I guess I am a Wild Boomba. At least that’s what my sister, Beth, and my brother, Paul, used to call me. My parents called me that, too.
I always thought it had something to do with my dark, coarse, kinky hair. But Paul recently told me it was because of my total “caveman-like” appearance as a child. I didn’t ask him if he still thought I looked like a caveman, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just really didn’t want to know.
My much, much older sister and older brother were born fair-skinned, blond children. By the time my parents’ DNA got to me, it had somehow mutated and my mother tells me, yes, she tells me, she thought they brought her the wrong baby girl after I was delivered. She was sure I belonged to a different family. Perhaps even a different genus.
My sister’s hair always remained light, but in high school my brother’s hair got darker and darker and curlier and curlier. He used to sit under a hair dryer trying desparately to brush out the curls with gobs of Dipitty Do. He finally gave up trying to straighten his hair and grew an afro that could take up an entire doorway. He mowed it down for law school and it’s been short ever since. But, to my dismay, I don’t think he ever looked like a caveman or Boomba-like in any way.
Nature can be cruel, even with good intentions, and I ended up with the Boomba-ness that neither Beth or Paul ever had the pleasure of enduring. Luckily my kids didn’t get the Boomba gene either. Both have the much more human-like features of their father, my husband, Richard.
Some people say Richard does not always act like a caring human being. In fact, some say he’s evil. But he at least looks like a completely evolved human being and not at all like a caveman.
Oh, by the way, I just got off the phone with Mom. Guess what, Paul? She said you all called me
“Wild Boomba” because of my hair. She said I never looked like a caveman. So, I guess this is like the time you told me to get up really close to the TV when Batman was on. You tried to convince me the theme song was “Fatman. Fatman,” not “Batman. Batman.” Oh, and remember when you told me I was born in the toilet? Well, my dear brother, Mom said that’s not true either. So, go buy some Dippity Do and sit under the hair dryer for awhile. And I love you. Call me.
And “hi,” Beth! We’ll discuss how you locked me in the basement, turned off the lights and made spooky noises down the laundry chute in another installment of Tales of Wild Boomba.