Today Show Travel Talk: What You Need to Know Before You Get Too Excited.
This morning, I was sipping my French roast and watching the Today Show (you know, my daily dose of news and life lessons), and Vicky Nguyen was on chatting all about travel. Y’all know I leaned in for that! She had some great tips and insights, and I was loving every second of it…BUT. And you knew there was a “but” coming, didn’t you?
Let’s have a little real talk. When you hear those magical price tags floating through the air—Atlanta to Chicago for $67 round trip or Los Angeles to New York City for $99 round trip—go ahead and assume this: you’re not flying Delta, United, or any other major airline that lets you sip your club soda with a little legroom and dignity. Unless you’re sitting on a nice pile of SkyMiles or frequent flyer points, those kinds of prices usually come with some fine print the size of a gnat.
Don’t get me wrong, if you’re willing to rough it a little—think red-eye flights, economy seats, carry-on only, and maybe a connection that feels like a scavenger hunt—then yes, those deals do exist. And hey, sometimes the adventure is in the journey, not the seat that reclines a whole inch.
Now for some good news: travel costs are down compared to last year. But let’s keep our feet on the ground here—we are not back to pre-COVID prices, and honestly, we probably never will be. The world has changed, friends, and so has the travel industry.
So what’s the move? Let’s start thinking a little differently about our travel plans.
🤠Go off the beaten path—those lesser-known gems often bring the most unforgettable experiences.
🗓️Consider off-season travel—the crowds are thinner, prices are better, and you get to experience destinations in a more authentic way.
✈️ And if you must have that Delta flight with a checked bag and a comfy seat, let’s plan ahead and use those miles or look for bundled deals that actually make sense for your budget.
Bottom line? You can still see the world without selling a kidney, but it’s all about how flexible you’re willing to be. And if you need help navigating all of this, well—you know where to find me.
Well y’all… apparently I’m about to be 56. On Thursday. And honestly, I’m not even sure when that happened. One minute I was trying to master the big hair of the ’80s and the next I’m putting readers on top of my head trying to remember where I left my other pair. Life moves fast, doesn’t it?
Now let’s get one thing straight—I’ve never been one of those women who dreaded the big birthdays. Thirty? Fabulous. Forty? Bring it. Fifty? Honestly, I was feeling myself. Sixty? Hmm… I’ll get back to y’all on that one.
But truthfully? I’ve earned every single one of these years. Every laugh line, every stretch mark, every gray hair (well, I don’t know if I have those and you’ll never know either). They’re all little badges from a life well-lived—and still living, thank you very much.
When I look back, I’m proud. Mostly. Occasionally those Facebook memories pop up and I find myself whispering, “Jear Desus… what was I even thinking?” A cringey dude, an overshare, maybe a questionable post. No wait. What? But that’s life. You take the good with the bad, learn what you can, and keep it movin’.
That’s the real secret, isn’t it? The lesson. Not perfection. Not staying young forever. But learning from every wild twist and turn life throws at you.
I feel pretty sure my Gramma and my Chubby would be proud of the woman I’ve become. Oh, they’d roll their eyes at me sometimes—especially when I get mouthy or add a little flair where there’s supposed to be “decorum”—but they’d be proud. Because I know how to act. I love my pearls. I know which fork to use at a fancy dinner.
But let’s be honest… where’s the fun in always being proper?
So here’s my advice as I tiptoe (in wedges) into 56:
Embrace your age.
Embrace your story.
Embrace life—even the messy, complicated, beautiful parts of it.
And most importantly… never forget where you left your readers.
Every weekday morning, I turn on the Today show. It’s my background noise while I sip coffee, squish in-between Cash and Shelby on the couch, and try to convince myself that leggings still count as pants. But in between all that, I catch up on the world—what’s happening, what matters, and sometimes, what we’ve forgotten matters.
This morning, they featured something that hit me square in the heart: Head Start, with Jennifer Garner as the voice behind it. Now y’all know I love her anyway—America’s sweetheart with just the right amount of grit—but today she was spotlighting something bigger than herself: helping kids.
And before we go any further—this is NOT a political post. I don’t care what side of the fence you sit on. I’m not talking to your political beliefs. I’m talking to your humanity. I’m on the side of the kids. Period.
