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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
No, seriously. I’m not trying to be funny—though it might end up that way. I’m genuinely curious. Because it feels like one day we were a nation of people who could take a joke, roll with a punch, and get on with life—and the next, we were a country where everyone is clutching their pearls over literally everything.
I mean, Lord help us, you can’t even use the term snowflake anymore without someone gasping and acting like you’ve committed a hate crime. But y’all—we used to be tougher than this.
Growing up in the ’70s and ‘80s, you didn’t say “that offends me” unless it was seriously offensive. Like, you just witnessed something cruel or unjust or dangerous. It wasn’t your go-to line because someone didn’t agree with you or told a joke that didn’t land. Hell, back then, half the humor on TV would be cancelled and blacklisted today. I’m not saying all of it was right, but we sure as hell didn’t melt into a puddle over it.
The Reason My Generation is Not Easily Offended
And don’t even get me started on the whole “Karen” thing. One minute it’s a funny meme, the next it’s a slur. KAREN? …oops, I did it again! Some Karen is already offended that I even brought it up. Well—quit being one.
Seriously. If the shoe fits, girl, lace it up.
Can you imagine if Toby Keith came out with “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue” in the current U.S. climate? They’d lose their ever-lovin’ minds. Someone would write a think piece about how it’s “problematic,” and the rest would follow like ducks.
Do you think a lion is offended by a gazelle? Absolutely not. One is strong and solid. The other is just… lower on the food chain. That’s nature. That’s life.
Look, I try not to offend people—at least, I think I do. I was raised by folks who were absolutely not easily offended, and I turned around and raised boys who are rarely fazed by anything. And if they are, you can bet your boots they don’t cry about it or make a social media post demanding an apology.
We used to be made of stronger stuff, y’all.
So here’s my challenge: toughen up. Put your big kid pants on. Life isn’t always going to be fair or soft or agreeable—and that’s okay. You’ll survive. You might even grow from it.
Because being offended by everything isn’t strength—it’s fragility wrapped in noise. And frankly? That’s just exhausting.
So here’s the thing… I would love to look like I did a few years ago. Back then, I was at what I considered my “perfect weight.” I mean, let’s be honest—I looked damn good, and I knew it. But here’s the flip side of that coin: I also wasn’t eating the foods I love whenever I wanted, and that just ain’t living.
Thin but starving!
Let’s just get this out there: I do NOT like exercise. Never have. I’ll kayak. I’ll hike. I’ll even chase a grandbaby or two around for a minute. But run? Absolutely not. And don’t even get me started on the gym. Just thinking about it makes me want to run—mentally, of course. My body doesn’t get the memo.
Kate Moss once said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
Bless her heart. First of all, her drug habit did the heavy lifting. And second of all, she’s clearly never had my cheesecake.
My White Chocolate Mousse Sugared Cranberry Cheesecake
I’ll be 56 in May. And at this big, bold, beautiful age, I’ve finally decided to wave the white flag in this internal war I’ve been fighting for years—the one about chasing some picture-perfect version of myself.
You see, growing up, appearance was everything. Every woman I looked up to was either obsessed with perfection or seriously committed to chasing it down like it was the last bus of the night. So, naturally, I learned to do the same. But here’s what I’ve come to realize:
Perfection is a lie.
I’m not going to lie to y’all—I am vain. I like to look nice. I like to feel pretty. But I’ve come to the place where I no longer feel the need to lose my mind over the number on the scale. Maybe next year I’ll want to shed a few pounds. Maybe I won’t. Either way, it’s not going to define me anymore.
She Was Amazing!
Because, at the end of the day…
I am beautiful.
I am woman, I am fearless,
I am sexy, I’m divine,
I’m unbeatable, I’m creative,
Honey, you can get in line.
I am feminine, I am masculine,
I am anything I want.
I can teach you, I can love you,
If you got it goin’ on.
I am classy, I am modern,
I live by my own design.
I’m cherry, I’m lemon,
I’m the sweetest key lime pie.
I’m electric, I’m bass,
I’m the beat of my own drum.
I am beautiful.
Life is one big journey—and I’m sharing mine, one mile and one moment at a time. Subscribe to follow along.
Journeys With Jani 