This enormous moth swung by our pad last week and hung out for a few days. I lovingly named “Mothra” (obviously):

Is he not the coolest?

While he was staying at the Hotel Wombat, one of the neighborhood hoodlums teens came to the door begging for money again looking for sponsors for a sporting event he’s entered. He noticed Ginormica clinging to the wall next to the door, and I joked with him that we named him Mothra. When his deadpan gaze met mine, I was sharply reminded that he’s actually young enough to be my offspring and has no blippity bleeping idea who Godzilla or Mothra are, so I shoved him off the porch with great force and he toppled into the landscaping in a sniffling heap.

Okay–not really, but it was a nice little daydream.

Anyhoo, this little/big guy we called Mothra didn’t even mind Schmoopy’s going in and out of the door he was parked next to roughly 20 times a day. He just sat there and caught his breath, or did his mothy meditations, or whatever moths roughly the size of Cleveland do.

Proof that he’s ginormica:

The Girly recalled that when we raised butterflies, we fed them orange slices, and she thought it might be nice to offer Mothra a refreshing treat as well. So, natch, I consulted Professor Google. He said adult moths don’t feed. Whuck? They don’t feed?! No wonder the poor little/huge fella wobbled when he walked. He was having a serious sugar low!

I’m also right now kicking my own bumcakes for not thinking of putting my Godzilla action figure (yes, I’m 12) out there next to him for a photo op. *headdesk*

So now all I have to offer you is this cheesy still shot from Godzilla vs. Mothra:

My Godzilla could totally be a stand-in for this one. They're freaking identical.

You’d think I would have learned the first time he stopped here a few years ago, but noooooooooooo.

Next time Godzilla and I will be ready for him. Next time.

Have you ever had Mothra visit your house?

Picture Ryan Reynolds as a dad. Sound adorable? It is. Well, picturing Ryan Reynolds is all it really takes for me, but in Definitely, Maybe he’s an adorable dad. He finds himself attempting to explain to his inquisitive tween daughter how he and her mom came to be, and why they are now parting ways. It’s kinda sorta like the movie version of How I Met your Mother, only you actually get to see the outcome of it.

Cue the cuteness trailer!

In typical fashion, I was running late, hair still partially damp from the shower, ringlets clinging to my the back of my neck, bangs dry and parting in the breeze as I hurried to the truck. Steve drove me to the station, stopping on the way at a nearby news shop so I could grab a magazine. It was a long train ride to Boston, and I’d need some form of entertainment. This particular place carried newspapers from every corner of the globe (why do we use that phrase post-Columbus?) and enough magazines to make choosing only one a chore. I briefly considered the myriad options and decided on Elle. Seemed like the perfect balance of fashion and fun. I snatched a copy from the stand, plopped down my money and was on my way again.

Steve and I said our goodbyes and I boarded the train. I’d miss him, but I was eager to get to Beantown and see my sister. I surveyed my seating options, and since no single seats were available, I settled for one next to a young man about my age. He didn’t acknowledge my arrival, and I sighed as I settled in, surmising his cool demeanor would make for an extra long trip.

Mighty glad to see you, Elle.

I reached down and retrieved the magazine from the side pocket of my duffel and sat back to enjoy some fluff text and photos.

Huh.

It seemed in my haste to select reading material, I’d failed to realize this particular edition of Elle was printed ENTIRELY IN FRENCH. This is a language that is music to the ears, a language with with I am vaguely familiar (If you need to know where Phillipe is, I’m your girl. He’s at the pool. With Anne. You’re welcome.), but it is a language that prevents me from comprehending one ounce of any article, as only knowing two or three words per page will do that.

Go me.

The only reading material I brought was written in French.

For French people.

Or non-French people who are fluent in French.

Which I am not.

And I was seated alongside a bump on a log who oscillated between snoozing and fiddling with his Walkman, and who appeared to be incapable of human interaction of any kind. Was I surprised by any of this? Not at all. A day in the life.

I simply did what any self-respecting woman would do in a situation like this: I pretended to be fiercely interested in the magazine I was clutching in my hands.

