There are few phrases in the English language that make me instantly suspicious, and “Are you busy tomorrow?” is right up there with “We need to talk” and “Don’t freak out, but…”
You see, “Are you busy tomorrow?” is never just a casual inquiry. It’s the opening line to a mystery novel where I’m the main character and the plot twist usually involves me holding a rake, a moving box, or someone’s emotional baggage.
Now, don’t get me wrong — I might have tomorrow wide open. But whether or not I’m willing to share that information depends entirely on the next sentence out of your mouth. Because let’s be honest: the follow-up could be anything from “Want to grab brunch?” (yes, obviously) to “Can you help me move my cousin’s refrigerator up three flights of stairs?” (and suddenly, I’m swamped).
And I’ve learned this the hard way. Over the years, I’ve been roped into:
-Standing in 97-degree heat holding a yard sale sign on a street corner.
-“Quick” errands that turned into 8-hour hostage situations.
-Housesitting and they definitely did not mention in the original agreement a snake was roaming freely in the kitchen (No one tells you about the pet iguana until it’s sitting on your shoulder either).
So here’s my policy: If you ask me “Are you busy tomorrow?” without offering the context immediately, I’m going to assume you’re about to recruit me into something that will require either work gloves, a casserole, or a bail bondsman.
Therefore, my response will be:
“That entirely depends on the rest of the information you’re about to give me, my dear.”
Because sometimes the answer is, “No, I’m free!”
And other times, it’s, “I was planning on washing my hair and reorganizing my spice cabinet… all day.”
So if you’re asking? Lead with the details. Trust me, it’ll save us both a lot of awkward backpedaling.
In an alternate universe, I am not sitting here in my yoga pants with coffee stains on the shirt I swore I wasn’t going to wear out of the house today. Nope. Alternate Universe Jani is living in a sprawling villa in Tuscany, complete with olive groves, a vineyard, and a ridiculously good-looking Italian groundskeeper named Luca who is mysteriously shirtless 90% of the time.
In this version of my life, I am fluent in Italian. Not the “I can order wine and point at the pasta I want” fluent—actual fluent. I spend my mornings sipping espresso on my terrace overlooking the rolling hills, my afternoons writing bestselling travel memoirs that somehow also get turned into Netflix series, and my evenings hosting long, laughter-filled dinners where we solve the world’s problems over fresh pasta and bottles of Chianti.
Instead of dealing with modern nonsense like passive-aggressive emails, overpriced groceries, and people who don’t know how to use a turn signal, Alternate Universe Me is focused on the important things—like deciding whether to have the truffle risotto or the cacio e pepe for lunch. I also somehow have perfect hair that falls into those soft waves you see in shampoo commercials, even though I have not touched a curling iron in years.
Oh, and in this reality? I have mastered the art of aging backwards. That’s right—while the rest of the world is buying wrinkle cream in bulk, I’m somehow looking younger every year. My skin? Glowing. My joints? Pain-free. My energy? Boundless. Honestly, it’s probably because Alternate Universe Me spends more time laughing and less time doomscrolling.
Now, don’t get me wrong—this version of my life is fabulous, but I like to think there’s still a dash of current-me in there. I still tell people exactly what I think (politely…ish), I still have my dark humor, and I still can’t resist a good Southern biscuit, even if it’s wildly out of place in my Tuscan kitchen.
So maybe, just maybe, in some far-off alternate reality, there’s a Jani sitting at her terrace table right now, sipping wine, laughing with friends, and thinking, In another universe, I bet I’m a Travel Advisor in Georgia with two basset hounds and a cat named Bean.
Let me go ahead and say it plain: you don’t mess with a Southern woman.
We might greet you with a “Hey sugar” and offer you sweet tea in a mason jar, but don’t let that syrupy drawl or perfectly teased hair fool you. Underneath that floral blouse and monogrammed tote is a woman who will rip your heart out, show it to you still beating, then bake it into a pie and serve it with Blue Bell ice cream… while smiling sweetly and asking if you’d like seconds.
That’s not drama. That’s heritage.
