one of the zillion memories I have that my kids will never get the chance to experience.

Not that my kids didn’t get to go to the drive-in. I’m sure Ethan remembers seeing Batman at the drive-in, but I doubt Katie remembers. Maggie will never have a clue unless we drive over to the beach where there is still a functioning drive-in. But I can’t imagine driving over to the beach just to go to the drive-in! To me that makes about as much sense as having my car towed to a Dallas auto repair shop for a brake job.

Umm, and if you are new around here – I live in California, hence why it might be silly to go that far for a brake job.

I’ve just got a crazy case of cabin fever. I’m tired of everything being dead and looking like it’s got a bad case of freezer burn. I miss my flowers and plants, even though I do have a few evergreen plants in my yard. While I hate the heat in the summer here, I do love that there is just more to do. Once winter sets in we’re locked into the house for the most part. We have to drive into the mountains (about an hour or so away) to have “winter fun” like playing the snow and that’s not the most convenient thing so we pretty much only do it once or twice a winter. Clearly, picnics and barbecues are out for the most part as well, thus why I am really ready for winter to be done.

I don’t know what it is, but the second Christmas is over I’m ready to take all the decorations down, clean house, and start the year off with a “fresh slate” so-to-speak. I also immediately start dreaming of spring pansies and warmer temps. I love the cozy, chilly winter until after Christmas and then I’m pretty much done with it.

Christmas this year was quiet and lovely. I had everything planned ahead of time and there was very little rushing around. Christmas Eve the girls and I made gingerbread cookies from scratch and decorated them with icing. Didn’t quite get my adrenaline pumping, well except for that close call with the hot oven door, but beyond Disneyland and Magic Mountain I’m not much of an adrenaline junkie anyway.

I’ve never really understood the pull of bungee jumping even if it’s within the relative safety of one of those thrill rides from the top of a casino in Vegas. V8 supercars are beyond my comprehension and you most likely will never find me on even the most romantic of hot air balloon flights. Hot air ballooning only interests me in a spectator sort of way, I think they are beautiful and certainly graceful floating through the air but I almost got dizzy at the top of California Disney’s Tower of Terror, I can’t imagine what my reaction would be hundreds of feet in the air in a basket!

Oh, that’s not to say I don’t enjoy going fast. I love a good roller coaster, I really do and I’m mostly okay with heights. I just prefer them to be in the relative safety of a well tested amusement park, not dangling off the side of some ravine where the wilds of mother nature and gravity have more control and seat belts are necessary but only save your life if everything goes according to plan.

In short, I’m not big on real danger. But, I totally give props to those who are! I admire those bungee jumpers, cliff divers, people leaping out of airplanes and whatnot. I just have no interest in joining them.

Mike used to complain that I was “always planning.” I admit, I’m a planner. If I at least have a basic direction to go in I can tackle just about any project in a far less stressed state then if I just went in all willy-nilly. Prior to moving into our house I spent months putting samples, catalog pages, and notes in a “house” binder. I daydreamed, I window shopped and researched creative ways to get more bang for my buck.

Even though few things ended up exactly where I wanted to put them, it was nice to have a starting point. Ultimately, I’m flexible, but I always have some sort of a map. Even 4 years later (wow, has it really been THAT long?) I am still planning, changing, and tweaking things around the house and even that is a form of relaxation for me.

I am one step closer to getting all the carpet out of my bottom floor! *squee* I recently ordered sample bottles of concrete stain to test out ranging from a caramel coffee color to chocolate tone. I’m going to test the stains on the garage floor. Bwahahaha. I think I’m going to be creative and tape off a section and make it look like an area rug in front of the kegerator or something. Why waste stain just “testing” it?

I am not looking forward to the moving of furniture, it’s going to be strange pushing all the furniture to one room then back to the other room. But, it’s an excuse to really dig in, clean out, and de-clutter too! Which means that it’s the ideal project for after Christmas. I love how clean and open the house feels after all the decorations have been taken down and put away.

Another great thing about the stained concrete floors is the ability to further accessorize with a few area rugs. Not too many, but a few well placed jute rugs (green friendly! Goes along with the eco-friendly concrete stain I found!) and possibly a few bamboo rugs in the office will soften the concrete flooring.

I’m also planning to replace my kitchen rugs with something that has the colors of the stained concrete in it. It’s a big, long-term plan I have that culminates with a new couch, end tables, and entertainment center. As much as I’d like to just leap in and have it all done at once – I am on a budget and am going to have to break it down into wallet friendly stages. But, that’s why I have a plan… because I am all about the planning.