Tag: dailyprompt

Where would you go on a shopping spree?

I would choose a bookstore.

Books have always been one of my favorite things to buy because every book feels like a new world waiting to be explored.

One of my favorite birthdays actually involved doing exactly that. A few years ago, I purposely cleared off a credit card so I could spend the day buying books without worrying too much about the cost. I went to a bookstore and let myself wander through the aisles, picking up anything that caught my interest. By the end of the trip, I had filled two tote bags and bought eight books. It definitely put a noticeable dent in my wallet, but it was completely worth it.

There is something special about leaving a bookstore with a stack of new stories and ideas to dive into. For me, a shopping spree surrounded by books is the perfect way to celebrate.

What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

The biggest thing that helped me grow? Getting kicked out at 21.

At the time it felt dramatic. A little embarrassing. Very “main character hits rock bottom in act one.” But honestly? It was the push I needed.

I was living at home, comfortable, not saving money, shopping like the economy depended on me. I wasn’t acting my age. I didn’t really have direction. I was in that in-between stage — technically an adult, but still operating on teenage settings. My drive was low. My impulse control was lower.

And my parents? At 21 they were already parents. Responsible. Building a life. Raising a whole human. So there was this quiet tension in the house. Not because we weren’t close — we’ve always been close — but because we were in completely different chapters. They were looking at me like, “It’s time to grow up.” And I was still trying to stretch the “I’m young” excuse as far as it could go.

Getting kicked out forced everything to change.

Suddenly I had rent. Bills. Real consequences. Landlords don’t care about your vibes. I had to budget. I had to think long-term. I had to figure out who I was without the safety net. It was uncomfortable and humbling, but it built something in me that comfort never could: independence.

And the wild part? It actually helped my relationship with my parents.

Space shifted our dynamic. We went from parent-child tension to adult-adult understanding. I started seeing them as people who had once been 21 and scared too — just with way more responsibility. They started seeing me as someone figuring it out instead of someone refusing to.

Distance didn’t weaken our bond. It strengthened it. There was more respect. Less strain. More appreciation on both sides.

Getting kicked out didn’t ruin me. It woke me up. It forced me to step into a version of myself I probably would’ve kept avoiding if I’d stayed comfortable.

Sometimes growth doesn’t look inspirational in the moment. Sometimes it looks like packing your stuff and realizing you can’t go back to who you were.

And honestly? That was the start of everything changing for me.

What were your parents doing at your age?

When my mom was 28 turning 29—aka my current, mildly confused but doing-her-best age—she was already deep in Mom Mode.

She had me (nine years old and probably dramatic), my two-year-old brother (sticky), and she and my stepdad were about to get custody of my stepsister. Three kids. One small apartment. And—plot twist—she was just learning to drive.

Ma’am.

Meanwhile, at 28, I am out here trying to peacefully coexist with two dogs who act like unpaid interns with behavioral issues.

I genuinely don’t know how she did it. Three kids in a small space while figuring out adulthood in real time. Learning to drive. Managing custody paperwork. Building a whole stable life from scratch. And she’s still here, still standing, still very much alive and probably shaking her head at me.

The only thing I can confidently say I beat her at? I learned to drive three years earlier than she did. That’s my one flex. My one ribbon. Please clap.

But honestly, it’s wild to compare timelines. At my age, she was building a family of five in a tiny apartment. At my age, I’m building routines, boundaries, and a lint roller collection that rivals a small retail display.

And sometimes I do feel behind. Because society loves a checklist. House. Kids. Stability. Gold star. Meanwhile, I’m over here celebrating when both dogs nap at the same time.

But maybe life isn’t a race. Maybe it’s just different chapters. My mom’s 28 looked like diapers, custody court dates, and driver’s ed. My 28 looks like chew toys, budgeting apps, and trying to remember to drink water.

Both are real. Both are hard. Both count.

And if nothing else, at least I can give her this: she raised three kids before she mastered parallel parking.

I raised two dogs and parallel parked first.

Balance.

Write about your dream home.

My dream home isn’t a mansion. It’s not a marble-everything, cold-and-echoey architectural digest situation.

It’s a three-bedroom house with a beautiful kitchen and just enough land for dogs to run like they pay the mortgage and a chicken coop I will absolutely romanticize on Instagram.

Recently I was watching this woman on TikTok — as one does when you’re “just resting your eyes” at 10:47 p.m. — and I realized something very important:

When I have the money to build my own kitchen, I am stealing approximately one million of her ideas.

She has a Blackstone built into her kitchen. Built. In.

She has a stove.
A double oven.
And a Blackstone.

