Monthly Archives: April 2012

We need some new furniture.

Correction, we want some new furniture.  Our hand-me-down couch is sagging worse than my boobs, my rocking chair is thread bare on the arm that constantly has kids climbing up to read stories, and our piano is going to Grandma’s to make more room for us….and room for more chairs, which we really need!

So we took the kids up to Frederick, MD to a furniture store called Wolf’s.  The name should have been enough to put me on my guard.

We walked in, had not a moment to blink, and a salesman was on us.  ON US.

He had pushed himself up from a velour covered chair and limped over to us.

He was 105 years old.

Ah, this place pays their salesmen on commission, I’m guessing.  That, or he’s a really lonely guy.  That, or he’s an incredibly conscientious worker.  That, or he’s creepy as hell.

“Hi folks!  Looking for something?  Has anyone been helping you?”

“Uh….we just looking in general.  Just trying to get some ideas.”

We might as well as said, “Why yes, would you mind following us around the store for an hour, and insert yourself into any conversation we might try to have? That would be lovely, thanks!”

We found My Captain’s favorite chair pretty quickly.  It was the first chair we looked at.  Oh, sure, we spent what seemed like decades looking around at other chairs, but we eventually came back to the first stinkin one we had tried out.

It’s the kind of chair that hugs you when you sit in it.  And it’s got a hidden talent…it reclines.

My Captain, who strives to be the best role model for my Critter that he can, showed him immediately how to properly make use of such a chair.

We bought two.  They will be upholstered in a plain cream color, because evidently I’m on drugs or something and think my kids will never eat in these chairs.

They come in two months.  And then, my friends, then you will REALLY see some blogging.  I can just see myself now.  Comfortably reclined, laptop on knees, sipping a pina colada while my man-servant peels me grapes.

At least, that is how the salesman painted the picture for me……

I have the wonderful good fortune to be able to share my ramblings with the readers of the Monocacy Monacle, a sweet community newspaper here in good ol’ Poolesville, Maryland.  It’s a terrific opportunity, and one I do not take lightly.  I’ve been told to just be Mama Boe within the column I am to write. I’ve been told to maintain her character, her persona.

That’s a problem.

Because Mama Boe is,….ah….frank.  One might even go as far as to say too frank.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, I don’t ever intend to offend or say something just for shock value on Mama Boe, but things do tend to come out in such a way that they have exactly that effect.

Are you shockingly offended?

So I have been writing and re-writing my first column for the Monocle…something I never have to do for this blog…which you probably figured out a long, long grammatically-incorrect, punctuationally-inaccurate time ago….and I’ve been really struggling.

I mean, I feel like I have to guard myself.  I have to watch what I say.

But that is the charm of Mama Boe.  Fresh.  Un-Censored.  Grammatically erroneous.  How can I maintain Mama Boe’s personality and behave.  The two are mutually exclusive!

And if that isn’t bad enough, I found myself thinking as I write, “Gosh, I hope this is funny.”  Mama Boe never worries about being funny.  She just writes what is on her mind and sometimes it comes out funny.  There is no worrying about being funny!  That would be pandering to the audience, and Mama Boe is too lazy to do that.

So here it is, nearing deadline time, and Mama Boe’s first column is on its way to the paper.   I’m not entirely comfortable with it.

Remind me again why I let my friends talk me into this blog???

Apparently I’m not too bright.

You would have thought I had learned my lesson after the last 5K I participated in.  My knees were swollen for days after the last one.  I guess it is kind of like childbirth…you forget the pain over time and just remember the endorphins.

So when our little town’s mover and shaker, Gail,

organized yet another 5K, I found myself signing up for it again.  This time, my Varmint wouldn’t be there to push me along or stop me from calling a cab halfway through.

What the hell was I thinking?

And to make matters worse, I had attended a ‘ladies night’ dinner the night before and I was not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when my alarm clock rang the day of the 5K.  I snarled from the moment my feet hit the floor.

I arrived to find people in bunny ears…it was an Easter Bunny Hop / 5K.  I don’t have bunny ears….and I sure as hell don’t hop. Oh sure, it’s cute and loveable on any other day if you are well rested.  But when you are tired, grumpy, snarly, and smelling of last night’s martini, it’s only marginally cute.

But the sun was out, smiles were on everyone’s faces, and even though I really really wanted to go back to bed, I stayed.  And when the 5K started, I was moving with them.

Slowly.

I don’t run these days.  I walk.  And frankly, I can’t even do that without pain.  Knees, hips, ankles.   They all scream louder than a Justin Beiber fan when I force them into service.

I won’t bore you with the details.  I finished it. It wasn’t pretty, though.

And check this out…look at what we received for finishing:

Filled with chocolate, no less.

You know what this means, don’t you?

If there is chocolate involved, I’m doomed to participate in the next one.

I wish I wasn’t so easy.

In preparation for the upcoming warm-weather season, my favorite Ice Cream shop, The Twisted Cone, has brought in new ice cream flavors.

It’s overload for me.  I want to eat them all.

Look at the choices.  I have inappropriate thoughts in my head…all of which involve me, a gallon sized serving bowl, and a few dozen napkins….  I mean LOOK at these choices:

The Rum Raisin is the killer.  I think that’s why they put it in red ink.  I’ve been known to neglect my husband, my kids, and my work while face down in a gallon tub of rum raisin.

I’m not proud of it.  It’s just who I am.

And now, as if all of the above is not bad enough news for my plaque-encrusted arteries, look what they have to serve this deliciousness in:

That’s right…my overly pink and rather wrinkly hand is holding a pretzel cone.  A cone of pretzel.  For holding cold, sweet ice cream.  Stop drooling on your keyboard, friends.  It’s bad for the circuits.

But focus on that crispy salty wonder, will you?  Consider the magnitude of genius that had to come up with that.

It really doesn’t take much to make me happy, does it?

Some say the secret to a good marriage is communication.  Some say compromise.  Some say tolerance.

My Captain knows the secret to peace and longevity in our marriage is a constant flow of Twisted Cone ice cream.  God help us if they ever close.