Journeys With Jani

Why You Should Always Bring Your Own Car Seat When Traveling

March 17, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love, Kids, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Travel Advice
There are some things in life I am perfectly willing to outsource. Airport parking. Someone else making my coffee. Maybe even vacation driving if I’m feeling generous. But my grandchild’s car seat? No ma’am.

That is one thing I will always tell people: bring it from home. And let me be clear right out of the gate. I mean your own well-maintained, properly fitting, not-expired, not-mysteriously-sticky, not-missing-parts car seat. Not the family heirloom that has been handed down since disco was alive and well. If that seat looks like it survived the Carter administration, it needs to retire with dignity.

The Biggest Reason? You Know It’s History

That rental company car seat may look fine at first glance. So does gas station sushi until your stomach starts drafting its revenge letter. The problem is, you usually have no idea what that seat has been through. Has it been dropped? Has it been in a crash? Are parts missing? Was it cleaned correctly? Is it expired? Does it even match your child’s age, height, and weight?

The American Academy of Pediatrics advises avoiding used car seats if you do not know the seat’s history, and says not to use a seat that has been in a crash, has been recalled, is too old, has cracks, or is missing parts. That alone should make every traveling parent pause.

Rental Car Seats Are Not Always the Right Seats

This is where things go sideways fast. A car rental company may offer “a car seat,” but that does not automatically mean it is the right car seat for your child. Age matters. Height matters. Weight matters. Rear-facing versus forward-facing matters. Booster timing matters. All of it matters, because children need the restraint that fits their body correctly, not whatever happened to be sitting in the equipment closet that morning.

And let’s be honest. After a flight, baggage claim, and a child who has fully entered their villain era, that is not the moment you want to be standing in a parking garage trying to figure out whether the rental place handed you a booster for a child who still needs a harness.

Your Child is Always Safer in a Seat You Already Know How to Use

A car seat only works well when it is used correctly. That sounds obvious, which means of course humans manage to make it complicated.

When you bring your own seat, you already know how it installs, how the harness fits, where the chest clip belongs, whether your child is comfortable in it, whether all the parts are there, and whether the manual is somewhere you can actually find it. The CDC notes that vehicle-related injuries are among the leading causes of death in travelers, and that car seats often must be brought from home because approved, well-maintained seats may not be available at your destination.

Hoping for the best at the rental counter is not a strategy. It is a gamble.

Cleanliness is Not Exactly Guaranteed. And Cleaned With What?

I am just going to say what everybody is thinking. Rental car seats are handled by a rotating cast of strangers, overworked staff, and sticky little angels with fruit snacks welded to their fingers. Even if the seat is technically safe, do you really want to discover someone else’s crushed crackers, mystery goo, or suspicious odor while wrestling a toddler into it in 93-degree heat?

Your own seat may not be glamorous. But at least you know whose crumbs those are.

Your Child is already Familiar With It

Travel throws kids off. Airports are loud, schedules are weird, naps are a suggestion, and every adult is one delayed boarding announcement away from losing their religion.

A familiar car seat gives a child one more thing that feels normal. They know how it feels. They know where they sit. They know what to expect. That may not sound like a huge deal until you realize that avoiding one full-blown backseat meltdown on vacation can feel like a luxury-level travel perk.

International Travel Makes This Even More Important

The CDC specifically notes that parents may need to bring car seats from home because suitable, well-maintained approved seats may not be available in other countries. So if you are traveling outside the U.S., relying on a rental company to provide a safe, appropriate seat is an even bigger gamble. Different countries may have different standards, limited inventory, or equipment that is technically available but not exactly what you would trust with your child after a long flight and two airport meltdowns.

That does not mean travel with kids is impossible. It just means this is one of those areas where preparation matters more than convenience. And when it comes to your child’s safety, “it was what they had at the counter” is not a sentence that should be followed by a shrug.

Hand-me-down Does Not Mean Harmless

Now let’s circle back to that family relic everybody keeps defending because it still looks fine. So does a lot of bad judgment.

Car seats expire for a reason. Materials break down. Plastic weakens over time. Safety standards change. Straps wear out. Parts go missing. Instructions vanish into the same mysterious void that eats one sock from every load of laundry.

