It's that Time of Year

Yep. It's that time of year again.

When Blake and I start arguing every time James Taylor's Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas comes on the radio.  He's convinced that James Taylor has the best Christmas song voice, while I'm convinced that --while I agree that he has a fabulous voice -- his Christmas songs are made for the depressing part of a chick flick.  For the scene when the protagonista is wandering down a drizzly, Christmas-light-adorned street alone, cuing flash-backs of a past romance.  You know, those ones.

Who's with me?

It's also the time of year when Blake loves Tree more than he loves Me.  But that's ok.  At least he's now enamored of an inanimate object other than football. (Join me in a collective sigh of relief that Fantasy Football season is almost over).

Anyhow.  We had a great Thanksgiving with Blake's family.  Lots of food.  Lots of movies.  Lots of kiddos.

In fact, here's a picture from the weekend to prove we were having fun...even in the freezing cold anticipation of family photos.

Suburbia

Sometimes it's nice just to retreat into suburbia for the night and forego dinner in the city.

Friday night was one of those sometimes.

So we drove to the nearest strip mall, shared a large pepperoni pizza and a diet coke, and then went next door to get ice cream.  We also considered walking one more door down and perusing the dollar store to round out the night, but decided against it on principles of hygiene.  The perfect strip mall date.

Melancholy Hill

Having talented friends is really fun.  Also, it makes me feel like I need to get going with my life. 

Alpha, can I be you?

On Melancholy Hill - NYC Lights from Chateau Bezerra on Vimeo.

Jour du Souvenir

On November 11 each year I think back to High School when my French instructor had us each memorize a poem for oral exams.  The poem I memorized, "Au champ d'honneur," became one of my favorite poems and often echoes in my head whenever I pass near Arlington Cemetery or visit any of the monuments.

The poem isn't written by an American soldier.  And it wasn't written on or about American soil.  But I think that its message transcends political borders and nationalities.  It's a poem that makes me grateful for the sacrifices that our military has made to keep us free.  

Happy Veterans Day!

 

Au champ d'honneur, les coquelicots

Sont parsemés de lot en lot

Auprès des croix; et dans l'espace

Les alouettes devenues lasses

Mêlent leurs chants au sifflement

Des obusiers.

Nous sommes morts,

Nous qui songions la veille encor'

À nos parents, à nos amis,

C'est nous qui reposons ici,

Au champ d'honneur.

À vous jeunes désabusés,

À vous de porter l'oriflamme

Et de garder au fond de l'âme

Le goût de vivre en liberté.

Acceptez le défi, sinon

Les coquelicots se faneront

Au champ d'honneur.

   

In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

25 & 30 & 70

Blake and I will be turning 30 and 25 this coming May.

And Blake's parents will be turning 70 this year.

To celebrate all these big events, we're taking a little jaunt through Europe.  And by little I actually mean BIG:

France, Croatia, Italy, Monaco, Spain.

I am so excited I can hardly stand it.

Today would get better if I just went home now.

I need to take a mental health day. 

But since I know I won't do that (who wants to use a sick day that could otherwise be a vacation day?!), I'll just make myself feel better by watching Laughing Baby over and over again.

Poseur

I wanted my next post to be all about last weekend and our Halloween party and filled with fun photos.

But I'm sitting here with a ladder straddling my desk, looking up at a man in blue Dickie's, knee pads, and a blue Georgetown Law work shirt, getting lightly sprinkled with ceiling dust and wondering what workers comp really means and if I'll need it after he falls on me and maims both of us.

And I decided that I'd write now, skip the fun photos, fill it instead with run-on sentences and try to learn construction lingo like the following:

...We've got primary air coming through here...it's just not attached to the control box...

Yep, I can parrot with the best of them.

...So, there's no heating coils up here, I'm telling you.  You're gettin' whatever the duct's putting out. Does she have a thermostat in her room?  Well, then, there you go.  It's the AC.  It's out of control...

...Pinch that line.  Let's see if the damper moves...

...I'll look at this later.  I can't think about this right now...

That's how I feel.  You're straddling my desk with a ladder.  Isn't that bad luck for me, or at least for one of us?  Am I qualified to be one of you now?

The real truth.

The other day I was just pulling my leftovers out of the microwave for the third time (1st time: chilly, 2nd time: lukewarm, 3rd time: just right) when Blake said to me --in all seriousness-- "Rach, there's something you need to know.  And I'm sorry I have to be the one to break it to you.  But you're horrible at picking microwave times."

And while that may be true, I like to think of it as a flaw that gives me character.  Kind of like my irrational fear of spiders, my insatiable hunger for ice cream, and the chipped paint in my bathroom that shows the forest green peeking through the white.