Lunch time rolled around and the beast beside me awakened a bit and may have grunted a word or two in my general direction. I seized this opportunity to vacate my seat for a few minutes, stretch my legs, and read the lunch menu on the wall.

Which, thankfully, was written entirely in English.

After securing what I can only describe as the open version of a pizza-flavored Hot Pocket, I made my way back to my appointed place next to Mr. Chattypants. I think he was eating a hot pretzel, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Between bites, he began to exchange pleasantries.

Oh my gosh, it’s alive. And talking. And… surprisingly friendly!

Over bad pizza and never-ending stops along the way, we chatted, laughed and actually hit it off like we’d known each other for years. I eventually felt comfortable enough to share my blunder du jour and I broke out the Elle. We howled as we pored over the magazine together attempting to piece together the stories and inventing some of our own.

My dear reader, this was a perfect scene from a film.

Except I was very happy in my relationship. And this boy and I were both going to exit the train and go our separate ways. Which we did, waving and calling out our goodbyes to one another as we parted.

I’m trying to remember now what his name was. Was it Steve, too? I don’t know.

But it was a time when I met a boy on a train.

That began somewhat badly and turned out quite nicely.

And I’ll probably remember it forever.

This post was part of Mama Kat’s pretty much world-famous writing prompts:

2.) Describe where you were when you met a boy. (inspired by Sadie Dear)

Okay, so this isn’t totally wordless. The birds have also won this round of the battle. There are now sparrows and starlings fighting for squatting rights in what’s left of the awning. Gah.

No movie has ever made me long for my old mixed tapes like High Fidelity. Remember making mixed tapes? Cassette tapes? Those black (sometimes clear) plastic things that fit into the palm of your hand and held every musical message you ever wanted to share with a person of the opposite sex? Humor an old bat if you don’t, m’kay? Let me keep on living the dream.

We made myriad mixed tapes for ourselves and friends, but the ones for or about those whom we adored were special. Simply hearing one of those songs can trigger a flood of memories you thought had disappeared with your favorite pair of acid-washed jeans.

I also think most of us can relate to the concept of mentally rifling through relationships past trying to ascertain what went wrong or, as was often the case in my life, what the hell was I thinking?

Some mixes we simply compiled by taping songs off our portable radio, complete with extraneous noise. When we moved up to a more sophisticated boombox or all-in-one stereo system, we could tape directly from the radio and only have the voice of the deejay to contend with as he chattered needlessly over the intro of our favorite flavor of the week. Not that I ever did that during my radio days. *ahem*

[Sidebar: I still have a flavor of the week. I play it ad nauseam; often to the chagrin of my family. My most recent two are this one by Gavin DeGraw and this one by  Dr. Dre featuring Eminem and Skylar Grey (Disclaimer within a sidebar: I really like the song because I think Skylar Gray has a heavenly voice, but I'll admit that the story line of this one grabbed my attention. I soon discovered this version someone made that only contains Skylar's chorus. It's the angelic voice minus the f-bombs and anger.)]

High Fidelity was a wonderful homage to the mixed tape. It was also my introduction to Jack Black, who is an absolute riot in this movie. Oh, and did I mention it stars John Cusack? So I don’t need to say anything else, right?

Ever since my sister sent the link to a Red-Tailed Hawk nest on the campus of Cornell University, I’ve been glued to my screen. This has done nothing but add to the already excessive tumbleweeds on my blog, since I am so easily distracted.

SQUIRREL!

Mama bird is named Big Red (a nod to Cornell University Athletics), and dad is Ezra. We learn about their routines, their different parenting styles, and the hawklets’ awkward interactions with one another.

I love to watch the Red-Tailed Hawks in our area circle fields for prey or perch high atop a telephone pole to survey the land. These regal raptors are nothing short of fascinating to observe up close on Cornell’s nest cam. Before you know it, you’re ignoring your own squawking, hungry children to catch a glimpse of the three tryptophan-infused fuzzballs as they drift off to sleep under cover of Big Red’s massive wings.

I began watching after the first two hatched and the third was working that egg tooth in an effort to join the siblings. Already there seemed to be bickering amongst the babies. The experts at the Cornell Ornithology lab said they were too small to fight at that stage, but you could see it brewing in their wee brains.