A car seat is not a cast iron skillet. It does not improve with age.

If you do not know its full history, if it is expired, if it has been in a crash, if it has cracks or missing parts or faded labels, it should not be used. Period. Nostalgia is lovely. It is not a safety feature.

Bringing Your Own Car Seat Can Safe Time and Stress

People sometimes think bringing a car seat sounds like more hassle. And sure, dragging one through an airport is not exactly glamorous. Nobody has ever strutted through Terminal B with a convertible seat and looked effortless.

But you know what is worse? Standing in line at a rental counter after traveling all day only to find out they do not have the seat type you reserved, the one they hand you is not right for your child, it is filthy, it is missing a piece, and now you are spending twenty minutes reading labels and muttering under your breath in a parking garage.

That is not convenience. That is chaos in khakis.

Bringing your own seat means one less variable. And when you are traveling with kids, reducing variables is about as close to luxury as most of us get.

A Few Smart Tips for Traveling With Your Own Car Seat
- Check the expiration date before your trip.
- Make sure all straps, buckles, and pads are intact.
- Clean it according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
- Practice installing it if it is not one you use every day.
- Bring the manual or save a digital copy on your phone.
- Consider a lightweight travel-friendly seat if you travel often.
- Label it clearly if you are checking it or gate-checking it.
A little prep at home beats a whole lot of cussing in a rental lot.

The Bottom Line

Bringing your own car seat when you travel is not about being picky. It is about being practical. You know the seat. You know the fit. You know the condition. You know how to use it. And when the thing protecting your child in a moving vehicle is involved, that kind of certainty matters.

So yes, pack the snacks. Pack the tablets. Pack the extra outfit because somebody is going to spill something disgusting at exactly the wrong time. But also pack the car seat. Your well-maintained, not-a-relic, all-parts-present car seat. That one from 1972 has served honorably. It may now rest.

XOXO, Jani
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When One Pet Dies, The Others Grieve Too

March 17, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love, Pet Tails!

Let’s Talk About It…
I think one of the hardest parts of losing a pet, outside of the soul-crushing obvious, is watching the other pets in the house try to make sense of it.
And they do know.
I don’t care what anyone says about animals not understanding death, or not grieving or just moving on. That is nonsense people tell themselves because admitting animals feel things on a level that makes a whole lot of humans look emotionally constipated is harder than pretending they don’t.
They know when someone is missing.
They know the sounds are different.
They know the energy is off.
They know the routine is broken.
They know their buddy is not where he is supposed to be.
Cash is gone, and Shelby and Bean know it.
Bean has been through this before. When Buck died years ago, Bean mourned him too, so I have seen this in him before. The wandering. The yowling. The extra need for attention. The way he seems tougher on the outside than what is actually going on inside. Bean is a strong little fur-ball and he is still very much Bean, but he misses his hunting buddy. You can see it. You can hear it. You can feel it.
And Shelby… Lord have mercy.
Shelby is sad.
Not dramatic for attention sad. Not princess being inconvenienced sad. Real sad. Deep sad. The kind that just hangs on her.
She eats, but not like herself. She sleeps more. She sighs even more than usual, which is honestly impressive considering dramatic sighing has always been one of her core talents. She is not doing her zoomies. She still goes outside to bark at the huphalumps by the creek, because apparently the imaginary wild things in the woods still need to be warned, but she does not stay out long. She barks a little, gives up and comes back in.
At bedtime, she waits at the top of the steps and watches for him.
When we pull into the driveway, it feels like she is expecting Cash to get out of the car too.
And if that does not rip your heart right out through your ribcage, I don’t know what will.
Because they are grieving and they cannot even ask the questions out loud.
They cannot ask where he went.
They cannot ask why he is not here.
They cannot ask when he is coming back.
They just wait.
And look.
And listen.
And hurt.
So no, I do not believe for one second that animals are just animals.
And that whole line some people throw around about pets not having souls?
Please.
I think pets are made of something so pure, so honest and so deeply rooted in love that maybe the human word soul is not even big enough for what they are. They love without ego. They stay when we are broken. They forgive bad moods, bad days and all the nonsense we drag around as people. They live in the moment better than we ever will. And when one of their own is gone, they grieve that loss in the only ways they know how.
Shelby is grieving.
Bean is grieving.
We are grieving.
This whole house is grieving.
And I do think, with time, they will settle into a new normal. I do. But it will not be the old normal, because how could it be? Cash was part of the rhythm of this home. He was part of the noise, the comfort, the routine, the chaos, the love. When you lose somebody like that, everybody left behind has to learn how to live around the empty space.
That goes for people.
That goes for pets.
That goes for all of us.
So right now, we love Shelby where she is. We love Bean where he is. We give extra pets, extra reassurance, extra patience and a little extra grace for all the sadness sitting in the corners of this house.
Because grief does not belong only to humans.
It belongs to love.
And if you have ever been loved by a pet, really loved, then you already know they carry something sacred inside them. Call it a soul. Call it heart. Call it spirit. Call it whatever you want.
I just know it is real.
And I know Cash mattered enough to leave a hole in all of us.
That says everything.

