As a gigantic Red House Painters/Mark Kozelek/Sun Kil Moon fan I fell out of my chair when today's* Yo Gabba Gabba took pause from the usual awesomeriffic comput-a-tronic dance numbers to play the following clip featuring the unmistakable Kozelekian vocals. Enjoy:
Lovely.
Yo Gabba Gabba was my favorite kid's program before, but now? I'm Tivo'ing every episode for myself. Brilliant. Just... yeah. I could not recommend it more. To parents. Children. Old people. Young people. Dogs. Monsters under the bed. Cyclopses. Et al.
Here's a double-encore presentation (The Salteens: Episode #1) if you're still not convinced:
Bravisimo, dudes. Thanks for the memories.
GGC
*It was a rerun from back in August that I apparently missed.
The Magic of 1-2-3
Um. Hi. I think I just uncorked the secret of the universe, or shall I say, the toddlerverse and I can't believe no one told me/ it took so long for me to figure this one out for myself. It's the only area of discipline I've tried that works EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. And no, it's not threatening time outs. (Archer LOVES time outs because it means he gets to stand in his crib, with his face pressed to the window overlooking our neighbor's garden, where he waves and says "Hi! Hiiiiii! Hiiiii! Muuuuah! Hiiiiii! Hi! Hi! Bye! Hi! Bye!" for ten minutes.)
Chores as discipline don't work either because Archer's obsessed with helping around the house. Dusting is his second favorite hobby after brushing his teeth and my teeth and the dog's teeth and his toy's teeth and his shoe's teeth. (I don't ask questions.) He also enjoys sweeping and wiping off the table with a wet paper-towel. (Cannot WAIT until he's old enough for dishes. I HATE dishes.)
But. But. BUT! There is a glorious (just glorious!) trick I have found and it works. EVERY. FRIGGIN. TIME. If Archer's MIA, and I need him to come here this instant? All I have to do is count to three and magically he appears. Or gets up. Or obeys me. It's like magic.
One.....
Two.....
Three...
And suddenly, out pops Archer from behind a shelf at the local bookstore, running at me full speed.
One....
Two....
Three....
And out climbs Archer out of the stroller he insists on living, sleeping and eating all three meals in, since it came c/o Brio in the mail last week.
One....
Two....
Three...
And into the bathroom zooms Archer, yanking his shirt off on his way to the bath.
Why didn't anyone tell me about this oh-holiest-of-secrets? And why does it work in such a miraculous way?
Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know. I just want it to NEVER END.
GGC
......................
In other news, Archer finally started speech-therapy and guess what? It's not so bad.
......................
In other (other) news, Vagina is For Lovers tees are now officially on sale c/o my life partner in crime. Buy one, here and then call me, so we can be twins at school tomorrow.
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My Little Red Wagon of Psychosis
Last night I dreamt I had to go to the bathroom. In my dream I was dragging a little red wagon with a giant ceramic toilet in its bed. I was wearing a one-piece jumpsuit that I had to remove completely in order to crouch over the toilet, which I would do every time I thought I found some privacy....
Except that by the time I removed the jumpsuit, someone would pop out of nowhere, laughing and pointing. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to poop in peace. The scenes changed. Inside. Outside. In the basement of a party. Wherever I went, strange faces popped out of the shadows.
"Are you pooping? Ew!" the voices would say. Meanwhile, totally naked, I strained to cover myself and move along, tangled in my silly little jumpsuit.
I have had recurring toilet dreams for the past year or so. When I was working on the book, I even had a dream that Hal was on the toilet. That he kept asking me to close the door so he could have his privacy. "I just want to go to the bathroom in peace," he said. The "me" in my dream, last night, would agree.
It was obvious what the dream meant. I was writing about us. I was writing about him, cracking open the bathroom door. Exposing him and our marriage.
Last night's dream turned into an epic. A dream about a woman in a one-piece jumpsuit who couldn't find a place to poop. Who had to go so badly, her stomach ached. My stomach ached but first, I needed some privacy.
I'm a very modest person. I never went naked in locker rooms. Ive never showered at the gym. I'm self-conscious because I know people are looking. Because I have impossible standards of beauty. Because I stupidly think someone is going to care that I'm imperfect.
I have always been self conscious everywhere but my writing. I am confident staring into the light of the screen, typing almost completely with one hand. I always did better writing letters to strangers than conversing with friends, always unable to confess my love out loud.
To this day, the only work I've ever sold was personal. Essays and short stories with a jumpsuit around my ankles, pooping. Much like many of you, who open your bathroom doors and stand naked in front of an audience of strangers.
Rockabye isn't the first time I have been published spilling my guts. I spent my teen years acting as the lead contributor for a teen book series, my late teens, touring and speaking to audiences of strangers about how I was rumored to be the worst kisser in Junior High. Basically, I've been dragging this little red wagon and toilet behind me for the last decade.
