Today’s Journal Prompt — Saturday, October 10, 2026: What Are You Ridiculously Picky About?

Greetings, my lovelies!

I’ve come to a rather amusing realization about myself. Apparently, I’m ridiculously picky about a whole lot of things. Not necessarily expensive things, mind you, and certainly not everything that comes with a designer label. I’m talking about the everyday things that make life comfortable, enjoyable, and worth getting out of bed for. The kind of preferences you develop after years of figuring out what makes you happy and what makes you want to roll your eyes so hard you can practically see yesterday.

Ronnie probably could have told me this years ago. The poor man has listened to enough of my opinions about coffee, food, bedding, music, and everything else under the sun to qualify for an honorary doctorate in Rae Studies. Fortunately, he’s a good sport about most of it, although I’m fairly certain his patience is going to be tested by a Christmas tree I discovered earlier today.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A Saturday That Didn’t Quite Go According to Plan

Our Saturday began with a stop at Black Rock Coffee, where I treated myself to a Pumpkin Spice Cookie coffee. There’s something about a good cup of coffee on an October morning that makes the day feel promising, especially when you’re heading out with no particular rush to get home. The rich aroma, that first warm sip, and the anticipation of spending the day wandering around together were exactly what I needed.

Black Rock is my preferred coffee shop, and I’m perfectly content with that arrangement. At home, I prefer fresh whole beans that I grind myself, heavy cream or a natural creamer with a handful of recognizable ingredients, and raw sugar if I want a little sweetness. I’ve even spent time learning about coffee production and the brands I buy because I genuinely care about what goes into my cup. Some people might call that excessive, but I call it enjoying the little things properly.

Our next stop was Costco, where I discovered that the Christmas decorations had arrived. Beautiful ornaments, festive displays, and trees sparkling beneath the store lights were enough to make me forget that Halloween hasn’t even happened yet. And there, among all those decorations, was a Christmas tree that I absolutely fell in love with.

Now, the fact that we already own a Christmas tree is entirely beside the point. This one is different, and I can already picture how lovely it would look in our home. Ronnie hasn’t agreed to anything, but I haven’t exhausted my persuasive abilities, either. Marriage is about compromise, after all, and I’m perfectly willing to compromise on where we put my new Christmas tree.

Our original plan was to visit the Witches’ Bazaar at Trail Dust Town. I’d been looking forward to exploring the booths, browsing handmade treasures, and seeing what interesting little things might catch my eye. Unfortunately, when we arrived, finding a parking space seemed about as likely as finding a unicorn directing traffic.

We drove around looking for somewhere to park, and with every unsuccessful attempt, my enthusiasm evaporated a little more. Eventually, I’d had enough and announced, with all the grace and refinement you’d expect from me, “FUCK THIS SHIT! We’re leaving. Fuck this!”

And that, my lovelies, was the end of our Witches’ Bazaar adventure. I wasn’t about to spend my Saturday circling a parking lot until somebody decided to go home. Sometimes knowing what you want also means knowing when something simply isn’t worth the aggravation.

The Unexpected Treasures Were Worth the Detour

Instead of heading home, we went to Park Place Mall, where our afternoon took a much more enjoyable turn. We wandered into a shop featuring products from local creators, and I immediately found myself drawn to the handmade items and unusual little treasures. I appreciate things that have character, especially when they’re made with care rather than churned out by the thousands.

I bought a tea called Butterfly Dreams and a make-your-own candle kit using soy wax beads. Choosing the fragrances was half the fun, and naturally, I couldn’t settle for anything ordinary. I layered pumpkin spice with mahogany and leather, then added buttercream icing. The result was a wonderful mixture of warmth, sweetness, and those rich, earthy notes I love.

Fragrance is something I’m particularly sensitive to, and my tastes are wonderfully contradictory. I love the smell of fresh coffee, vanilla, caramel, cinnamon, cedar, pine, leather, and damp earth after a rainstorm. I also love garden roses, jasmine, and the unmistakable scent of creosote when rain falls across the Tucson desert. There’s something almost magical about the way the air changes during a storm, when the dry earth releases that beautiful fragrance and everything suddenly feels alive.