XOXO

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You Don’t Have to Earn Love by Surviving It

March 15, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love

I read part of a lesson today that made my brain pivot… Let me say something that somebody out there needs to hear today.
Love is not supposed to make you question your worth.
I know that sounds simple. Maybe even obvious. But if you’ve ever been in a relationship where you spent more time trying to figure out where you stood than actually standing somewhere solid, you know it doesn’t feel obvious at all. It feels like just… Tuesday.
And that’s the problem.
We normalize so much in the name of love. The anxiety. The guessing games. The way we make ourselves a little smaller, a little quieter, a little more agreeable, just to keep things from going sideways. We call it compromise. We call it patience. We call it being the bigger person.
Sometimes it’s none of those things.
Sometimes it’s survival.
Real love, the kind worth having, doesn’t feel like a performance. It doesn’t feel like a tightrope walk where one wrong step sends everything crashing. It doesn’t leave you lying awake at 2 a.m. running the replay reel, trying to figure out what you said wrong or what you should have done differently.
Real love feels like an exhale.
It’s not perfect. Lord knows it’s not always easy. But it’s steady. It offers reassurance instead of confusion. It makes space for your voice, your needs, your fears, not just your strengths and your good days and the version of you that has it all together.
Because here’s the truth: the right person doesn’t just want the polished version of you. They want the real one. The messy, uncertain, still-figuring-it-out version. And they stay for that.
You deserve to be held, not handled. There’s a difference, and if you’ve experienced both, you already know exactly what I mean.
You deserve to feel safe, not scrutinized. You deserve a love that invites your truth instead of punishing it. One that listens, not just waits for its turn to talk. One that shows up, not just when it’s convenient or when you’ve managed to ask in exactly the right way at exactly the right time.
Stop normalizing the uncertainty. I say that with all the gentleness I’ve got, because I know how easy it is to start thinking that chaos is just what love looks like. That walking on eggshells is just part of the deal. That if you could just be a little more patient, a little more understanding, a little more enough, things would settle down.
They won’t. Not that way.
You don’t have to earn love by enduring discomfort. You don’t have to shrink yourself into something more palatable to be worthy of someone’s affection. You don’t have to perform your way into a relationship that should have just… fit.
Choose the kind of love that lets you breathe.
Not the kind that leaves you gasping. Not the kind that keeps you guessing. The kind that feels like coming home after a long day and just… setting everything down.
That’s love. That’s safety. That’s home.
And you deserve all of it. 🤍

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Our Best Boy is Gone…

March 12, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love

I could tell you all the details from the last few days with Cash and his cancer, but I just don’t have that part in me right now. And honestly… does it even matter? What matters is this: Cash was not getting better. He took a turn quickly. He was hurting. Greg and I had already made the decision that we would not let him suffer. Not for us. Not to keep him here one more day if that day meant pain. So we let him go.

Even typing those words feels wrong.

Losing Cash is hurting my heart more than any fur baby before and if you know, you know. Some people don’t understand that kind of love, that kind of bond. But those of us who do know, we know exactly what it is. They are not “just dogs.”
They are family
They are comfort and routine and joy.
They are the soft ears, the heavy paws, the snoring.
The following you from room to room.
The knowing eyes.
The quiet loyalty that never wavers, never complicates, never holds back.
They just love us.
And Cash loved us so very well.