See, Southern women come from a long line of grandmas who stirred cast iron skillets with one hand while popping you in the back of the head with the other — without missing a beat. We were raised by mothers or a village of mothers who taught us how to sew a hem, clean a fish, bury a secret, and cut someone down to size with nothing more than a well-timed “bless your heart.”
We’re the queens of emotional multitasking. We’ll cry at a Hallmark commercial and then go full gladiator in the Dollar General parking lot if someone disrespects our family, our food, or our dogs. And Lord help the soul who tries to come between a Southern woman and her people — we will scorch the earth and still make it to Sunday school on time.
Now don’t get me wrong, we’re not mean. We’re just capable. We know how to handle things. Crisis? We’ve lived through five before breakfast. Someone needs handling? We’ll handle ‘em. And if all else fails, we’ve got Jesus, bourbon, and a Daddy who “knows a guy.”
And let’s talk about that pie. It’s not just a metaphor. We really will bake your heart into a pie. Because baking is therapy and revenge is best served warm, with a lattice crust and maybe a little whipped cream if we’re feeling fancy.
So if you’re thinking about crossing a Southern woman? Don’t. Just… don’t. Sit down, hush, and enjoy the pie. It’s safer that way.
At this point, I’m not sure if I live in modern America or an episode of Little House on the Prairie: Inflated Edition.
Because listen—everything is going up. Groceries, gas, dog treats, mascara, air! I just paid $17 for a candle that smells like “forest morning,” and honey—I live in the woods. I am the forest morning.
But the real kicker? I had two grocery bags delivered yesterday (yes, I’m bougie like that—don’t judge), and my grocery app had the audacity to tell me I “saved $0.87.” Oh did I? Then why does my bank account look like I ordered lobster dipped in gold and a side of shame?
So in true overreact-and-then-lean-in fashion, I’ve decided it’s time for me to get resourceful. Like… frontierswoman-level resourceful.
Here’s what I’ve got planned:
1. Plant a Garden.
It’s high time I trade in ornamental mums for actual tomatoes. Lettuce, squash, maybe even herbs… if I’m going broke, I want it to at least taste fresh.
2. Grow Cotton.
Not for fashion, y’all. I just want to be able to say, “Oh this little dish towel? Hand-spun from my personal cotton patch.” That’s a level of petty pride I aspire to.
3. Get Laying Hens.
If I’m paying $6 for eggs, I want them laid fresh with attitude. Bonus points if the hens come when I call and let me name them after Real Housewives.
4. Take Up Whittling.
Why? No reason. But it feels like the right vibe for a woman who lives in the woods, wears silver bangles, and is considering soap-making as a side hustle.
5. Knit Something.
Scarves, socks, emotional support potholders. I figure if I can knit through my anxiety, I’ll at least be warm while spiraling.
6. Embrace My Inner Huntress.
Y’all. I can shoot straight, build a fire, and catch a fish or two. If it comes down to it, I’ll be over here in the woods like Snow White with a Glock and a cast iron skillet.
Now don’t worry—I’m not giving up wine, mascara, or my delivered groceries. I may be rustic, but I’m not feral. Yet.
But I am prepared to barter fresh eggs for bourbon and tomatoes for under-eye concealer if this cost-of-living circus doesn’t let up soon.
So if you need me, I’ll be down by the creek in a self-knit shawl, talking to chickens, and planning next week’s bougie apocalypse menu.
Because if this is the end of times, I intend to face it with lip gloss, sarcasm, and a homegrown salad.
Y’all, let me just go ahead and say it: I am the human embodiment of a walking contradiction. A mystery wrapped in an enigma with a side of sass. A social butterfly one minute and a full-blown hermit the next. I recently saw a meme that hit so close to home I almost printed it out and made it my business card. It read:
“I’m an extroverted introvert. That means I’ll either talk your ear off like I’ve done 4 lines of coke, taken 30mg of Adderall, and drank 7 cups of coffee OR I’ll be Buddhist monk vow of silence mute. There is no in between.”
Truer words have never been typed.
