I’m a walking contradiction in the best way. One day, I’m knee-deep in my garden, covered in dirt, or digging through estate sales like I’m on a treasure hunt. The next, I’m tearing down the road in my ‘69 Chevelle or weaving through backroads on my motorcycle. I’ll try anything once—sometimes twice, just to be sure.

I’m married to the sweetest guy, the only person patient enough to balance my slightly unhinged ideas with his calm, steady presence. We have two mini Aussies, one bitchy grandma cat, and one overly dramatic fat cat. According to our nieces and nephews, we’ve locked down the title of "coolest aunt and uncle"—honestly, they’re not wrong.

I’ve always felt like I was born in the wrong decade—drawn to old things, old music, and the wisdom of old souls. Few things make me happier than flipping through family photo albums, reading handwritten notes in the margins, and getting lost in grainy memories of bad haircuts and even worse fashion choices—because these little scraps of history? They matter.