Because here’s the thing: this is America. Why are children still going hungry? Why are we still debating whether a child deserves a decent breakfast?
When I was at Valdosta State, I worked at an elementary school for six weeks—paid internship, helped cover tuition, and changed my whole outlook. That school had free breakfast and lunch. For every single student. It didn’t matter where they came from or how much their parents made. What mattered was that they were children—and children need to eat. End of story.
The staff didn’t stop at breakfast and lunch either. They made sure food went home with kids on Fridays. They kept the programs going through summer. And how did they do it? Donations. Volunteers. Pure heart. A community that cared enough to say: not on our watch.
And yes, the government plays a part. But so do we. Each of us. Every time we look the other way or assume it’s someone else’s job—we’re letting kids fall through the cracks.
That’s why I want to shout out one of our own Jennifer’s: Jenny Petersen. If you live in Bartow County and don’t know Jenny, I’m convinced you’ve been buried under a rock. She’s the woman who shows up. Time after time. Volunteering, fundraising, organizing, and doing the work—real work—that keeps kids fed, families supported, and communities thriving. And she has been doing this while raising kids herself and working at a regular job!
For me, WWJD doesn’t just stand for “What Would Jesus Do?” It’s also “What Would Jenny Do?” Because Jenny? She gets it done. And honestly, we need a whole lot more Jennys in this world.
So here’s my ask: let’s keep pushing, Bartow County. Let’s do even more. Not just for the kids who make the honor roll or play sports. But for every child—because their future is our future. Let’s stop thinking “someone should do something” and start realizing we are someone.
Jennifer Garner reminded me of that this morning. Jenny Peterson lives it out every day.
And now I’m challenging myself—and maybe you—to do a little more.
Who told you I had direction? Was it someone with a clipboard and a dream? Because unless we’re talking about GPS directions to the nearest Target or the quickest way to get home without hitting every red light in Bartow County, I’m gonna need you to clarify.
See, I’m not one of those folks who popped out of the womb with a five-year plan and a color-coded binder (I got that later). Nope. I’ve been out here flying by the seat of my pants since 1969, and I’ve somehow managed to land on my feet—most days—with a coffee in one hand and multiple planners in the other that usually get ignored.
A day out of my digital planner…
If anything gives me “direction” in life, it’s a curious mix of gut instinct, caffeine, grandbaby giggles, and occasionally asking myself, “What would Dolly Parton do?” Spoiler: the answer is usually “put on some lipstick and mascara, and keep going.”
Sometimes my direction looks like a well-planned calendar and sometimes it’s just a Post-It note that says, “Don’t forget pants.” And yet, here I am—still navigating the chaos, still laughing, still loving hard, and still pulling together last-minute travel plans like it’s a competitive sport.
So what gives me direction? Faith. Family. And a whole lot of wingin’ it with flair.
Because while I may not know exactly where I’m headed every day, I do know this—I’m going somewhere, and I’m gonna enjoy the ride. Preferably with good music, a biscuit, and the windows down.
XOXO, Jani
Now tell me—what gives you direction, or are you out here with me, cruisin’ without a map?
This whole blog was born from a conversation with my sweet friend Mary—one of those rare Southern women who just is the South. From the way she walks (like she’s got a secret and a pie in the oven), to her gentle voice with that lilt that somehow commands attention without ever raising an octave, to her green-thumb gardening and effortless charm—Mary is Southern through and through. She’s the type who could read you for filth and still get a “yes, ma’am” in return.
So today, in honor of Mary and every steel magnolia out there, I’m sharing a roundup of my favorite Southern colloquialisms. Some are funny, some are a little shady, and most of ’em make you stop and say, “Wait, what now?” But sugar, they’re all spoken with love, wit, and just a splash of sweet tea.
My Friend Mary
If you’ve ever spent any real time in the South, you know we don’t just talk—we spin a yarn, we paint a picture, and Lord help us, we can insult you and make it sound like a compliment. Bless your heart.