“He got a bigger piece of pigeon than me!”

“Mooom–he’s looking through the hole in my egg again! Make him stop!”

“He’s touching meeeeee!”

There are a few things we could all learn from mama bird about parenting, too:

Eat what you’re served. You’ll never hear a hawklet whining about not liking chipmunk, or that they think squirrelloaf is barfy. They just happily open their little beaks and gulp whatever Big Red is slinging. Feathers, grizzle and all.

Bedtime means bedtime. With bellies bulging from the catch of the day, mom tucks the hawklets in for a nap or for the night, depending on the time of day. She makes a magical transformation into a birdy blanket. I don’t think she actually sits on them, but does some kind of magical hovering maneuver. Whatever it is, it’s the final word on your sleep schedule. Try to wriggle out and she’ll tuck your fuzzy head back in with her enormous beak. Do not mess with the mama beak. Discussion over.

Mama’s got you covered. We’ve seen them sit through snow, hail, high winds, and rain. Mom hunkers down and keeps those little critters dry and fuzzy. She’s got their backs. She’d probably also cut a bitch for them. Those talons aren’t just for looks, honey.

She’s probably more like you and me than you’d think. Big Red seems to get by on very little sleep–always keeping an eye out for trouble. When Ezra sits with the hawklets, he seems very much like the average unsure dad who is somewhat awkward around the babies, and plops his kills down where he thinks they should go. He brings in hunks of bark and flings them about the nest willy-nilly. Mom returns, tells him about his slobbish ways, sends him packing, then proceeds to rearrange the house to her liking. Sound familiar at all?

You can watch the family in action below. It’s reality TV at its best.

Oh, and Happy Mother’s Day to all you moms!

What do you get when you take one ridiculously funny Will Ferrell character, add a dash of the delightful Christina Applegate and sprinkle with bits of Steve Carrell, Paul Rudd, and David Koechner? I’ll tell you what you get. Belly laughs.

If you haven’t met Ron Burgundy yet, get acquainted so you can be among the masses who welcome him back when the sequel hits the big screen (no dates released as of yet):

Seen any good comedies lately?

It’s been mighty tumbleweedy around here this week. Some of it may be due to mild-to-moderate laziness. Plus, how interesting would it be to read about my household organization and greenification* efforts? Not very, but it’s exciting for me, because I’ve been trying to get organized for, oh, my whole life.

I’ve also been taking some writing classes. Some leave me feeling all, Yay! Writing! Publishing! I’ll take on the world!

Some leave me feeling all, “I am a hopeless, delusional nit. Every single person in this class can construct a sentence better than I can. Hell, I’m pretty sure Schmoopy can. I should just go fill out my application at the DMV** and call it a day. I can take unflattering pictures of people. Why not get paid for it, right?

The writing class that leaves me feeling unworthy of putting pen to paper is an ongoing adventure in failure sentence construction. Each week I attend class only to reach a low that’s lower than the low I thought could go no lower.

See what I mean?

Who knew that crafting beautiful sentences could be so complicated. Thanks for showing us how simple minded the rest of us are, Faulkner.

Perhaps I should only speak in short statements and fragments to tell you what else I’ve been doing:

Must. Pull. Every. Weed.

Letting Schmoopy out.

Ooh. New Title 9 catalog.

*Sigh* Can’t afford Title 9 (one more reason to go for that DMV gig).

Shopping, of course (pictures soon)

Listening to this song 80 billion times:

Fighting off the birds in my awning

Watching the baby Red-Tailed Hawks on this bird cam

Counting the bazillions of butterflies flitting about (are there a ton where you are, too?)

Letting Schmoopy in

My biggest project this spring has been to

 Photo stolen from courtesy of the amazing Allie at Hyperbole and a Half

What have you been up to?

*I’mma submit this one to M-W online pronto.

**My apologies if this is your occupation. I’m sure it’s a fabulous job.

Is it me, or does Netflix online have a different selection than the onscreen menu you get when you’re selecting a video through your TV? I don’t find all that many movies to watch when I look on the TV, but online I do.

