If you like the vid and want to rate it, comment on it, or send a link out to your special someone as a hint for this year's gift, you can click HERE to go directly to my Youtube.com page.

Stay Tuned this week for my next episode of Crock Pot Talk, featuring Sondra from Happy Healthy Hip Parenting who taught me how to make The Most Interesting Soup in the World; a review of my new favorite North County restaurant, Q'ero; and a reflection on San Diego's former pretty-boy star quarterback turned All-American sports HERO, Drew Brees. Love. Him.

Me: How was circle time? Did you get a star? Did you learn any new songs?

She replied as usual,

Lily: Good, yes, I don't know.

Then, after a few moments of quiet time,

Lily: Mom, is the house clean for me?

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or throw her Foofa figure out the window. 

What I did was laugh, hysterically. And wonder where she picked that up since her dad never asks that question; he knows better.

Me: Nope Lily, it's not clean. But when we get home you can help me pick up, just so you can then mess it up again. Doens't that sound fun?

Backstory: In high school I had a long-term boyfriend who loved music (see a pattern with me?), particularly older, more classic rockish type music, not necessarily the music that was popular at the time. He detested my mix tapes featuring Expose and Lisa, Lisa. Instead he introduced me to classic songs like Dream On by Aerosmith, Wasted Time by the Eagles (we broke up a few times) and one of my all-time favorite love songs, Time In a Bottle. The lyrics and melodious tune of this classic song just make me melt. And well up (do I even need to say that anymore, that's a given, right?) Not because they make me think of my old boyfriend, but because they are a message of pure, undying love.

"If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do. Is to save everyday ‘til eternity passes away just to spend them with you."

It doesn't get much more romantic than that. Nor does it get more poignant. Within a year or so of writing the song, Jim was killed in a plane crash.

Fast Forward to present time. Feeling mighty fine after a few glasses of yummy wine, and an amazing dinner, Ingrid Croce, Jim's wife, came over to our group to welcome us and say a few words. She was charming and delightful. I wanted to hug her. After telling us a little of the history behind Croce's, she handed out gift bags to all the women in the group, over 20 of us. When I pulled out the main item of swag, I immediately welled up. It was a hardback book, with a gorgeous photo of Ingrid on the front, entitled, Thyme in a Bottle.

*Tear*

Thyme in a Bottle is her life story in the form of a cook book. Genuis! As she writes in the introduction: "From the moment Jim and I fell in love, good food and music graced every facet and nearly every moment of our lives."

She goes on to say, "When Jim died in 1973, his music played on and his words 'There never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do,' rang truer than before."

*Multiple Tears*

Recieving this book was the very juicy cherry on top of a delicious sundae. I had the chance to hang out with some of my mommy bloggin' peeps, plus meet some new lovely ladies as well, all the while enjoying a wonderful dining experience. Considering my dining-of-late consists of serve-yourself places like Souplantation and Rubios, having such excellent, top-notch service was divine! And did I mention the ridiculously good crab cakes and spicy shrimp appetizers? Nom Nom!

It was a delectable evening all the way around. 

This book has graced my coffee table at a perfect time...just in time for the Domestication of Mama Mary. After my third episode of Crock Pot Talk, airing sometime next week, I plan to move on to something braver in the kitchen. Something that requires I do foreign things like braising and deglazing. This book will be perfect.

I cannot speak highly enough of the lovely Ingird Croce and her sublime restaurant. I know now why the ambiance is so intangibly warm and inviting; love is infused in the walls, the people and the food.

BTW, Valentine's Day is coming up--what a great place to take your sweetheart! I would most certainly be going with my hubby, were he not cheating on me that weekend with loud, fast, stinky race cars at the Daytona 500. All I'm sayin' is that I better be gettin' my own version of Time in Bottle - called G$'s Love Letter Part II.

I went on a jog with the girls in the jogging stroller--them with their portable DVD player and snack traps and me with my pink Nano and sweatshirt around my waist. That's not the part of the story I'm embarrassed about though--that part is called staying sane.

After the jog, I stopped at a park near our house so the girls could burn off some steam. As they ran around the playground yelling "tag you're it," I stood on the sidelines and did some station training like jumping jacks and lunges.

Just wait, it gets better. Then, even though I smelled that Lexi had a present for me in her diaper, I moved onto squats, like the second postion plie kind. As I was toning my glutes and yelling at my kids to not push each other down the slide, I figured that I had a free hand so why not call someone.

"Hey Hayley, How are you? Me? Oh, I'm just at the park, doing squats, watching the kids and calling you."

As soon as I said it I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. I'm sure it looked as absurd as it sounded. Well atleast I killed three birds, or something like that, eh?

I think I'll make the park a No Phone Zone too.

The exact words, per directlyrics.com, are "Damn Girl, You'se a sexy chick." (no, that's not a typo, that says "you'se)

I immediately lowered the volume and then hesitantly asked Lily to sing it to me, to see how much she had picked up.

"Dan, I'm such a cutie."

Yes Lily, you are, such a cutie!