Southern colloquialisms are our love language, our passive-aggression delivery service, and our go-to comedy routine when life gets weird—which is often. So in the spirit of good humor and cultural preservation, here’s a roundup of my favorite Southern sayings—each one as colorful as a church hat on Easter Sunday.
The All-Purpose Blessings
“Bless your heart.” Translation: Could mean anything from “You poor thing” to “You absolute idiot.” Tone matters.
“Well, I’ll be!” Translation: I am genuinely surprised… …or pretending to be.
“Ain’t that the berries?” Translation: That’s just wonderful (but with a little bit of sarcasm).
Food for Thought (Literally)
“Grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet tater.” Translation: Lookin’ mighty pleased with yourself.
“Full as a tick on a coonhound.” Translation: I’m stuffed. I regret nothing.
“Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” Translation: Anxious with a capital A.
“That boy’s got more issues than a Southern Baptist potluck.” Translation: Run, don’t walk, away from that mess.
Sass with a Side of Sweet Tea
“She’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.” Translation: Completely and utterly useless.
“If brains were leather, he wouldn’t have enough to saddle a junebug.” Translation: Not the sharpest tool in the shed.
“She could start an argument in an empty house.” Translation: Born to stir the pot.
“He’s all hat and no cattle.” Translation: Talks a big game but can’t back it up.
The Weather Report (Southern Style)
“It’s hotter than blue blazes.” Translation: It’s so hot, Satan’s fanning himself.
“Colder than a well digger’s butt in January.” Translation: I need a blanket and possibly a prayer.
“It’s comin’ up a storm.” Translation: Thunder’s rollin’ in, y’all better take cover.
People, Bless ’Em
“She’s got a hitch in her get-along.” Translation: She’s limping… or moving a little slower than usual.
“He couldn’t pour pee out of a boot with instructions on the heel.” Translation: Not equipped for life’s basic tasks.
“She’s snatched up tighter than a pair of pantyhose two sizes too small.” Translation: She’s either tense… or just plain mean.
Southern Logic & Life Lessons
“You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken poop.” Translation: No matter how hard you try, you can’t polish a turd.
“That dog won’t hunt.” Translation: That idea is useless or not going to work.
“If the good Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise…” Translation: I’ll be there… unless God or nature intervenes.
Just Plain Hilarious
“Madder than a wet hen.” Translation: Furious. Possibly cluckin’ up a storm.
“Drunker than Cooter Brown.” Translation: Legendarily intoxicated. (Cooter Brown is a mythical Southern icon known for staying drunk through the entire Civil War to avoid fighting on either side.)
“Lookin’ like something the cat drug in… then drug back out.” Translation: You’ve seen better days.
“That’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.” Translation: Not honest, not trustworthy.
“Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’.” Translation: I wasn’t born yesterday.
I could go on, but I need to go fix myself a glass of sweet tea and fan myself like Scarlett O’Hara. These sayings might sound silly, but they are sacred around here—handed down from meemaws, papaws, aunties, and uncles at fish fries, front porch rockers, and church potlucks.
So next time someone tells you “you’re walkin’ in high cotton,” take it as a compliment. And if they say you’re “slicker than snot on a doorknob,” well… you might wanna check yourself.
What are your favorite Southern sayings? Drop ’em in the comments, sugar!
Let’s get one thing straight: I love this country with every fiber of my being. Anyone who knows me knows that. I stand for the flag, I honor our veterans, and I believe in the ideals that make America the land of the free and the home of the brave.
But loving your country doesn’t mean turning a blind eye to reality. It means acknowledging both our strengths and our shortcomings. It means striving to make our nation better, not pretending it’s perfect.
So, when I hear folks proudly declare, “I only buy American-made products,” I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Really? Are you sure about that?
LET’S TAKE A CLOSER LOOK
🛍️ The Reality of Retail
Most of the products sold at major retailers like Target, Walmart, TJ Maxx, and Marshalls are manufactured in countries with large-scale production capabilities, primarily:
China: A leading source for electronics, clothing, toys, and household items. Vietnam: Popular for apparel, footwear, and some electronics. Bangladesh: A key supplier of textiles and garments. India: Known for textiles, home goods, and jewelry. Mexico: Produces appliances, automotive parts, and consumer goods, benefiting from proximity to the U.S.