I kissed his nose. I rubbed his belly. I held his big furry paw as he drifted over the Rainbow Bridge. As shattered as we are, I know with everything in me that we made the right choice for him. Loving Cash meant not letting him suffer, no matter how badly we wanted to keep him here.

Now we’re home with Shelby and Bean, and they only know their buddy isn’t here. The house feels different already. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty in all the places where Cash should be.
I’ve talked with my grands over the past few weeks about how sick Cash was, and I explained a little more to Wyatt and Urban. Still, I know their little hearts will be broken. Wyatt especially is going to take this one hard, and that hurts in its own way too.

This whole thing just sucks. It does. There’s no deep, polished, meaningful ending here. No tidy way to wrap up this kind of grief. We are heartbroken, and we miss our boy. But we are so, so grateful for every moment we had with him.

Thank you to every person who loved Cash, prayed for him, checked on him, and loved on us through these last few months. We have felt every bit of that kindness, and it has meant more than you know.

Run free, sweet boy.
You were so loved.
You will always be loved.
And there will never be another you.

XOXO

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Soulmate Behavior Comes With Bail Money Energy… Let’s Talk About It

March 11, 2026

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Eat, Pray, Love

The other day, I told my bestie I might quit healing and just go full on feral instead.

Her response? “I support you either way, my psycho little princess.”

Truly, I just read that on TikTok… But honestly, if that is not soulmate behavior, I don’t know what is.

Because listen. We spend so much time talking about healing. Protecting our peace. Choosing softness. Setting boundaries. Drinking water. Taking the high road. Breathing through it. Counting to ten. Journaling. Reflecting. Releasing. Growing.

And that is all well and good.

But every now and then, a person gets tired.

Tired of being the bigger person.
Tired of being understanding.
Tired of giving grace to people who would not know grace if it walked up and smacked them with a Bible and a biscuit.

Sometimes you do not want to heal. Sometimes you want to put on black eyeliner, stare into the middle distance and become an unsupervised woodland creature with a phone and opinions.

Not because you are broken.
Not because you are unhinged.
Not even because you are mean.

Because you are exhausted. There is a difference.

And the older I get, the more I appreciate the rare and precious kind of friendship that does not immediately try to fix you when you say something mildly deranged. The kind that does not hit you with a motivational quote or suggest a gratitude journal. The kind that simply nods and says, in essence, “That is fair. You have been very patient. I will stand by while you either evolve or descend.”

That, my friends, is love.

Real friendship is not always found in the people who tell you to calm down. Sometimes it is found in the one who hands you a metaphorical tiara and says, “Go ahead, tiny menace. I believe in you.”

And maybe that is a form of healing too. Not the polished kind. Not the pretty kind. Not the Instagram quote over a sunset kind. But the real kind. The kind where somebody knows exactly how twisted your humor is, exactly how tired your soul gets, exactly how close you occasionally are to going full possum in a Dollar General parking lot, and instead of backing away slowly, they pull up a chair.

That is the friend who knows your heart. The one who knows you are not actually going to burn your life down. Probably. The one who understands that half of healing is processing your emotions… and the other half is being allowed to joke about becoming feral without somebody calling for a wellness check.

That is sacred.

We all need at least one person who understands that “I am trying to heal” and “I am two inconveniences away from becoming an outlaw” can exist in the very same body. Because healing is not linear. It is not graceful. It is not some constant upward climb where every day you wake up centered, serene and smelling faintly of lavender.

Some days, healing looks like prayer.
Some days, it looks like rest.
Some days, it looks like minding your business.

And some days, healing looks like texting your best friend that you are thinking of quitting the whole self-improvement program and returning to the swamp from which you spiritually emerged.

To be clear, I have long ago healed. I am just keeping feral as a backup plan to match the scars.

For emergencies.
For stupid people.
For tech issues.
For hold music.
For anyone who starts a sentence with, “No offense, but…”

So yes, when your best friend responds, “I support you either way, my psycho little princess,” that is soulmate behavior. Not because she encouraged chaos. But because she knew exactly what I meant.

She heard the exhaustion under the joke. The humor under the threat. The love under the madness. And she loved me right there in the middle of all of it.

That is the kind of friendship that deserves flowers, matching court dates and a standing ovation.

