Category: The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Mental-Pause Meets MS: A Saucy Southern Take on Fog, Fire & Forgetfulness

April 4, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Beautiful …but glitching like an old VHS tape!

Let’s talk about a magical time in a woman’s life when her hormones decide to pack up and leave without a forwarding address. That’s right, menopause. Or as I lovingly (and sarcastically) refer to it: Mental-Pause. Now, take all that hormonal havoc, toss in some Multiple Sclerosis for flavor, and you’ve got yourself one heck of a neurological jambalaya.

Brain Fog? Honey, I Live in a Full-On Cognitive Cloud

Now, I’ve been living with MS since 2011. So brain fog and I? We’re old frenemies. But throw in menopause? That’s when things got spicy. Forget walking into a room and not remembering why—I’m lucky if I remember what day it is, where my coffee is, or if I actually shampooed my hair or just imagined it in the shower.

It’s like playing a lifelong game of “Where’s Waldo?” except Waldo is my vocabulary, and he keeps moving.

Hot Flashes + MS Heat Sensitivity = Satan’s Sauna

Now let’s talk body temperature, shall we? Menopause comes in hot—literally. Hot flashes that feel like your insides just spontaneously combusted. But MS? Oh, she hates the heat. Too much warmth and my whole nervous system turns into dial-up internet circa 1998.

Picture it: One minute I’m chilling with a fan, the next I’m melting like a Georgia peach cobbler on the dash of a Dodge Ram in August. MS says, “Too hot? Let’s shut down your limbs.” Menopause chimes in with, “Also… here’s a night sweat the size of Lake Lanier.” Bless it.

Mood Swings, Memory Loss & Mayhem

Hormones gone wild? Check. Neurological misfires? Check. Emotional rollercoaster? Buckle up, sugar. Some days I go from teary-eyed to ready to throat punch someone over a crooked throw pillow.

And the kicker? Everyone says, “You look great!” Well, thank you kindly, Karen—but that’s just good lighting, under-eye concealer, and the fact that I forgot what I was mad about five minutes ago.

Finding the Funny (Because Sanity Is Overrated)

Look, I could cry. I have. I do. But most days? I laugh. Because this chaotic cocktail of menopause and MS is just too ridiculous not to. My body may be glitching like an old VCR tape, but my sense of humor? Still sharp as a tack (on most days… unless I forget the word for ‘tack’ and call it a “wall stabby-thing”).

So to all my fellow warriors out there—whether you’re battling brain fog, melting in your own skin, or both—I see you. I get you. And I raise my lukewarm coffee mug in solidarity (because I forgot where the hot one went).

We may forget half the day, but we never forget how to fight… and how to laugh while doing it.

XOXO, Jani

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Sneaky Snake and Crocodile Rock

April 3, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Me

My daddy had custody of me from the time I was around four. This was the early ’70s, so that alone raised some eyebrows. But whenever I did go visit my mother, it was… well, an experience.

She had moved to Atlanta to sing in nightclubs—and she was good. I mean really good. At one point, RCA Records even approached her with a contract. Why she didn’t sign it? That’s one of those long-winded family mysteries. I’ve heard her version, I’ve heard his version, and somewhere in the foggy middle lies the truth—probably twisted up with a little pride, a little pain, and a whole lot of what if.

During those visits, I was usually left with a nighttime babysitter while she hit the clubs. But one morning—one very specific morning—she came to pick me up still dressed in full-on nightclub mode. She was wearing all black: tight pants, a sheer chiffon blouse that left very little to the imagination, and her signature shag haircut. Say what you will, but she was an absolutely stunning woman. Beautiful, bold, and a little bit dangerous.

We walked outside to a white El Camino—not hers, of course. Those things were like a two-seater coupe mixed with a station wagon and a lowrider truck. Basically, the mullet of automobiles. She opened the passenger side door so I could perch on the little console between the seats.

That’s when I saw him.

In the driver’s seat was a man—decked out in a white, bedazzled jumpsuit. Think Elvis, but not the young, hip-shaking heartthrob. No, this was late-stage, sweat-drenched, post-divorce Elvis. The kind with sideburns, a paunch, and enough rhinestones to blind a preacher.

My mom, cool as ever, gestured toward him and said,

“Sweetie, this is Uncle……..”