The audacity. The brilliance. The breakfast potential.

Imagine hosting and just casually saying, “Oh, I’ll throw that on the Blackstone.” That’s wealth. That’s peace. That’s hashbrowns done correctly.

I want that energy.

But beyond the kitchen (which will absolutely include a deep country sink because I love a deep sink — I want to be able to wash a stock pot without creating a tidal wave), I want a library/office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Or at least two full walls covered in books like I’m either extremely well-read or extremely committed to the aesthetic.

And Hector and I have already discussed the theme of the house: Alice in Wonderland.

Not Disney. Not cartoon mushrooms and teacups everywhere.

More like… dark wood. Whimsical. Slightly enchanted but grounded. The kind of house where you feel like something magical could happen, but it’s also practical enough to store paper towels.

I want odd furniture. The kind that looks like it absolutely should not go together — but somehow does. No matching sets. No “living room bundle, 15% off.” I want a velvet chair next to a carved wooden table next to something that looks like we found it in a traveling magician’s attic.

Speaking of magician — Hector is a literal magician, so obviously there will be subtle playing card details tucked around the house. Nothing cheesy. Just little nods. A framed vintage card deck. Maybe a heart or spade worked into hardware. Whimsy with intention.

And in the kitchen? A clock permanently stopped at tea time.

Because if we’re committing, we’re committing.

I want bright colors. Warm colors. Jewel tones. A house that feels alive. A house that feels like us.

And it’s so funny to me that this is what I want now — this eclectic, whimsical, slightly chaotic blend of my personality and Hector’s — because when I was growing up, my dream house was… aggressively normal.

I wanted a plain yellow house.
An enclosed wraparound porch.
A porch swing.

And when shiplap had us all in a chokehold? Oh, I was ready. I wanted shiplap in every bathroom. In the kitchen. Probably emotionally, too. I wanted the farmhouse look. The country sink (which, again, I still want — don’t get it twisted). Soft neutrals. Clean lines. Joanna Gaines could’ve walked in and felt affirmed.

And honestly? I still love that look.

But somewhere along the way, my taste stopped trying to be universally approved and started feeling more… personal.

Now I want character. I want a house that looks collected, not purchased in one afternoon. I want a place that feels like two creative weirdos live there — one who reads too much and one who can pull a coin from behind your ear.

A house with space for books and magic tricks.
For dogs and chickens.
For dinner parties on the Blackstone.
For tea time that never ends.

Three bedrooms. A beautiful kitchen. A little land. A lot of color.

And just enough whimsy to make it feel like we built it exactly for us.

You get some great, amazingly fantastic news. What’s the first thing you do?

When I get amazingly, fantastically, scream-into-a-pillow good news, I don’t act calm. I don’t “process.” I don’t reflect.

I grab my phone like it’s part of the victory ceremony.

Because obviously—I have to tell my people.

The first move? Text or call. Rapid fire. Mom. Hector. My roommate. My friend. Not in a sweet, orderly, “let me start with the most important person” way. No. It’s based purely on one thing: who is most likely to answer immediately.

This is not the time for voicemail.

If my mom picks up, I already know she’s about to react like I just won a Nobel Prize, an Oscar, and America’s Next Top Model all at once. Hector gives me that proud, steady hype that makes me feel like, yes, I am that girl. My roommate? Instant chaos energy. We are pacing. We are squealing. We are planning outfits for a celebration that may or may not exist yet. And my friend will match my energy down to the exact number of exclamation points.

I don’t just want to share the news—I want to feel it bounce back at me.

Because somehow the joy doubles when someone else gasps. It triples when someone says, “I KNEW IT.” It becomes official when my mom tells three other people before I even hang up.

So yeah. The first thing I do when I get incredible news?

I call the people who make it louder.

What do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time?

Sleeping. And no, this isn’t a joke answer or a cry for help (okay, maybe a little). Sleep is my favorite hobby, my personality trait, my coping mechanism, and my love language.

I don’t mean accidental naps or “oops I fell asleep” moments. I mean intentional, planned, luxurious sleep. The kind where you cancel plans, turn your phone on silent, and fully commit to doing absolutely nothing. Sleep is when my brain finally shuts up, my body resets, and I get a brief break from being a functioning member of society.

People talk about hobbies like hiking, painting, or reading. That’s cute. I enjoy laying down. Horizontal. Cozy. Unbothered. Sleep doesn’t require money, motivation, or social interaction—which honestly makes it elite.

In my leisure time, I’m not chasing productivity or self-improvement. I’m chasing rest. And when I find it, I protect it at all costs.