on conflict and contentment

I'm conflicted about whether or not I should be conflicted about my blogging (or lack thereof) habits. Should I be concerned that I don't have an urge to chat about anything online? Should I be worried that nothing in my life seems to warrant the time and energy of writing about it? And if that's my measure of worthiness - where'd that come from? Idiocy or intellect? Is my current state of contentment cause for concern as a result? 

'Cause I am. Content, that is. 

With qualifers, of course. I mean, I'm completely out of shape - I haven't run a mile in, well, weeks. The last time I hit the gym was like a month ago, which was probably the second time that month. I've self-soothed a time or two (or twelve) with cake. And a beer ...  and I kind of don't care ...

And I still look at homes for sale on Zillow once a week. Occasionally, I send a link to the Mr. for kicks ... and dreams. I stroll through the garden department at Home Depot every few weekends, picturing a landscape overhaul of our current property.

I've got a Pinterest board for a private practice office. I've measured furniture. I've run numbers. I even bought a pillow for color palette reference. I've got more clients. Just note enough yet.

I have a list of books to read a mile long. Fiction, vocation-focused stuff. I'm eager for competence, depth, expertise. I take notes, watch TedTalks ... pick the brain of the established.  It confounds me that they're all so right and all so wrong at the same time.

So, yea, I guess I want more. Other. I'm never satisfied, but I'm content. I'm not as torn and confused as I once was ... I don't need to process or prove much in public anymore. I guess. Very little gets me riled up these days. I don't need as many answers. I've got less expectations for myself and others. It's nice. 

This is good. So, I'm sharing. :) 

hello hybrid!

After my surprising and excessive (and, therefore, odd) giddiness whilst buying weed killer for my lawn last week, it is not as though I needed more evidence of my complete indoctrination into the cult of ADULTHOOD ...

However, I jumped straight into sainthood with yesterday's purchase of a HYBRID automobile!

Now, before thou freaks out and wonders if I've somehow forgotten myself completely, (after all, I am the girl who'd gladly drive a jacked up, gas-guzzling 4x4 if it were financially feasible ... and I lived on a farm and owned horses and a boat!), know that the aforementioned hybrid is a hybrid SUV. It's still bigger and higher and it's still a V6. Just, as a hybrid, it guzzles gas at the rate of a typical sedan instead of that of a truck.

She's pretty, ain't she?  

And no, I'm not pregnant (though mad props to Cayla for being the first to ask and Katie for being the first to hint at it being a family-sized car)!  Rather, we've got kayaks and bikes to haul on adventures!

And, yes, I do realize the ironic/contradictory nature of my love for chemical weed killer and my love for my new hybrid car. Perhaps adulthood is a whole lot about confusion and compromise and ever-changing constructs?

Onward ... 

on dirty dancing

   source: IMDB

I sensed it was a rite of passage.

Like my special viewing of The Breakfast Club before it and getting to stay up for It's a Wonderful Life on the Christmas Eve of my fifth grade year (the year I knew for sure that Santa wasn't real), my introduction to Dirty Dancing was one of those moments when I knew my parents were ready to let me grow up.

I remember my mom asking if I wanted to watch it. I remember feeling special. I remember the couch we sat on. I remember where the TV set was. I remember feeling uncomfortable watching a sex scene (albeit, a very TAME one by today's standards) with my mom in the room. I remember loving the movie ... and that I'd been given the opportunity to watch it.

Mind you, I came from a household in which The Fresh Prince of Bel-air was off-limits for being too risqué. I had to sneak my soap opera watching. The most exposure to sensuality I'd experienced prior to watching Dirty Dancing was a sixth grade read (and re-read) of Judy Blume's Forever. Even with Dirty Dancing under my belt (pun!), I was still legitimately shocked during my senior year of high school when half my friends revealed they'd slept with their boyfriends on Valentine's Day ...

Still, it's a sexy movie isn't it? Despite being a story of a somewhat illegal love affair (Johnny's got to be 20-something, right?!), it's mesmerizing. Timeless. Why? Because it's the archetypal story of a girl awakened to more. It's the story of a guy enchanted and confused and made sensitive and strong as a result. It's a story about courage and change.

Jennifer Grey's smile makes you believe in the delight Baby's experiencing.

Plus, Patrick Swayze. I mean, COME ON.

And that soundtrack? #knowthewordsbyheart

Then there's Detective Lenny Briscoe ... #justsayin

And lastly ... CHOREOGRAPHED DANCE! That junk is my kryptonite.

The point: Ladies, Dirty Dancing is on Netflix. Grab a glass of wine and get on that.