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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
If you go to a picnic and see this
and your child, who is three, also sees this:
Be prepared to spend the next few weeks answering (or not) the following questions:
Was that dog wearing a diaper? (Hysterical laughter) Was she? (Hysterical laughter) Why was she? Did she poop in her diaper? (Hysterical laughter) Was it a big turd? Is it a poopy diaper? Was that dog wearing a diaper? (Hysterical laughter)
No joke, it's the gift that keeps on giving.
(Special thanks to Ester for being such a sport and posing for pictures. I think we can all agree that sometimes even something as benign as a picnic can bring out the nervous pooper in you.)