On the other hand, I can enjoy eating berries without wanting my house or body to smell like an artificial berry factory. Lilac isn’t a favorite, either, and overly powdery fragrances can stay right where they are. I prefer scents that remind me of real things: a forest, a garden, a kitchen where something delicious is baking, or the comforting smell of a fire burning on a chilly evening.

Some fragrances carry memories, too. Chrysanthemums remind me of my grandmother’s garden, and the smell of pine can transport me straight back to the wooded landscapes I loved growing up in New Jersey. That’s what I appreciate about scent. It isn’t simply whether something smells pleasant; it’s the places, people, and feelings that come rushing back with it.

While browsing the shop, I also discovered a sticker that might be the most accurate description of my personality I’ve ever encountered. It features a purple-haired, witchy skeleton surrounded by crystals, cactuses, and a black cat, holding a jar labeled Sarcasm. Across the sticker are the words, “I Sprinkle This Stuff on Everything.”

Well, if that isn’t me in sticker form, I don’t know what is. Naturally, I bought it for my MacBook, because some things are simply too perfect to leave behind.

We continued wandering through Hallmark and BoxLunch, adding several things to my mental wish list while looking for nose rings. I didn’t find any nose rings I wanted, but that certainly didn’t prevent me from finding other things to admire. After stopping at Cauldron and Caffeine for a drink, we made our way into the Purple Penguin Candy Emporium.

Oh, that place brought out the kid in me! There’s something delightful about an old-fashioned candy shop, with its colorful displays and familiar treats that remind you of a time when choosing candy felt like one of life’s most important decisions. I came home with saltwater taffy and Razzles, those marvelous little candies that somehow turn into gum. I don’t care how old I get; Razzles will always make me smile.

Apparently, My Taste Buds Have Standards, Too

Walking through that candy shop reminded me how much I appreciate familiar flavors and food made with care. Give me fresh bread coming out of the oven, a homemade roast surrounded by beautifully browned potatoes, or a kitchen filled with the fragrance of cinnamon and butter, and I’m a happy woman. I don’t need a fancy restaurant or an elaborate presentation to enjoy a meal. In fact, I’d generally rather have something homemade.

Italian food wins over Chinese food for me, especially when we’re talking about a delicious pasta dish, a rich sauce, or something baked until the top is beautifully golden. I love fresh ingredients and traditional cooking, and I’m particular about the groceries I buy. Costco is my preference for meat, I generally choose name brands, and I read ingredient labels because quality matters to me.

I also have some definite food boundaries. Liver and canned spinach are absolutely not welcome on my plate, and slimy textures are usually enough to make me lose my appetite. I’m fussy about onions, I don’t care for tuna, and if I’m having steak, I want it medium rare without a mouthful of gristle. I enjoy flavorful food, but I have no interest in setting my tongue on fire with excessive spice.

That doesn’t mean I only enjoy rich, hearty food. Fresh cucumbers, tomatoes, citrus, herbs, and vegetables have their place right alongside roasted meats, homemade bread, and creamy desserts. I love tiramisu, cannoli, and crème brûlée, but I can also be perfectly happy with a simple meal prepared well.

And yes, I prefer real dairy milk, although mine needs to be lactose-free. I know perfectly well what almond and cashew beverages are, but I still find myself wondering how the hell anyone milks an almond. Somewhere out there, a very tiny farmer must be working overtime.

Even my tea comes with preferences. I enjoy Lipton, Red Rose, and Celestial Seasonings, especially Sleepytime or lavender tea in the evening. Does anyone remember the little Wade Whimsies figurines that used to come with Red Rose Tea? Those tiny ceramic collectibles were such a charming little surprise. Sometimes it’s those simple, nostalgic details that stay with us.

Comfort Isn’t a Luxury. It’s a Requirement.

When Ronnie and I finally got home, we decided to watch the newer Nosferatu. I enjoy supernatural stories, witches, mysteries, and a good spooky atmosphere, so it seemed like a reasonable choice for an October afternoon. Unfortunately, the movie contained far more explicit sexual content than I wanted to sit through, and I quickly lost interest.

I don’t need every intimate detail displayed on the screen to understand what’s happening in a story. Give me compelling characters, suspense, beautiful atmosphere, and a plot that actually goes somewhere. I can enjoy Practical Magic, The Craft, Hocus Pocus, Supernatural, Charmed, or a good old-fashioned mystery without requiring everything to be graphic.