[Ranty Sidebar: Did you ever notice when you search for a song on YouTube on one computer you get completely different results on another? I'll get exactly what I'm looking for on the laptop or main computer, but when I look for just about any song on YouTube from my iTouch, I get everything BUT what I'm seeking. I've read about how Big Brother Google knows what you're searching for on each computer in your house and tailors results to that info, but brothuh, please. I want to be able to locate mah songs on mah iTouch, too!]

Aaaaanyhoo, I found Until September on Netflix today amongst the slim pickings offered via Netflix on the TV. It stars a lovely French man with electric blue eyes and an American woman that looked vaguely familiar. I thought maybe it was Margo Kidder.

Then my good friend IMDB informed me that the spunky woman in this film (named Mo Alexander, btw. Mo? Seriously? Even his accent didn’t make that sound sexy) stranded in Paris was played by Karen Allen.

*crickets*

Ah! I scanned her film career and realized I recognized her from Raiders of the Lost Ark. After giving my forehead a good smacking, I then ogled some pictures of Harrison Ford read some more about the Frenchie in the film, because he was so much fun to watch. And by fun to watch I mean vavavoom! {insert pervy old man French laugh here} So, she got to press flesh with Harrison and the Frenchie.

Clearly, I’ve chosen the wrong career.

It definitely contained some 80′s cheese (hauh hunh, zee Brie cheese!), but at least it didn’t have a super duper cheesy fight scene accompanied by triple decker cheesy music. It also bothered me that this guy was married, but beggars can’t be choosers. And by beggars, I mean hopeless romantics who are suckers for a French accent and piercing blue eyes.

Embedding was disabled on this one, but if you don’t mind some spoilers you can go here to see the trailer. Or you could just gaze into his eyes below:

Mama Kat’s first writing prompt this week is about eating whatever you want for a day. I love food, so I pondered my post over a P B & J.  This was her prompt:

My version is slightly different.

I’m going to pretend I’m not allergic to mushrooms, not lactose intolerant, and don’t have The GERD keeping me from all things chocolate, fried, citrusy, garlicky and onionified (this might very well be a real word. So don’t even bother asking M-W online.).

Following is my day of absolute gluttony good eats:

I’d start my day at the local drive-thru of Micky Dees and get myself an Eggamuffin (and a  good morning to you, my beloved American Cheese) with a double order of hash browns and a large OJ.

If my stomach emptied in the time that most normal tummys do (and calories be damned), by around 10:00 I’d be ready for a raspberry jelly donut. I wouldn’t care if it had powder or white frosting on top. I would wash this delightful treat down with a giant, cold glass of milk.

Lunch would involve a big ol’ burger cooked on a greazy grill with mushrooms, bacon, and cheese tucked not-so-neatly inside the greazy toasted bun. Some kind of fabulously seasoned fries on the side. A vat of Dr. Pepper with a straw, if you please. If someone else happened to be eating garlic parmesan wings at my table, I might be tempted to try a few of those as well.

Oh my gosh, pie.

There would be pie. Fruit pie. Oh! I can do better.

I’m now getting ahead of myself. Maybe I’d have a gooey chocolate chip cookie to tide me over until my mid-afternoon snack of

NACHO CHEESE (oh my gosh, why did I not put loaded nachos in here somewhere?) DORITOS AND CHOCOLATE MALTED MILKSHAKE.

Okay, on to dinner. Who’s hungry here?

I’d like eggplant parm smothered in mozzerella cheese with a side of pasta. A saucy pasta mountain with a Parmesan cheese cap. And garlic bread. With mozzerella on top, all golden and bubbly. And a big glass of chocolate milk. The kind you buy already chocolatey, because it’s so much creamier than the kind you make yourself.

Okay, either that or double decker tacos. It’s a close race.

For dessert? Let there be key lime pie. Better still–a sampler plate of cheesecake.

Oh my gosh–maybe an ice cream sundae with FUDGE, nuts aplenty and real whipped cream.

Somebody go call Wilfred Brimley and get me on that mailing list for the diabeetus meds now. I think I might need it after a day like that.

Whew! Pass the bicarb. What would you eat?