Final Thought

Healing is beautiful. Growth is necessary. Peace is priceless.

But having one friend who will lovingly support your recovery or your descent into glamorous wilderness behavior?

That is luxury. That is sisterhood. That is, without question, soulmate behavior.

XOXO, Jani

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The Words Are Still in You

March 8, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love, Southern Stories

What To Do When You Lose Something You Wrote, and Why it’s Not Really Gone. Let’s Talk About It…

I wrote three paragraphs. And not the ones I generally write like a maniacal squirrel. I actually took my time. Sat with it. Chose my words. It was one of those entries I knew, even while writing it, was going to turn into something bigger… a blog post, maybe more.

Did I auto-save? Psh. Why would I do that? It’s my digital journal and I just click save at the end. I have never once lost a single thing.

Then I accidentally deleted the page.

Gone. Just gone. And I was so annoyed… so completely, thoroughly done, that I didn’t even want to try again. What’s the point? It won’t be the same. The first version was right. That version was the one.

Sound familiar?

Here’s the thing about losing something you created, whether it’s a journal entry, a business idea you talked yourself out of, a dream you set down somewhere and forgot to pick back up — it’s never just about the thing itself. It’s the feeling that you had something real, something true, and now it’s out of reach.

And that feeling? It has a way of convincing you to just not bother.

It wasn’t the saved document that made those words worth something. It was you. You thought them. You felt them. You found a way to put language around something that mattered to you. That didn’t get deleted. That doesn’t live in a file.

You wrote it once, which means you found it once. And your brain did that, not the page. The page was just babysitting.

We do this with more than words, don’t we?

We lose a job and decide we must not have been that good at it anyway. We lose a relationship and quietly conclude we must be hard to love. We get one door slammed in our face and we stop knocking. We convince ourselves the first version was the only version… and since it’s gone, well. That’s just that.

But here’s the truth, even when it’s hard to believe it: you are not starting from scratch. You are starting from memory. And that is a different thing entirely.

Starting from scratch means you have nothing. Starting from memory means the bones are still there… the insight, the feeling, the knowing. You carry that. It just needs to be written down again. Or spoken out loud. Or tried one more time.

When you lose something… really lose it, whether it’s a document or a dream, don’t try to reconstruct it right away. Not when you’re still in the sting of it. That’s not the moment.

Instead, just talk it out. To a friend, to a journal, out loud in your car to nobody. What was the one thing you remember thinking? What was the sentence that finally said what you’d been trying to say? What made it feel worth writing in the first place?

Because I promise you, if it was worth creating once, it is worth creating again. And sometimes? The second version is better. Not because the first wasn’t good, but because you’ve had more time to live inside the idea. You know it a little deeper now.

Even if you’re furious the whole time you’re writing it.

So no, I didn’t save that entry. And yes, I had to start over. And it was annoying and I grumbled the whole way through.

But the words were still in me. They always were.

And yours are still in you too.

Whatever it is you lost or let go of or talked yourself out of or set down and haven’t picked back up… it didn’t disappear. It’s waiting. It’s patient. And it still deserves to exist in the world.

Go write it again.

XOXO, Jani

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Closets, Contacts and the Occasional Tacky-Ass Shirt

March 7, 2026

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Eat, Pray, Love, Southern Stories

Let’s Talk About It…

I was scrolling Facebook and saw a post from somebody I do not even like.

Not “we drifted apart.”

Not “we just see life differently.”

No. I mean a full-on, honest-to-goodness… why are you even here? kind of person.

And if I’m being really truthful, I’m pretty sure they don’t like me either.

So naturally, instead of being productive like a normal adult, I wandered over to my friends list for a little look-see.

Lord have mercy.

It was like opening an overstuffed closet I hadn’t cleaned out in years.

Why is that person still in here?

I haven’t spoken to them in forever.

Who even is this?

And that one… whew. At some point I must have thought, “Sure, let’s accept that request. This seems promising.” Turns out, not so much.

The whole thing started feeling exactly like cleaning out old clothes.

Why is this dress still hanging here? I haven’t fit into that in years.

Where did this tacky-ass shirt even come from?

And this little suit right here? I was convinced it was gonna rock my world at one point. Bless it. It did not.