Ronnie eventually decided to take a nap, and I happily joined him. Sometimes curling up together for a quiet afternoon is more enjoyable than whatever entertainment you originally planned. I woke up around 6:15, fed the dogs, and settled back into our evening with hot coffee and Halloweentown II. Now that’s the sort of October entertainment I can appreciate.

Comfort matters to me, and not just when it comes to movies. I love a firm mattress, cool cotton or bamboo sheets, soft quilts, and plush blankets. Scratchy fabrics, burlap, vinyl, and strange rubbery textures can stay far away from my skin. I enjoy silk, soft linen, leather, and good-quality cotton, and I’m willing to spend more on towels or bedding that actually feel wonderful and last.

My home is another area where I’m particular. I want it clean, organized, and free from unnecessary clutter, but I also want it filled with warmth and personality. Natural wood, copper, brass, books, candles, plants, meaningful treasures, and beautiful fabrics appeal to me far more than cold chrome, concrete, or a room that looks like nobody actually lives there.

I love natural daylight streaming through the windows, but when evening arrives, give me soft lamps, warm amber light, and candlelight rather than harsh overhead fixtures. Add the smell of something baking, a comfortable chair, a good book, and my animals nearby, and you’ve created an atmosphere that makes me genuinely happy.

My color preferences are just as specific. I love certain forest and sage greens, rich amethyst and plum purples, turquoise and ocean blues, warm golds, pumpkin oranges, and beautiful earthy browns. But that doesn’t mean I automatically like every shade in those families. I spent years not really knowing my favorite color, partly because I was accustomed to accepting what other people chose or suggested. Discovering what I actually enjoy has been surprisingly fun, and I’ve decided I don’t need to narrow myself down to one color anyway.

Nature doesn’t limit itself to one beautiful shade, so why should I?

My Entertainment, My Technology, My Choices

Music is another subject where my preferences are all over the place in the best possible way. I love classic country, classic R&B, ’70s soft rock, Fleetwood Mac, Def Leppard, Duran Duran, freestyle, and ’90s country. I can also happily listen to Sinatra, Michael Bublé, jazz, big band, Enya, or Enigma, depending on my mood.

What I don’t enjoy is excessive screaming, death metal, rap, or music that sounds like someone is having a furious argument with a lawn mower. I’m not a Taylor Swift fan, either, and much of today’s mainstream music simply doesn’t appeal to me. That’s perfectly fine. Other people can enjoy their playlists, and I’ll enjoy mine.

I feel the same way about books. Nora Roberts, Mary Higgins Clark, Debbie Macomber, Alice Hoffman, Preston & Child, and selected Stephen King novels are among the authors I enjoy. I like mysteries, romance, suspense, fantasy, and supernatural stories, but I prefer physical books I can hold in my hands. There’s something comforting about turning real pages, admiring a beautiful cover, and placing a finished book back on a shelf.

I’m equally particular about owning physical copies of movies and music. Streaming and digital purchases are convenient, but I don’t love depending on a company’s licensing decisions to determine whether I can continue enjoying something I’ve paid for. Give me actual books, CDs, DVDs, Blu-rays, and records whenever possible.

Of course, I’m also devoted to my Apple devices, so apparently I’m perfectly capable of loving traditional things and modern technology simultaneously. My iPhone and MacBook work beautifully for me, and I’m deliberately reducing my reliance on Google. If it weren’t for YouTube, I’d have very little reason to keep Google in my digital life.

And while we’re talking about personal choices, I don’t need anyone telling me that my preferred brands, clothes, or accessories are somehow wrong. I like Skechers, comfortable jeans from Old Navy, Lee, Levi’s, and Gloria Vanderbilt, smaller crossbody bags, and rose-gold jewelry. I enjoy quality personal-care products, including Oribe, Verb, Saltair, Dr Teal’s, and makeup from brands I’ve come to trust. None of that requires an explanation or anyone else’s approval.

There’s One Kind of Picky I’m Not Apologizing For

Now, here’s where things get a little more serious, although I promise not to climb onto a soapbox and stay there all night.

I’m incredibly particular about the people I allow into my life and the way I expect to be treated. I cannot stand being talked over, having someone monopolize every conversation, or dealing with people who believe their opinions should dictate how everyone else lives. I don’t need constant drama, unsolicited advice, or every pleasant conversation turned into an argument about politics or religion.