These countries offer cost-effective manufacturing, which helps keep retail prices competitive. It’s not about patriotism; it’s about economics.
👗 Designer Labels Aren’t Exempt
Even major designer labels manufacture their clothing in various countries based on factors like cost, quality, and brand heritage.
FOR INSTANCE…
Luxury brands like Gucci and Prada often produce in Italy and France. Fast fashion labels such as Zara and H&M source from countries like Bangladesh and Vietnam. Sportswear brands like Nike and Adidas have manufacturing in China and Indonesia. Sustainable brands like Patagonia prefer the USA and Portugal for ethical production. You’ve heard of child labor, right?
It’s a global economy, and companies make decisions that align with their business models.
🇺🇸 Loving America Means Being Honest
Patriotism isn’t about blind loyalty; it’s about holding our country to its highest standards. It’s about recognizing our achievements and acknowledging our flaws. As one article notes, “True patriotism… means holding one’s country to its own highest standards; protest doesn’t dishonor flag or anthem, but rather the opposite” .
So, before you boast about exclusively buying American-made products, take a moment to check the labels. It’s okay to support American businesses, but let’s not kid ourselves about the origins of every item we purchase.
❤️ A Call for Thoughtful Patriotism
Let’s channel our love for this country into actions that make a difference… Shall we?
Support local businesses and artisans. Advocate for fair labor practices globally. Educate ourselves about the products we buy and their origins.
Loving America means striving to make it better—for everyone. It’s not about slogans or declarations. It’s about informed choices and meaningful actions.
Not long after my grandson was born, my son looked at me—tired, overwhelmed, still slightly terrified—and said, “So just like that… I’ve been demoted?”
Ha! I didn’t even hesitate. “Of course you have, sweetie. Welcome to middle management.”
Now listen, I love my children. Deeply. Madly. With a fierceness that only grew over the years. I know people say, “There’s no greater love than when they’re first born,” but I think those people must’ve tapped out early. Because I have loved my boys more and more as time has passed. Watching them grow from tiny tornadoes in OshKosh overalls into sarcastic, successful, sometimes smarter-than-their-mama adults? That’s some BIG LOVE. (And no, not that HBO polygamy mess—I mean the real kind.)
But grandchildren? Oh honey, that’s a whole different category. That’s like going from running the kitchen every night to just showing up, sipping wine, and clapping when the soufflé doesn’t collapse.
Being a parent means sleepless nights, questionable snacks, and constant questions about whether you’re doing it right. Being a grandparent means snacks for dinner are charming, naps are optional (for me), and if they want to wear rain boots with pajamas? Fashion icon!
As a grandparent, I’m no longer responsible for shaping the future of America. I just get to soak up the right now. I’m not stressing about college funds or who they’ll marry or whether they’ll remember to brush their teeth every morning. (Let’s be honest, I’ve seen the state of some of their parents’ mouths—they’ll be fine.)
And when one of my grandkids does something hilariously naughty—like saying, “ Hell yeah!” or hiding a grilled cheese behind the couch or sneaking upstairs just for the thrills, I don’t panic. I don’t lecture. I just smile, take a picture for posterity, and let that quiet little chuckle rise up because ohhhh yes, I’ve seen that move before. Jake and Jarrett were the original rascals, and baby, history repeats itself.
So no, parenthood hasn’t ended. It’s just been… promoted. I get to love my grown kids with pride, admiration, and the occasional unsolicited advice. And I get to adore my grandkids with wide-open arms, zero guilt, and plenty of ice cream.
Parenthood is the masterpiece.
Grandparenthood? That’s the encore.
And you better believe I’m standing center stage, soaking in the applause.
Tonight, on my way home, I was sitting at the red light at Tennessee Street and Main, just minding my business (and singing like I was auditioning for The Voice), when my eyes caught something that made me laugh out loud — again.
On the corner, there’s this little art store. And right in front of it? That same “GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! FINAL DAYS!” sign that’s been flapping around like a sad little flag of desperation… for at least a year now. I’m not even exaggerating. A year, y’all. Probably longer if we’re being honest.