Because every man in her life was magically transformed into “Uncle” something when I was around.

But before she could finish, he leaned over with a big grin and said,

🚩“But you can call me… Sneaky Snake.” 🚩

Yes.

That happened.

He said that. Out loud. To a child.

And just to make sure the moment was fully seared into my brain, Crocodile Rock was blaring on the FM radio like the universe itself was cackling at the scene.

So there I sat, sandwiched between a hungover nightclub singer in sheer chiffon and a sweaty rhinestone-stuffed stranger who introduced himself as Sneaky Snake, with Elton John howling about happy times and rockin’ feet.

And that, my friends, is just one of many reasons I have a dark sense of humor, trust issues, and a love for storytelling that’s equal parts therapy and entertainment.

Oh, the joys of my childhood. Bless it.

About the Author– I am a southern-born, Yankee-educated, sassy storyteller with a suitcase full of memories and a heart full of grit. When I’m not planning luxury getaways with Take Time To Travel, I’m spinning tales from a childhood that was equal parts chaos and charm. Stick around—this is just one gem from a treasure chest of stories you won’t believe (but absolutely happened).

XOXO, Jani

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Why Do I Know Every Word to “Upside Down” but Can’t Remember What I Had for Dinner?

April 3, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

This morning on my way into the office, I had Sirius XM on (I think it was The Groove—though let’s be honest, my memory’s not exactly known for specifics these days). Anyway, Diana Ross’s “Upside Down” starts playing, and y’all…

Why do I know EVERY. SINGLE. WORD?

Like, every inflection, every “boy, you turn me…”—I was full-on car concert mode. Eyes on the road, hand gestures on point, hitting those “hey-ey-ey!” moments like I was channeling Miss Ross herself.

But here’s the thing:

Don’t ask me what wine I had with dinner last night.

Don’t ask me what I was doing yesterday at 4:37 p.m.

Don’t even ask me where I set down my phone 30 seconds ago.

But song lyrics from 1980? Locked. In. Solid.

What kind of brain voodoo is that?

It’s like my mind’s got this magical vault for lyrics—especially from the good stuff—but can’t be bothered to hold onto the everyday essentials. Like whether I took my vitamins or if I responded to that one email from three days ago (I probably didn’t. Sorry.).

But here’s what I’ve decided: I’m not gonna fight it.

I may not be your girl for remembering grocery lists or appointment times, but if you need someone to jump in on a Motown moment or belt out some Donna Summer at karaoke? I’m your ride-or-die. I’ve got backup vocals, interpretive dance moves, and attitude on tap.

So cheers to musical muscle memory, 80s grooves, and the sweet sweet magic of Diana Ross.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a playlist to build and a pretend microphone to find.

XOXO, Jani

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How I Adapted to the Changes Brought on by the COVID-19 Pandemic

April 2, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?

When the world shut down in 2020, a lot of us were forced to take a long, hard look at our lives. For me, it was a wake-up call—loud and clear. I had been working in veterinary medicine, grinding myself into the ground, and let’s be honest… that industry, especially during the pandemic, could chew you up and spit you out. It took a serious toll on both my mental and physical health. At some point, I realized: no amount of money was worth losing me.

So, I walked away.

I took some much-needed time off, caught my breath, and eventually followed my heart right into the world of travel. Becoming a travel advisor wasn’t just a career change—it was a full-on life pivot. Planning adventures, creating joy, helping people rediscover the world… that’s where I found my peace. And my passion. I haven’t looked back since.

The pandemic brought out the worst in some folks and the absolute best in others. But isn’t that what always happens when the world gets flipped upside down? It exposes what’s already underneath. For me, it revealed strength I didn’t even know I had.

Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a few lingering worries—especially around the vaccines I needed because of my MS and working in the medical field at the time. That stuff lingers in the back of your mind. But at the end of the day… que sera, sera.

We keep moving. We keep adapting. And if we’re lucky, we find our joy on the other side.

XOXO, Jani

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My Morning Rituals: An Hour of Reiki, Royalty, and Real Life

April 1, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

What are your morning rituals? What does the first hour of your day look like?

I so love these little prompts…

Before I even get out of bed, I give myself a little Reiki session. It’s about five minutes of calming, intentional energy work that helps me set the tone for the day (or at least prepares me for the circus that is coming). It’s short, simple, and honestly keeps me grounded.