And that brings me to something that’s been irritating the hell out of me lately: the gatekeeping of witchcraft and Paganism.

Seriously, that shit needs to stop.

I’m a witch, but I’m not Wiccan. I’m deeply connected to nature, fascinated by Greek, Roman, and Celtic mythology, and interested in exploring deities, crystals, herbs, symbolism, and spiritual traditions. I don’t believe in one all-powerful God, Jesus Christ, Satan, heaven, or hell, and I have no interest in pretending otherwise to make someone else comfortable.

What I find particularly irritating is the idea that certain people get to decide who qualifies as a real witch, who’s Pagan enough, or whether another person’s spiritual practice meets their standards. Since when did spirituality become a competition with judges, scorecards, and an imaginary membership committee?

Who appointed you the fucking gatekeeper?

I absolutely respect the histories and boundaries of established traditions, including those that require initiation or have specific practices reserved for their members. Respecting those traditions is important. But that’s entirely different from someone declaring that another person isn’t a legitimate witch because their altar looks different, their beliefs don’t match, or they practice independently.

My spiritual path is personal. It’s connected to the forests I love, the ocean that calls to me, the animals I adore, the mountains, the storms, and the changing rhythms of nature. I can appreciate Freya, explore Artemis, work with crystals, or simply sit outside watching a woodpecker at my feeder without requiring someone else’s permission to find meaning in those experiences.

We can share knowledge, respect one another, and learn from different traditions without turning spirituality into an exclusive club. Your path belongs to you, and mine belongs to me. Frankly, the world has enough people trying to control everyone else without dragging that nonsense into witchcraft.

And the same principle applies to everyday life. I don’t need someone constantly preaching at me, arguing over politics, or insisting that their choices should become mine. I appreciate genuine conversations, humor, mutual respect, and people who know how to listen as well as speak.

Sometimes I simply want to enjoy a quiet afternoon, a good cup of coffee, and the company of the people and animals I love. That shouldn’t be such an unreasonable request.

Maybe I’m Picky. Maybe I’ve Just Figured Myself Out.

The more I think about today’s journal prompt, the more I realize that being particular isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ve spent fifty-six years discovering what makes me comfortable, what excites me, what I enjoy, and what I’m no longer interested in tolerating. Some of those preferences are practical, some are sentimental, and some are probably a little ridiculous.

I can happily wear Old Navy jeans while using expensive shampoo. I can enjoy a homemade dinner more than a fancy restaurant, get ridiculously excited over a bag of Razzles, and still be willing to spend extra money on quality bedding. I can love the warmth of vanilla and caramel while also appreciating the scent of wet earth, bonfire smoke, and leather. I can adore old-fashioned Christmas decorations while happily using the latest Apple technology.

And I can be a deeply spiritual woman without fitting neatly into somebody else’s definition of what a witch should be.

There’s something liberating about finally recognizing your own preferences instead of constantly adapting them to suit other people. I’m not interested in building a life that looks impressive to strangers. I want one that feels wonderful to actually live.

That means a comfortable home, good food, beautiful fragrances, music that makes me happy, books I can hold, time spent outdoors, and plenty of laughter with Ronnie. It means embracing spontaneous adventures, even when the original plan ends with me swearing in a parking lot. And it means allowing myself to enjoy the little things without needing to justify every choice.

I’m not picky because I need everything to be fancy. I’m picky because I know the difference between something I genuinely enjoy and something I’m merely willing to tolerate.

And the older I get, the less interested I am in filling my life with things I merely tolerate.

Now, if I can just convince Ronnie about that Christmas tree at Costco, I think we’ll be making excellent progress.

Now It’s Your Turn, My Lovelies!

What are you ridiculously picky about? Is it your coffee, the texture of your sheets, the food you eat, the fragrances you love, or the music you listen to? Maybe it’s a favorite brand you’ll never give up, a particular way you like things arranged, or a personal boundary you’ve finally learned to protect.

I’d love to hear about those funny little nonnegotiables that make you who you are. Sometimes the things we’re most particular about tell a surprisingly interesting story, and I suspect we all have a few preferences that other people find amusing.

And don’t worry. This is a judgment-free zone.

Unless you serve me liver with canned spinach and onions.

Then we’re going to have a serious fucking problem. 😂