Phew!

PS Why do my kids have food or snot on their face in every photo? Don't answer that!

Since it's the week before Super Bowl Sunday, and even though I'm still bitter that the Chargers will not be in the Super Bowl because of their own stupid mistakes and bad attitudes, I decided to theme my Monday Momsense around football. Hey, I heard Justin Timberlake say that women who liked sports are sexy so, here I am, liking sports. Seriously, I like them!

This week I've decided to break down some common phrases used in football, in a way that moms can relate to. It's up and running in the righthand sidebar or here on the Momsense page.

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Side note: I want to wish my Mom a Happy Birthday today! Yesterday's post about our Miss Californias was a tribute to her. She has a heart of gold and shows me ev everyday how to embrace life. Love you Mom!

I was in HEAVEN!

A different kind of heaven than if I had been an acne-ridden boy, but nonetheless, a heaven. She was beautiful, talented, and extremely down to earth (honestly, she was). I looked up to her and admired her; I wanted to be her. The reason she lived with a host family was to keep her focused on her task at hand, without the influence of jealous boyfriends or nosey stage moms. So, over those summer months she spent her time preparing for the Miss America pageant, which included everything from training and tanning to studying current events and rehearsing her talent. That September my mom, sister and I flew out to the illustrious city of Atlantic City and watched, live and in person, the spectacle that is the Miss America Pageant.

Whoa! I had never seen such amounts of sequins, big hair and pasties in one place. Besides concluding that baton twirling and tap dancing should be reserved for the tots and tweens of the world, I also concluded that the pageant world would never be for me, unless I had some miraculous Freaky Friday transformation overnight in which my bubble butt switched places with my flat-as-pancakes chest region, I would simply not fit in. I also concluded that I liked gambling (I snuck in a few arm pulls on the quarter machines. It was love at first ding.)

Our delightful Lisa did not win the crown of Miss America, but it was quite a special and seemingly once in a lifetime experience. That is until the next year, when another Miss California moved in and we repeated the process all over again. And then again and again for TWENTY YEARS! Yes, twenty different Miss Californias have rested their lovely locks on the pillows in the "Miss California Room" of my parent's home.

In looking back at the whole experience I am filled with varying emotions and thoughts on the entire pageant process.

When I went away to college in 1990 I discovered something called Liberalism. I became a sociology major taking the weight of the world's social issues on my shoulders, namely racism and sexism. The pageant system became, in my eyes, the nation's biggest offender of the women's lib movement and it had to be stopped. One year I was interviewed by a journalist for The Reader who was doing a story on the current Miss CA. I spouted off about how demeaning the swimsuit portion is to women and that I thought the entire organization was "a crock." Yep, I said crock.

My current stance is that I am not as whole-heartedly against the pageant system as I used to be, since I now see how it helps women pursue their goals, financially (through scholarships) and otherwise. All of the Miss California's that lived at our home have gone on to become impressive career women and moms, including a doctor, a lawyer, a Harvard professor, a lobbyist in DC, a professional pilot, and a Nashville country singer. 

On the other hand, when I watch the Miss America pageant, like the one that aired last night, I cringe. Not necessarily at the swimsuit portion, I'm so over that. But now, the entire production just seems so outdated. Tiaras and scepters are so 1940's (which by the way was the only decade a Miss CA won the title of Miss America, none of our 20 won the title, but many of the came very close). They need an overall 21st century revamp. Badly. I think to myself, who dresses these girls? Who produces the video montage packages where five of the contestants walk through the lobby of a casino with their sashes and crowns? Who thinks we need to hear yet another rendition of a Les Mis song (PS, taint no one gonna outshine the likes of Susan Boyle so why even try?). Aren't those two ton earrings going to cause permanent damage?

But at the end of the day, these women are real women, going for their dreams and trying to help others while doing it, and for that I applaud them.

And on a personal level, the experience of obtaining twenty new sisters into my familiy throughout the years was truly a joy, especially for my mom who treated each one as if they were her own flesh and blood. We developed close relationships with many of them; Some of them called my mom from the delivery room after birthing babies, a few came to my college graduation and wedding, and one of them sang Ave Maria at my dad's funeral.

My mom doesn't host the Miss California's anymore, though she and my sister still go to the Miss America pageant every year, (it's a chance to go to Vegas). In fact, they were there last night to witness Miss California, Kristy Cavender, win second place (First Runner Up) to Miss Virigina. Those damn southerners win all the time! There must be something in the water down there; or in the silicone mascara.

The Miss California Wall of Fame

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IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: Just to clarify, The Miss California Organization that we were involved with was the one affiliated with the Miss America Pageant, where women actually need some talent and brains, not to be confused with the Carrie Prejean Miss California pageant which is talentless affiliated with the Miss USA pageant.

The day I pushed "send" on the email telling everyone I have ever met about my blog, I was beyond nervous. I had nver been very fond of my own writing but yet here I was telling the WORLD my innermost thoughts and personal experiences, in my own writing. Soon, my anxiety was calmed after I received a few supportive, kind emails from friends, and after I had a glass of wine, or four.