Here’s the thing—I love people. I love storytelling, belly laughs, porch sittin’, deep convos, and wildly inappropriate humor. If the vibes are right and the energy is flowing, I can hold court like a caffeinated auctioneer. You’ll get stories, opinions, over-shares, maybe a few life lessons I didn’t even know I had in me. And baby, you better buckle up because I will talk your ear off with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been locked away for 40 days and 40 nights with no Wi-Fi and only my Basset Hounds for conversation.
But then—bam. The switch flips. No warning, no apology. Suddenly, I’m quieter than a church mouse in a padded cell. You’ll think I’m mad. You’ll ask, “You okay?” And I’ll nod with a smile that says, “Please don’t make me use my words.”
That’s the introvert in me waving a white flag.
And it’s not about being moody or antisocial. It’s just that sometimes, the battery dies. The social tank hits empty, and I need to recharge in silence, preferably with some comfort food, a cozy blanket, true crime reruns, and zero expectations of human interaction.
I used to feel weird about it. Like I had to pick a lane—either be the social queen or the quiet weirdo. But no more. I am proudly both. I am the loudest quiet person you’ll ever meet. I am your hype girl and your favorite recluse.
So if you see me one day chatting up a storm, just roll with it. And if the next day I’m giving strong mute monk energy, just know I’m not mad—I’m just marinating in my own peace.
Extroverted introverts: we exist. We are thriving. We are confusing. And we are fabulous.
Sometimes in this big, loud, slightly unhinged world, it’s good for the soul to slow down and take stock of the simple joys. You know, the little sparks of happiness that sneak in between the chaos of barking hounds, travel planning marathons, and the occasional toddler meltdown covered in Goldfish dust.
So, today’s WordPress Daily Prompt is a good one:
“What are 30 things that make you happy?”
-A hot cup of coffee in my pink Yeti tumbler: Bonus if no one talks to me for the first 20 minutes.
-The sound of grandchildren giggling: Even if it’s followed by, “Gramma, we accidentally flushed Barbie.”
-Planning the perfect trip: Give me multiple destinations, transportation logistics, and a picky traveler—I’ll turn it into magic.
-Writing and journaling: It clears my head and gives me a place to keep the sass bottled. -Blogging with my full sarcastic Southern edge: Cheaper than therapy, and more entertaining. -Music that brings back a memory: Billy Idol. My stepdad cranking AC/DC. My Daddy’s Marty Robbins. Kristi and Dana acting fools with Shaggy and REO. Every song has a story.
-A well-timed, wildly inappropriate meme: Laughter is medicine. Dark humor is the prescription.
-When my Dad laughs at my jokes: Usually followed by a head shake and a “Lord have mercy.”
-Law & Order SVU marathons at 2am: Who needs sleep when you can fight fictional crime with Benson?
-Tying my shoes without seeing stars: If you know, you know.
-My dramatic Basset Hounds, Shelby and Cash: Moody. Needy. Ridiculous. My kind of people. -Bean the cat deciding I’m worthy of affection: Especially sweet since I didn’t even want the little hairball at first.
The smell of a new iPhone and a fresh update #TechNerd and proud.
-Creating content that actually sounds like ME: Not some sanitized AI robot clone.
-A beach day with zero expectations: Give me sand, a salty breeze, and a drink in hand.
-Killer travel tips that actually help folks: Like “don’t forget to check re-entry requirements,” because YES—it still matters.
-Wine that pairs well with literally anything: Cheese, charcuterie, or just me and a true crime documentary.
-Starting posts with “Hello Lovelies”: Bermuda may have given me the phrase, but it’s mine now.
-Solving complicated itineraries like a Tetris champion: Give me all the jigsaw pieces, and I’ll still make it cute.
-Laughing until I wheeze with Brenda & Mary on Taco Tuesday: But our group texts deserve a sitcom.
-Knowing I’m stronger than the hell I walked through: And still able to laugh about it. That’s the flex.
-Nostalgic drives through Adairsville: Windows down, playlist on full blast, and my teenage spirit riding shotgun.
-Waking up to a dense fog around my cabin: My version of a spiritual awakening.
