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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.

I’ve made only a handful of meatloaves in my 45 years.  I think the name is what has turned me off, frankly.  I mean, it’s just a hamburger with a little extra filler in it.  What’s not to like? What is it about the word ‘Loaf’ that makes me flinch?

I have several bacon-brained friends who are putting bacon into everything lately (see ~ Meat Hug From God ~ ) and I had the probably unoriginal idea to put bacon on top of the loaf-of-meat I’d made tonight.

For Easter Dinner.

I took an entire pound of bacon and laid each slice lovingly across the top of my loaf-of-meat.  And then poured ketchup with brown sugar and steak sauce, etc, on top of that.  Turned the oven on to 350 and let-er-rip.  For like, an hour.

Lord Almighty.  The bacon raised the meatloaf to a whole new level.

I know with all the hype Bacon has been receiving lately, you might roll your eyes at this one…but please…PLEASE, do this.  Cover your loaf of meat with bacon, and love it.  Love it like no other meatloaf before it!

(Those are Crash Potatoes on the side, by the way.  I got the recipe from Ree Drummond.  Fantastic.  My Captain has declared it to be one of his new favorites!)

Have you ever met a person who was much younger than you, but seemed so much older?  My friend Vicki and I were served dinner by one last weekend.  Her name was Emily, and even though we only had a short interaction with her, she could have been one of my own old cronies.

She is in her early 20’s.  She has the world before her.  She has optimism, hope, energy.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her what fun little gifts life has in store for her.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I used to be a LOT like her…before I was BEATEN DOWN TO THIS BARELY RECOGNIZABLE SHELL OF MYSELF.

(Insert Soap Opera music)

And then I realized, that the youthful ball of fire I used to be, like Emily is now, is still within me.  It’s still here.  It just comes out in different ways now.

And no, I’m not talking about my uncontrollable middle-aged-wrought flatulence.  Well, at least not ONLY that.

My humor is different.  My perception of life is different.  Sure, I’m a little more  cynical.  Yeah, I’m less likely to smile at a stranger.  You betcha I carry a larger sack of humility around.  (Ever seen Santa’s sack?  It’s bigger than that.)  Yes, my ball of fire no longer burns as brightly as Emily’s does.

But it still burns.

And, frankly, we need to make room for the Emilys out there.

Here she was clearing our glasses from the table, and shining.  SHINING.

You GO girl!

Emily is a budding Photographer.  Look her up:

http://emilygude.com/photography/Welcome.html

Let’s give her a hand up.

Because she is us, decades ago.  And I want her to succeed.  If she succeeds, we all do.

And by all, I mean the collective ALL.  The esoteric All.  The universal All.

Heavy stuff, man.

But look at that smile.  Don’t you just want it to go on forever?