Then I scroll my email for another five minutes—because I like to know what kind of chaos the universe has in store for me before my feet hit the floor. Travel clients, marketing notes, the occasional spammy “dear beloved” message from a Nigerian prince—it’s all in there.

And then… his majesty awakens.

Bean, my cat and self-declared household monarch, absolutely demands to be carried around like the royal highness he is. If I try to ignore him? Full-blown tantrum. Y’all, I am not joking. He will yowl, follow me like a shadow, and make a whole dramatic production until I scoop him up and do the lap of honor. This ritual is sacred. Ten minutes, minimum. I’m basically his lady-in-waiting.

Once his Royal Furriness is satisfied, I get a shower in—because functioning human status requires hot water and soap. Then it’s time for coffee and breakfast. At that point, the day can officially begin.

And yes, that is all within the first hour. I don’t do boring mornings.

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A Complete Unknown (And Completely Captivating)

March 31, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Timmy and Bob

So, I finally took time to sit my tail down and watch A Complete Unknown, the new Bob Dylan movie—and y’all, it was worth every minute. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what I got was a beautifully subtle, not-overdone look at a man who refused to be boxed in.

And can we talk about the acting for a second? Phenomenal. Timothy Chalamet absolutely blew me away. I mean it—he deserves huge props for his portrayal of Dylan. He didn’t mimic or mock. He embodied. It wasn’t an impersonation—it was a transformation. He captured the quiet fire, the awkward magnetism, the stubborn soul of Dylan in a way that felt authentic and deeply respectful. That boy can act, and he earned every frame of that screen time.

Let me just say right off the bat—I’ve always had a soft spot for Joan Baez. Her voice, her activism, her grace. But if this movie’s portrayal holds true (and it felt mighty grounded), I have to admit… I don’t quite admire her the same way I used to. It struck me that she, for all her talent, was kind of a conformist. She gave the people what they wanted to hear, stuck close to the script of the folk movement. And maybe that’s not a bad thing—but when you hold her up next to Dylan? You see the contrast plain as day.

Dylan was wild in spirit. He wasn’t trying to fit in, or be crowned King of the Coffeehouse Scene. He wasn’t interested in giving the crowd what they expected—he wanted to give them what he had to say. And when his heart pulled him toward electric guitars and something new, he didn’t flinch. He just went. The folk purists booed, sure. But Dylan? He didn’t need their approval. He needed to be honest.

And isn’t that what being a true artist is all about?

What really hit me was how the movie didn’t scream or shove emotion down your throat. It whispered. It let Dylan’s choices—his quiet, complicated rebellion—speak for themselves. The cinematography, the pacing, even the casting, all felt like they were crafted with care and respect, not sensationalism. You could feel the weight of the moments, but it never dragged.

Dylan was an artist, yes—but also an entertainer. He understood the power of performance. But more than anything, he followed his gut. And maybe that’s why his music still echoes today—it wasn’t polished to perfection or built to please. It was real. Raw. Restless. And, like the man himself, a little bit unknown.

If you haven’t seen it yet, do yourself a favor. It’s not just a music biopic. It’s a reminder that living from the heart—especially when it ruffles feathers—is still the bravest way to live.

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My Musical Menagerie: A Symphony of Controlled Chaos

March 30, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Me, Ryan and Angie…Rockin’ w/ Babes Bayou

If you’ve ever taken a ride with me—or even passed me on the highway—you’ve probably witnessed what I like to call “Jani’s Rolling Music Festival.” One minute I’m belting out “Purple Rain” with all the drama of a Vegas headliner (in my mind), and the next I’ve gone full disco with the Bee Gees falsettoing their way through my soul. My playlists are a hot mess of genres, moods, and memories—and honestly, so am I. It’s kind of perfect.

I like to call it my musical menagerie. From rock anthems to yacht rock, from disco grooves to old-school rap, from bluesy ballads to 90s grunge, I’ve curated a collection that makes absolutely no sense to anyone but me. And that’s what makes it magical.

Atlanta in the 70s!