-Road trips with no real plan: Just snacks, stories, and somewhere between here and nowhere.
-The smell of biscuits in a Southern kitchen: Calories don’t count when the biscuits are homemade.
-A porch swing, a light breeze, and no cell service: That’s not just joy—it’s peace.
-A beautiful, color-coded spreadsheet: Nerd alert. But hey, pretty + productive = JOY. -Watching a client’s dream trip come to life: Especially if they started the convo with “I’m not sure this is even possible…”
Being truly known and loved anyway: That kind of grace is rare—and I don’t take it for granted.
Having a voice, and using it my way: Southern charm. Northern edge. Zero fluff.
Your Turn
If you haven’t made a list like this lately, I highly recommend it. Life is hard, weird, and occasionally downright rude—but there’s joy tucked into every corner. You just have to look for it.
And hey—if your list includes “taking a solo trip,” “a girls’ getaway,” or “finally seeing those castles in Upstate New York,” you know who to call.
Well, here we go again—but this time, I’m not dreading it. In fact, I’m excited. (I know. Who is she?)
I’ve decided to go back to a healthier way of nourishing my body—not punishing it, not depriving it, not hopping on some magic fix wagon—but actually feeding it in a way that makes sense for me.
After lots of back-and-forth and a whole lotta fridge-staring, I landed on a Mediterranean-ish approach. Not hardcore Greek goddess level, but more of a “Southern girl flirts with olive oil and feta” kind of vibe. It just fits. Real food. Good flavors. Balance. And wine… occasionally. I’m not out here trying to join a convent.
I also want to be completely transparent, because I believe in being real—not perfect. With the help of my sweet friend Brooke, I’ve added in a few supplements for a little boost. No shame in that game! I’ll get into those details in another post, but for now, just know I’m walking into this next chapter with intention, grace, and a little sass in my step.
So, here’s to health…
To tying my shoes without breaking a sweat…
To feeling good in my skin again…
And maybe even wearing those cute jeans shoved in the back of my closet.
I should be snoring like my dogs right now, but instead, I’m wide awake—with Olivia, Amanda, Carisi, and Fin. Yep. We’re deep into solving crime all over New York City while I sit here in my robe with a half-drunk tumbler of water that I’m trying not to spill on Bean.
Y’all. When did I become my Gramma?
I swear, when I was younger, I thought it was the strangest thing that older folks didn’t sleep. My Gramma was always up at all hours—watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote, sipping in a room temperature Yuengling (yes, your read that right), folding laundry that nobody asked her to fold, and just generally vibing in the quiet of the night like she ran the place.
And now…here I am. Doing the exact same thing—minus the bevo!
I used to be the queen of crashing hard by 10:00—especially after a day of work and socializing. Now? I’m up like some unofficial member of the SVU, absolutely convinced I could help Olivia crack this case. I even talked to the screen earlier—out loud. To a character. That’s where we’re at.
I can already tell you how tomorrow’s gonna go: I’ll wake up at 6:37 a.m. like a zombie in need of caffeine and an exorcism. I’ll shuffle to the kitchen like I’ve been up working the midnight shift, because technically, I have. I just wasn’t paid for it and I didn’t wear a badge.
My body’s tired. My mind? Apparently, it’s doing jumping jacks and true crime cross-examinations.
Aging is weird, y’all. Somewhere between hot flashes and knee pain, you gain this nocturnal gift you never wanted. You start sleeping in broken shifts. You start knowing exactly what your Gramma meant when she said, “I just don’t sleep like I used to.” I used to think that was just a sweet old lady saying. Nah. It’s a prophecy.
So tonight, as I sit here with SVU running in the background and Cash snoring like a truck driver at my feet, I officially accept my badge: Night Owl, Gramma Edition. All I’m missing is a heated blanket and some Vick’s VapoRub for ambiance.
Some people swear by yoga. Others find their joy in that sacred morning cup of coffee (okay, same). But when it comes to a daily habit that genuinely fills me with joy—like the soul-deep, take-a-deep-breath-and-smile kind of joy?