That is exactly what some people on Facebook feel like.

Some are old seasons.

Some are bad decisions.

Some are strangers wearing a familiar face.

Some are just there because I was too tired, too busy or too “I’ll deal with it later” to fool with them.

And isn’t that how life goes too?

We hang onto people, habits, feelings and old versions of ourselves way longer than we should. Not always because they matter. Sometimes just because they’re there. Quietly taking up space. Wrinkled, outdated and vaguely irritating.

Then one day you notice them and think, “Now why in the world have I been carrying this around?”

That’s pretty much what my Facebook clean-out turned into. Part spring cleaning, part personal reflection, part accidental comedy show.

And just like with a real closet, I got tired way before I was halfway done.

Because deciding what stays and what goes is exhausting.

Even when the answer seems obvious.

Even when the shirt is ugly.

Even when the person is annoying.

Even when you know good and well you are never, ever wearing that mess again.

Still… maybe you survived the Goodwill pile.

Maybe somebody out there absolutely adores you the same way somebody somewhere loves that tacky-ass shirt I could not wait to get rid of.

And honestly? Good for y’all.

Tomorrow is another day.

The closet will still be there.

Facebook will still be cluttered.

And I will probably still only make it halfway through before I need a snack and a nap.

But at least I started.

And sometimes that is enough.

XOXO, Jani

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Mood Whiplash & The Human Drain Circle

March 5, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love

Let’s Talk About It…

Late this afternoon my mood hit a wall. Not a cute little speed bump. A full-on concrete barrier with zero warning and no reflective tape. So on my way home, I did what I do when my brain starts acting like it’s training for an a 5K Overthinking Marathon: I called Jarrett.

If you’re new here, Jarrett is my youngest son and also my twin in personality, looks and nature. He gets me. I get him. We are basically the same person in two different bodies, which feels illegal but apparently the universe allows it.

I didn’t call for advice. I didn’t call for a lecture. I didn’t call for somebody to “look on the bright side” because if you tell me that when I’m spiraling, I will spiritually shove you into traffic. I called because I needed a safe place to let my thoughts run their mouth while someone steady held the line. And that’s what he did. He just listened. Let me talk it out. Let me unravel without trying to “fix” me.

And here’s the thing about me: I live in two extremes.

I’m either:

“Fuuuu.” As in: I absolutely do not give a rat’s arse. I have zero emotional availability. My soul has logged off. Don’t ask me for anything except maybe snacks.

OR

I’m the opposite: Alice down the rabbit hole… overthinking, overanalyzing, overemotionalizing (not a word but it is now) literally everything. To the point I’m circling the drain like my brain is a Roomba stuck in a corner.

And just when I’m about to wander off into the darkness dramatically like a Victorian ghost, I suddenly get sick of myself.

I get salty. Like: “Okay, Mary Jane, enough. Stand up. Drink water. Stop narrating your own downfall.” It’s not graceful but it’s effective.

Jarrett didn’t try to talk me out of it. He didn’t rush me through it. He just sat in the mess with me from the other end of the phone, calm as ever, like “Yep. Heard. Keep going.”

That’s love, by the way. Not the mushy Hallmark kind. The real kind. The kind that says: I can handle your brain on fire and I’m not scared of you.

So now I’m curious… Is anybody else like this?

Living between “I don’t care at all” and “I care so much I’ve basically written a dissertation about it in my head”? Or is it just me, Jarrett and Jillian (my cousin).

Because if so… welcome to the club. We don’t have matching jackets, but we do have emotional whiplash, same genetics and excellent coping skills… eventually.

XOXO, Jani

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Crime & Cuddles

March 5, 2026

Pet Tails!, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Let’s Talk About It…

Oh How Sweet…

Bean has officially entered his “choose violence before coffee” era.

This morning I woke up to him lounging next to me like a spoiled little heir in a romance novel. Soft. Cozy. Innocent. The picture of peace. Naturally, I reached over to pet him because I am, despite all evidence to the contrary, still a loving person.

That was my first mistake.

No warning swipe. No tail flick. No little “ma’am, do not touch the royal fur” signal. He went straight into a full murderous assault on my arm like I owed him money and he had a deadline. Think Mafia collections!

