How we talk about movies

At dinner, Sunday night.

#3: Hey, have you ever seen a movie about a giant asteroid that’s going to hit the earth so like five people go on it to dismantle it?

Me: They go to dismantle a rock?

#3: No, I mean, um, like blow it up or something?

Me: While they’re standing on it?

#3: So that it doesn’t destroy the earth.

#2: You mean detonate?

#3: Whatever. I can’t think of the name of the movie. It starts with an a.

Me, #2, #4 and #5, in unison: Asteroid?

#3: No! It sounds kind of like armadillo, but it’s not.

Me: Oh. Armageddon.

#3: That’s it!

Me: No. I’ve never seen it.

#3: Oh.

#4: I just drooled on myself.

When a towel is not a towel

I have a yoga towel. Nothing special- a fairly thick beach towel that I bought at Costco for fifteen bucks a few years ago. I store it in my closet, away from the family towels, so that I always have it when I go to yoga in town.

It covers my yoga mat perfectly.

It has pineapples on it.

The kids all know it’s my yoga towel. I try to take care of the washing of it but sometimes it gets mixed in with the regular towels. They know if it comes through the wash they’re supposed to put it in our bedroom instead of the linen closet. This actually happens sometimes, depending on which kid finds it, how much they care, and whether or not they’re currently pissed off at me.

A while back, while frantically searching for my towel to take to class, I found it. In the kids’ bathroom. With muddy dog prints all over it.

At least, I hope that was mud.

So I grabbed another towel. It was a thin, innocuous-looking beach towel. A bit girly for my taste- kind of looked like there might be butterflies on it, but I thought, what the hell.

A towel is a towel, right? If I’m worried about my damn towel in yoga class I clearly have more serious issues.

And I did, in fact, have more serious issues, as I discovered when I got to class and flung the towel out over my mat.

Namaste.

One and Done #11

People speak of decades as if they form natural endings, when in fact they seldom end anything cleanly. Human survivors are dragged into new slices of time with which they feel no harmony and in which they are often exposed to rasping change.

-Margaret Cheney, Tesla: Man Out Of Time

This would be a way more appropriate quote if we were, in fact, turning decades this year, but let’s face it: I’m not going to remember this quote by then.

Looks like Casey had a rough night.

Here are your links:

I loved this post at fiftyfourandahalf Our New Year’s Eve Tradition. Last night I was in bed before midnight, just wiped out and grateful to not have to be in the city. Even #5 stayed up to watch the ball drop, but I just couldn’t take poor Dick Clark again. Maybe next year I’ll strive for consciousness and give this tradition a shot.

Yesterday I made a homemade chicken pot pie à la The Pioneer Woman. If you’re not a real cook (like me) but sometimes have to feed your large-ish family (like me), then you should totally get Ree’s cookbook The Pioneer Woman Cooks. If you’re as lucky as me (not likely), your husband will buy the cookbook for you and also make most of the recipes out of it. Here’s the pot pie recipe on her website: Leftover Turkey Pot Pie. PS: I used a pre-made pie crust. Sue me.

Karen at kloppenmum had a good post on Wisdom vs. Knowledge.

Short fiction about Berlin by A.S.J. Ellis: The Berlin Diaries (Part II)

The bad-ass-est marshmallow snowman ever. I Shall Win the Snowman Contest For Myself at Spectrum Woman.

Happy 2012.