But the following day I received a funny yet disturbing email from a MALE friend. "Love your blog, but did you know that you're one letter away from being The Mammary Show?"

Oh shit!

I never once, when brainstorming on blog names, had the foresight to write out the name as one long word, just as it appears in a URL. Who thinks of that?

So there I was, with a blog name that makes people think of breasts, with the irony being I barely have any. But that didn't stop me. I forged right ahead and now 15 months later, I am still up and running and even being invited to fancy mommy blogger events. Like the one I went to on Wednesday, hosted by the PR dream team behind the GOT MILK? dynasty. It was at Java Jones coffee shop downtown. The moms got to sample heavenly creme brulee lattes made by 2x National Barista Champion Heather Perry and the kids had their faces painted.

And got hopped up on fine pastires

I had my tarot cards read by Fancy Nancy's granny

At some point during the event I looked down at my chest, probably to make sure there was no residual crumbs leftover from the pastry I had inhaled, and I noticed my name badge.

Yes, you read that right. It says:

GOT MILK?

Mammary Show

No one can script that!

So, thanks to the lovely ladies of Got Milk? for the wonderful event and the eternal chuckle. And for bringing in more male readers.

Does anyone remember Tower Records? Well, before their demise in 2006, they were the "coolest" record store around, with every artist imaginable from Manheim Steamroller to Van Halen. And to me, it served a special purpose, because it was the one place where my dad and I could be on nuetral/solid ground; where we could hold off on fighting over whatever it was we used to fight about; where we could appreciate and understand each other. Well, let me take that back; he NEVER understood how I could listen to such garbage as Madonna and Duran Duran, nor could I understand, at the time, his fascination with all things Rag. Nevertheless, it was "our place" and we loved going there, together.

It always went something like this:

Pull up in his white '69 Camero, wait while he finished his cig and rolled the top up (actually at some point he stopped rolling it up--he said he'd rather have someone just hop in than slash that precious canvas top). 

Walk in with heart racing and eager anticipation.

"You can get (2) records, Mary."

"Okay Dad."

Head our separate ways, me to the POP or Soundtrack sections and him to the OLD FARTS section.

Pass each other in the aisles and throw glances & waves across the rows of those now defunct, precious vinyl sleeves.

At the minimum, one hour would go by.

Finally, meet up at the register; him with a stack of gag me and me with a STACK of goodness.

Sift through my stack at his command and put them into two piles: ones I like absolutely HAD TO HAVE, and the ones I didn't really NEED but like totally wanted, you know like fer sure fer sure.

Combine both piles and buy them all.

Yes, I was spoiled.

Yes, that explains a lot about me. Moving on.

I would hug him, and love on him as we walked out of the store, clutching the yellow plastic bags filled with hours of delicious listening.

On our drive home, top down, AM radio blaring, I would tear open the clear wrap, peruse the photos quickly and then go straifght to the lyrics section. I HAD to know EVERY word to EVERY song. And I started studying them, right there and then. Good thing I didn't get to "Darling Nikki" before we got home the day Purple Rain was released (I'm pretty sure I begged him to take me on Release Day for that album).

I have no idea how often we actually took trips like that but I would say it was at least a dozen if not more times during my childhood/high school years. There were "ups and downs" in my relationship with my dad, but those trips to Tower Records, always the one in Point Loma, were the "time-outs" to our on-going spats. My dad was not great at showing affection, so he would do it through gifts. And music. Music was his gift to me. I am eternally grateful for that.

Today, as I was driving the kids to the Sports Arena (a local sports/concert venue) to pick-up my tickets to the Disney on Ice show this weekend, I turned down the road only locals know about leading to Sports Arena; the road where Tower Records used to reside. In the midst of singing "There's a party in my tummy" with my girls at the top of our lungs," I stopped. I nearly had to pull over.

I looked towards the building, the home to so many of those precious memories of my dad, and it was gone. Well the building is still there but the bright-as-the-sun and blood red "Tower Records" sign was gone. The sign that had been a beacon through many of the tough times I had with my dad. And the place that was the band-aid, the hug, the genuinely magical daughter/dad place is now a Men's Bad Suit Store. No music, no magic, just badly designed polysester.

Nostalgia was stabbing me as I drove past. I miss that store. I miss my dad.

After my fiasco with the cheese broccoli soup on my very first crock pot attempt, many friends and well-wishers suggested I try a good ol' fashioned pot roast to gain some crock pot chops, so to speak. And that is just what I did. I invited my friends Deb and Mel over to help me prepare it as well as help me eat it (since my hubby is a vegetarian & I didn't want to eat alone). Watch to see how the meal turned out, as well as learn tips on how to sear a slab 'o meat and how to not cry while cutting an onion. Also get a nice glance at Mel's post-3-day-walk booty.

Stay Tuned for the next episode of Crock Pot Talk when Sondra from Happy Healthy Hip Parenting and I cook up something happy, healthy and hip!