It’s journaling.
Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not sitting in a meadow with a quill and poetic lighting, writing down the secrets of the universe. (Although that would be a vibe.) My journaling is messy, honest, sometimes scribbled, sometimes typed. Sometimes it’s a rant about why my hair won’t cooperate or how the dogs tracked in mud again. Other times, it’s sweet reflections on the grandbabies, a funny memory about my Daddy, or a deep-dive into something I haven’t talked about in years.
But that’s the magic of it.
It’s my space.
No filters, no performance, no “let me say this the right way.”
It starts as a journal entry… but more often than not, it morphs into something more.
That’s how my blog is born most days. A scribbled sentence, a passing thought, a half-sarcastic note to self turns into something you end up reading on Journeys With Jani. That daily habit of journaling is my little internal reset button. It’s where I unpack the day, unload the clutter in my head, or just write about the playlist that had me time-traveling to my teenage years.
And the best part?
It reminds me who I am.
Before the day’s chaos.
Before the to-do list.
Before I’m a momma, a travel advisor, a wife, a boss babe, a grocery-runner, or a “can-you-just-one-more-thing” person…
So if you’re ever feeling a little off-kilter, try it. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Doesn’t have to be profound. Just pick up a pen (or your notes app) and start where you are.
I’m Jani.
And I’ve got something to say.
You might just find a little joy waiting on the page.
Until next time—
Keep journeying, keep scribbling, and keep showing up for yourself.
You know what hits different than a hot flash in August?
A song from 1984 coming on the radio and suddenly I’m not 56—I’m fifteen, barefoot, and slathered in Hawaiian Tropic, backstroking across the Lancaster city pool with Becca & Gina …without a care in the world (except maybe if there were still Doritos left in the bag).
Music. It’s the closest thing we’ve got to time travel that doesn’t involve a DeLorean and Doc Brown.
The second a certain song comes on, I’m instantly pulled into some mental Polaroid…
– My Grandpa trying to teach me ballroom dancing (with a splash of shagging, because South Carolina). The music? Big Band, Beach Boys, something from his day and forward—back when folks still dressed for dinner.
– My Mama belting Fleetwood Mac like she was Stevie Nicks in a housecoat with harmony from Heaven.
– AC/DC blasting because of my stepdad, who somehow managed to make even “Highway to Hell” feel perfectly normal for a kid.
– Billy Idol? No story needed. Just… Billy freakin’ Idol.
– My Daddy with his deep love for Marty Robbins and any good ol’ country crooner. If you know “El Paso,” you know.
– “Time for Me to Fly” by REO Speedwagon? That was Missy’s go to when we drove past a certain ex’s house like we were in our own personal music video.
– My girl Kristi? “Rock the Casbah.” She rocked it, alright.
– Dana somehow singing “HENNN-RY RUSTED” instead of “Tin Roof Rusted” in “Love Shack” like it made sense—and now I can’t unhear it.
– Theo recording over my Billy Squier mixed tape. RIP “Lonely Is The Night.”
– Jake, Jarrett and me singing “Love Song” by Tesla like we were our own touring band. No shame in our car ride karaoke game.
– Rick’s Place in Lancaster—if you know, you know. I’ve got dance moves from that floor I still feel in my knees.
– And of course, all the 80’s hits from the Calhoun Roller Rink—when Jarie, Jessica and I thought we were straight outta “Xanadu.”
And that’s just the shortlist.
Y’all ever do this? Hear a song and suddenly you’re there—wherever “there” was. A party. A heartbreak. A road trip. A kitchen dance. A funeral. A kiss. A comeback. A moment you didn’t even know was about to be a core memory.
I swear, music is a memory vault with a damn good DJ.
So if you’re ever feeling low, do yourself a favor—hit play. Let your own soundtrack roll. It might make you cry, but I bet you’ll laugh too. It might remind you of who you were, but even more of who you still are.
And if you’re lucky? It’ll make you text that friend from way back and say, “Remember when…”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to recreate a roller rink routine in my kitchen with a hairbrush mic and a Spotify playlist.
Journeys With Jani 