A Nod To My Mother

Now, let me say this: my relationship with my mother was… complicated, to put it gently. But one thing I’ll never take from her is the gift she gave me—my deep love for rhythm and music. That woman had a voice that could rattle a roof. Think Janis Joplin meets Pat Benatar. She didn’t just sing—she performed. And even though I didn’t inherit her pipes (I’m more Kermit the Frog than Kelly Clarkson), I did inherit her feel for music.

I may not hit the high notes, but honey, I feel them.

Carpool Karaoke: Unhinged Edition

There’s something truly therapeutic about being alone in your car, volume up, windows down (or heat blasting, depending on the season), singing like you’re headlining a world tour. For those 3-5 minutes, I’m not a Travel Advisor or a grandma or a woman with a thousand tabs open in her brain—I’m a damn rockstar.

The glow of the dashboard lights and oncoming traffic becomes my concert lighting. The heated seats? Stage pyrotechnics, obviously. The steering wheel? My mic stand. I go full diva, and let me tell you—I give myself a standing ovation every time.

The Method Behind the Madness

People ask me all the time, “How do you go from Earth, Wind & Fire to Eminem in one playlist?” And I say, “Because life isn’t one genre.” My musical tastes reflect every version of me: the Southern girl with a rebellious streak, the awkward teen who found comfort in The Cure, the young mom blasting 90s hip hop in the school drop-off line, the now-sassy glam-ma vibing to Lizzo while sipping coffee in traffic.

Each playlist I build is a mood board. Some are for travel days (think mellow, beachy vibes), others are for rage cleaning (cue the angry girl anthems), and some are just…random. Like, Stevie Nicks, followed by Tupac, followed by ABBA, followed by Queen. Chaos? Maybe. But it works for me.

Music: My Constant Companion

In a life that’s been far from tidy, music has always been the thread that tied it all together. I’ve danced to it, cried to it, driven cross-country to it. I’ve found comfort in lyrics that put my feelings into words and energy in bass lines that made me move even when I didn’t feel like it.

And as much as I joke about being a mess, I’m a beautiful one. So my playlists? They’re just the soundtrack to my wonderfully messy, rhythm-filled, slightly off-key life.

Want to ride shotgun with me?

Drop a comment with your favorite genre-hopping, mood-swinging songs. Maybe I’ll add them to my next playlist—just don’t be surprised when they’re nestled between Fleetwood Mac and Missy Elliott.

Because around here, the only rule is: if it moves me, it makes the cut.

Stay tuned for more of my fave playlists on Spotify!

XOXO, Jani

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Coastal Wine Bar

March 30, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

My answer is not inspiring. It sounds great though…

A coastal wine bar with a killer playlist, comfy chairs, and a sign that reads ‘Come as you are, stay as long as you need ‘

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The Devil’s Dust: A Southern Love-Hate Letter to Pollen Season

March 29, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

By Jani Aylsworth-Gunter, Take Time To Travel

Well y’all… it’s that time of year again. You know, when the birds are chirping, the azaleas are blooming, and everything—and I do mean everything—is covered in a fine, yellowish-green hell dust. Yes ma’am, it’s POLLEN SEASON in the South. Otherwise known as “The Devil’s Dust” to those of us just trying to breathe and make it to brunch without sneezing our faces off.

I swear, if Satan himself had a signature seasoning blend, it would be this powdery mess that coats every porch, windshield, dog, child, and unsuspecting Yankee who dared to vacation down here in March. Welcome to the South, sugar. Hope you packed a Zyrtec.

It’s Not Dust, It’s a Lifestyle

Southern pollen doesn’t gently arrive like a whisper on the wind. No ma’am. It kicks the door down like a drunk ex at a family reunion and makes itself right at home. You’ll be out there washing your car, thinking you’re doing something productive, and within 12 minutes it’s re-coated like a Krispy Kreme donut. You basically just gave it a pre-pollen rinse.

Don’t even get me started on porch furniture. You wipe it down, you sit for two minutes with your coffee, and suddenly your cute little white capris look like you rolled around in radioactive cornmeal. It’s like the South’s way of saying: “Bless your heart for trying.”

Allergies? We Don’t Know Her. We Just Suffer Silently

And the sinus situation? Lawd. People walking around with voices like they’ve been chain-smoking Marlboros under a ceiling fan all night. The amount of tissues, allergy meds, and eye drops being consumed could fund a small country. I saw a woman sneeze six times in a row at Publix the other day and half the store turned to look, not out of concern—just in mutual, congested solidarity.