So I did what any rational woman does when attacked in her own bed by a tiny furry criminal. I grabbed him by his salty scruff and tossed his murderous butt off the bed.

Brah.

He came back.

For more.

This is a first. He’s acted offended like I committed a felony by walking past him too loudly. But a full “I got knocked off the bed and I’m returning to finish the job” moment? Brand new behavior.

And I’m sitting there, baffled, bleeding and offended, trying to understand the motive.

Because listen… this cat has it made. He has food. He has treats. He has an entire forest of trees. He has a cozy queen size bed. He lives in comfort, safety and luxury, while the rest of us are out here paying bills and pretending we like kale.

So what in the hairy hell did I do?

Exist?

Breathe?

Dare to show affection?

If you’ve ever loved a cat you know this truth: they do not do “logic.” They do “mood.” One minute you’re their chosen human, the next minute you’re an intruder and they’re calling in backup.

Just like humans, honestly. People can be the same way. They pounce the ones they love the most, then expect you to move on like it never happened. And the worst part is… we usually do.

Because we forgive the fastest.

Anyway, after Round Two of Bean’s Bedtime Brawl, I did what any brave warrior would do. I hid under my quilt like a coward, cussing him out from my safe place until he got bored and left.

And now?

As I’m typing this, Bean has returned. All purrs. All sweetness. All “who, me?” energy like he didn’t just try to take me out before sunrise. He’s curled up like a perfect angel, blinking slow and loving, acting like we’re best friends again.

WHAT THE FLUFF!

PROOF!

The Moral of the Story

Cats are tiny chaos gremlins with excellent PR. They will attack you, then come back for cuddles like you’re supposed to be grateful they didn’t finish the job.

And you know what?

I still love him.

Because apparently I have the emotional boundaries of a soggy paper towel.

XOXO, Jani

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Clean Classic… With a Side of “Don’t Test Me”

March 1, 2026

Eat, Pray, Love, Style, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Let’s Talk About It…

I have always loved a clean, classic look. Black. White. Khaki. Jeans. Chambray. Pearls. Minimalist, as the term goes.

But listen… I also like to throw in a funky pair of shoes occasionally. Mostly, I love a good pair of loafers. If I’m wearing loafers, though, I want something else to be the little plot twist. Something just a hair left of center. A wink. A “yep, I meant to do that.”

I have more white blouses in my closet than a men’s department store. Black shoes? Are we talking boots, heels, flats? I lost count long ago.

Sneakers… now that’s my forever love language since high school. All of them. Well, Adidas, Vans, Converse… and the basic Doc Marten boot. Yes please. Forever. Amen.

Sequins are a huge fat NO… unless it’s for a party. Ok fine. If it’s a party, I can be convinced. Temporarily.

Oh and the hair… there will never be anything basic about my hair. Ever. First of all, I’m Southern where the phrase “the bigger the hair, the closer to Jesus” is basically scripture. And I went to school up North so my angsty side liked to push things… funky colors, chopping it all off (it grows back), whatever gave me that dopamine hit in the moment. My hair has never been here to behave. It’s here to express an opinion.

I’m writing all of this because lately everyone is talking about the whole CBK look… you know, Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. It didn’t begin with her, but she sure could pull it off. And now in the wake of “Love Story,” suddenly everybody wants to raid a J. Crew.

Hey… go for it. But here’s my thing: make it your own. Because copying a vibe is fine. Copying someone’s whole identity? Baby no. Style isn’t a uniform. It’s a signature.

One of my favorite people to follow right now is my friend Kristen Johnson. We’ve been friends since high school and she has always had her own style. I’ve noticed the last year or so she’s made her TikTok very much about what to wear… and I’m here for it. You can follow her @Discobith71💙 onTikTok

It’s classic with a touch of “I’ll do whatever the f I want.” And honestly, nothing says more about her personality than that. That’s what I mean by “make it your own.”

So yes… take the clean lines. Take the crisp white shirt. Take the pearls. Take the loafers. Then add your twist.

Because the goal isn’t to look like Carolyn. The goal is to look like you… on your best day… with your hair doing whatever it wants.

One last thing… For the love of all things travel, STOP WEARING FREAKING PAJAMAS ON THE PLANE!

Happy shopping!

XOXO, Jani

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