About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I suppose I could try to resell it as "bongo biceps"
The bongo butt game seemed like such innocent fun. I didn't mean for it to become a family pastime; I was just trying to kill time Friday night between Junior's after bath towel-down and Chuck's arrival with his pajamas.
Instead it was a weekend jamathon. After every shower Junior was eagerly awaiting me and Chuck so he could slap our asses and shriek, "Bongo butt! Bongo butt!"
Whereas Chuck shrieked, "Agh! Down boy!"
Whoever said regret is a chance to learn and grow has never experienced the sting of an overeager toddler's hand against his flesh. I take it back. I take it back!
I'm hoping by mid-week that the novelty wears off. Kind of like how the novelty of the words "poop" and "toot" might also wear off soon.