Spring Travel? Proceed with Caution …and a Mask, and Eye Drops, and Maybe a Power Washer

This is also that time of year when I lovingly tell my Northern travel clients: if you’re heading into the South for spring, prepare accordingly. And if you’re trying to escape the pollen apocalypse, I have just the place for you (call me). I’ll get you on a plane to anywhere that doesn’t require you to dust off your lungs before dinner.

But here’s the thing, y’all. As much as we complain—and Lord knows we do—it’s part of the charm of Southern living. The flowers are blooming, the days are longer, the sweet tea hits just right, and despite the powder coating of doom on everything we own, there’s something magical about it. Miserable? Yes. But magical.

So grab your antihistamines, give your patio furniture one more wipe, and lean into the chaos. Spring in the South is not for the faint of heart—but it sure is beautiful, once you squint past the pollen fog.

Sunshine and Sweet Tea

Need to escape the Devil’s Dust for a bit?

Let’s get you booked somewhere with clean air and fresh ocean breezes.

Take Time To Travel has your pollen-free paradise waiting…

– Jani, your go-to gal at Take Time To Travel, 770-334-2256

The Take Time To Travel Team – Cindy, Jani, Tammy, Trisha, Krystal

Life is one big journey—and I’m sharing mine, one mile and one moment at a time. Subscribe to follow along.

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Fall in Love with the Northeast: Why a Coastal Road Trip is a Must This Autumn

March 28, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Travel Advice

by Jani Aylsworth-Gunter, Take Time To Travel

Let me paint the picture for you…

There’s just something magical about fall in the Northeast. I’m talking crisp air, cozy sweaters, roadside farm stands with apple cider doughnuts, and a kaleidoscope of leaves painting the world in shades of amber, crimson, and gold. It’s a fleeting season—Mother Nature’s grand finale before the chill of winter—and I’m here to tell you: a fall road trip along the Northeastern coastline is not just a good idea, it’s an absolute must.

Start in Boston, End in Bar Harbor (Or Vice Versa)

A classic itinerary starts in Boston, Massachusetts, and winds its way up to Bar Harbor, Maine. Along the way, you’ll hug the coastline, pass through charming seaside towns, and experience that classic New England charm you’ve seen in Hallmark movies—but better, because it’s real.

Small Towns, Big Charm

Stop in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a cozy lobster roll and historic architecture. Swing through Kennebunkport, Maine where the streets are lined with pumpkins, mums, and old-timey inns with rocking chairs on the porch. Camden will steal your heart with its harbor views and small-town Americana vibe, while Bar Harbor—your final stop—gives you access to the stunning Acadia National Park.

Foliage That Will Make You Pull Over

This is not a drill. The fall foliage in the Northeast is world-renowned for a reason. Bright sugar maples, golden birch, deep red oaks—there will be moments you’ll want to pull over just to breathe it all in. Take your time. Stop at scenic overlooks, wander through state parks, or get out and hike (or stroll, let’s not get carried away) through a colorful forest path.

Coastal Cuisine & Cozy Cafés

Fall is for comfort food, and New England knows how to do it right. Think clam chowder in bread bowls, fresh-off-the-boat seafood, and warm cider served in locally-owned cafés with fireplaces crackling in the corner. You might even stumble upon a fall festival or two—complete with hayrides, homemade pies, and live folk music.

The Pace is Perfect

Summer crowds have thinned, kids are back in school, and there’s this relaxed, peaceful rhythm that takes over the region in the fall. It’s the perfect season to slow down, savor the scenery, and actually enjoy the ride.

Let Me Help You Map It Out

If this sounds like your kind of escape—and trust me, it should—reach out. I’ll help you plan the perfect fall road trip that’s personalized just for you. From handpicked inns and must-try eats to the best leaf-peeping stops, I’ve got you covered.

Because let’s be honest… there’s nothing like hitting the open road with your favorite playlist, a trunk full of flannel, and the promise of cider doughnuts at your next stop.

– Jani, your go-to gal at Take Time To Travel, 770-334-2256

The Take Time To Travel Team – Cindy, Jani, Tammy, Trisha, Krystal

Life is one big journey—and I’m sharing mine, one mile and one moment at a time. Subscribe to follow along.

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