The thing is, this. We all poop. We all make fashion mistakes (a jumpsuit at a bar is a bad idea, something I have proved to myself in my waking life, as well as my sleeping one). And for writers, bloggers, people who can't not be honest and open and naked, there is always the risk of indecent exposure resulting in criticism and mockery. Because the majority of readers don't know us, personally. Or love us. Or even care about what happens to us.
And maybe that's what the dream meant. Maybe it was me just being afraid. Knowing that even though, everybody poops, it is more respectable to do so in private. Behind locked doors. God forbid a gassy woman would drag a toilet through the street. There is such thing is TMI and privacy and for whatever reason, I have always felt the need to expose myself.
At the end of the dream, I finally gave up. I was too tired and bloated to hold it all in any longer. I hiked to the end of a pier and crouched over the toilet, surrounded by people in snorkels and scuba masks, who were laughing and pointing and watching me from the water.
It was my moment of realization that I had to face the music. It was my own fault that I couldn't poop in peace, because I chose to leave the door open. By making the choice to go public with my private life, I couldn't be insecure. Or self-conscious.
I'd rather go naked than wear fear was my slogan. (Ah, yes... My proverbial bumper sticker on the road of life.) Or as the dream revealed, I'd rather poop in public than live a life of constipation, even if it meant being criticized or ostracized or disliked.
Voicing our opinions will always come with a price. Making a professional life out of a personal one is a choice. And one we must take full responsibility for.
GGC
Except that by the time I removed the jumpsuit, someone would pop out of nowhere, laughing and pointing. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to poop in peace. The scenes changed. Inside. Outside. In the basement of a party. Wherever I went, strange faces popped out of the shadows.
"Are you pooping? Ew!" the voices would say. Meanwhile, totally naked, I strained to cover myself and move along, tangled in my silly little jumpsuit.
I have had recurring toilet dreams for the past year or so. When I was working on the book, I even had a dream that Hal was on the toilet. That he kept asking me to close the door so he could have his privacy. "I just want to go to the bathroom in peace," he said. The "me" in my dream, last night, would agree.
It was obvious what the dream meant. I was writing about us. I was writing about him, cracking open the bathroom door. Exposing him and our marriage.
Last night's dream turned into an epic. A dream about a woman in a one-piece jumpsuit who couldn't find a place to poop. Who had to go so badly, her stomach ached. My stomach ached but first, I needed some privacy.
I'm a very modest person. I never went naked in locker rooms. Ive never showered at the gym. I'm self-conscious because I know people are looking. Because I have impossible standards of beauty. Because I stupidly think someone is going to care that I'm imperfect.
I have always been self conscious everywhere but my writing. I am confident staring into the light of the screen, typing almost completely with one hand. I always did better writing letters to strangers than conversing with friends, always unable to confess my love out loud.
To this day, the only work I've ever sold was personal. Essays and short stories with a jumpsuit around my ankles, pooping. Much like many of you, who open your bathroom doors and stand naked in front of an audience of strangers.
Rockabye isn't the first time I have been published spilling my guts. I spent my teen years acting as the lead contributor for a teen book series, my late teens, touring and speaking to audiences of strangers about how I was rumored to be the worst kisser in Junior High. Basically, I've been dragging this little red wagon and toilet behind me for the last decade.
The thing is, this. We all poop. We all make fashion mistakes (a jumpsuit at a bar is a bad idea, something I have proved to myself in my waking life, as well as my sleeping one). And for writers, bloggers, people who can't not be honest and open and naked, there is always the risk of indecent exposure resulting in criticism and mockery. Because the majority of readers don't know us, personally. Or love us. Or even care about what happens to us.
And maybe that's what the dream meant. Maybe it was me just being afraid. Knowing that even though, everybody poops, it is more respectable to do so in private. Behind locked doors. God forbid a gassy woman would drag a toilet through the street. There is such thing is TMI and privacy and for whatever reason, I have always felt the need to expose myself.
At the end of the dream, I finally gave up. I was too tired and bloated to hold it all in any longer. I hiked to the end of a pier and crouched over the toilet, surrounded by people in snorkels and scuba masks, who were laughing and pointing and watching me from the water.
It was my moment of realization that I had to face the music. It was my own fault that I couldn't poop in peace, because I chose to leave the door open. By making the choice to go public with my private life, I couldn't be insecure. Or self-conscious.
I'd rather go naked than wear fear was my slogan. (Ah, yes... My proverbial bumper sticker on the road of life.) Or as the dream revealed, I'd rather poop in public than live a life of constipation, even if it meant being criticized or ostracized or disliked.
Voicing our opinions will always come with a price. Making a professional life out of a personal one is a choice. And one we must take full responsibility for.
GGC
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