Every few months, I spot it again like a ghost of clearance sales past, and every single time I wonder — what is happening here? How many “Final Days” does one business get before it’s just… normal days? Did they misunderstand the assignment? Did they get emotionally attached to the thrill of a “final” moment? Are they like that one friend who throws a “goodbye” party for every move but still shows up two weeks later at the neighborhood pool?
I need answers. Real ones. Somebody — anybody — make it make sense.
At this point, that sign feels like part of the permanent landscape. Honestly, if they actually closed, I think I’d miss seeing it. It’s like the world’s slowest breakup… and none of us have any closure.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop in and buy something. You know, for the sake of “supporting local.” Or maybe just to ask, “Y’all okay?”
There’s just something about being a kid in the 70’s that the world today can’t touch. It was a time when Saturday mornings belonged to us, our bikes were our freedom papers, and the height of drama was whether Laura Ingalls was gonna fall down a hill (again) on Little House on the Prairie.
It made no difference if I was in Pennsylvania w/ Grampa and Gramma or in Georgia with my Daddy …it was a good life. Even with all of that messy stuff!
Let’s start with Saturday mornings — a sacred, untouchable block of joy. You didn’t sleep in because you couldn’t. You had to be parked in front of the TV, bowl of cereal the size of your head, ready for the cartoon lineup. Bugs Bunny, Super Friends, Scooby-Doo, and Fat Albert — it was a buffet of animation magic. There were no DVRs, no replays, no “stream it later.” If you missed it? You missed it. Better luck next week, kid.
Sundays were for family, and by family, I mean gathering around the TV for The Wonderful World of Disney. When that sparkling castle intro came on, it didn’t matter if you were mid-argument with your sister or halfway up a tree outside — you came running.
Except at my Gramma’s house. See, my Grampa insisted on watching 60 Minutes — and guess what? It came on at the exact same time as Disney. That horrible tick, tick, tick of that stopwatch still haunts me. It got so bad, my sweet Gramma (God bless her) went out and bought a second TV just so I didn’t have to miss my Disney magic while the rest of the house suffered through ticking and news reports. Now that, my friends, is unconditional love.
Monday nights? That was reserved for Little House on the Prairie.
You’d sit there cross-legged on the carpet, absolutely sucked into Walnut Grove life. Mary went blind. Pa’s crops failed. Nellie Oleson was being the original Queen of Mean. It was simple, heartfelt storytelling that managed to tie your little 8-year-old heart in knots.
When we weren’t glued to the TV, we were outside. Always outside. Riding bikes all over the neighborhood until the streetlights flickered on (and heaven help you if you weren’t home by the time they did). We built forts out of sticks and pure imagination. We skinned our knees and didn’t think a single thing about it unless we could milk it for some sympathy and an extra popsicle. We played kickball, freeze tag, and Red Rover — all without a single adult supervising or organizing anything.
At my Chubby’s house — right smack in the middle of town — my sister and I thought we were hot stuff getting to walk down to check her mail, or even better, walk the sidewalk to S&H. It felt like such a big, grown-up deal. Freedom was measured in steps you could take without a grown-up trailing behind you.
Our phones had curly cords (bonus points if you could stretch it into the next room for a little privacy). Our version of social media was notes folded into a triangle and passed in class. We lived simple, messy, wonderful lives.
My family lived on Park Street until I was in 5th grade. That beautiful old house was our home, until one day — it burned to the ground. Losing all our toys, our “stuff” — it was a huge deal as a kid. Traumatic, really. It’s funny though… somehow we still found a way to dust ourselves off, rebuild, and keep rolling. That’s just how it was back then. You kept moving forward, because standing still wasn’t an option. Granted, we got all NEW toys!
Somehow, without “apps” or “likes” or endless “content,” we were happy. Giddy, really. Dirty, tired, grass-stained, Kool-Aid-mustached little tornadoes of pure joy.
Growing up in the 70’s wasn’t perfect — nothing ever is — but man, it was real.
It made us tough. It made us creative. It made us the kind of people who know how to fix a bike chain with a stick, whip up a sandwich when there’s “nothing in the house,” and smell a summer thunderstorm coming from a mile away.
Journeys With Jani 