Like, truly bonkers. If I were to summarize today in one sentence, it would be this little meme I saw yesterday.
“I just cried, cleaned the entire house, shaved my legs, and now I’m fine.#
Seriously. That is the plot of my life. That’s the entire emotional rollercoaster. And if you’re a woman reading this, you’re probably nodding like, “Yeah, seems legit.”
Let’s break it down:
Step 1: Cry.
No warning. No big trigger. Just suddenly, I’m sobbing because I remembered that one time in 1994 when someone said I looked tired. Also maybe because the dog looked at me with judgment in his eyes when I ate a cookie before 10 a.m. Again.
Hormones? Stress? The absolute audacity of a Monday? WHO KNOWS. The tears just showed up like uninvited guests who brought wine and feelings.
Step 2: Clean like a madwoman.
Is there a better coping mechanism than rage vacuuming? I think not. I was swiffering with purpose, y’all. I don’t know if it was the tears or the cookie shame or just the fact that I needed to do something productive to feel human again, but that house got cleaned top to bottom.
It’s called emotional productivity. Look it up. Or don’t. I made it up just now.
Step 3: Shave legs.
Did I have plans to go somewhere fancy? Nope. Did anyone request the silky-smooth stems? Also nope. But suddenly I decided that I could not live another moment with legs that felt like a cactus in a windstorm.
Shaving is a spiritual reset. And also a bloodsport if you do it standing up in the shower with no lighting and questionable balance. I lived. Barely.
Step 4: I’m fine.
That’s it. I’m fine now.
We don’t question it. We just go with it. I’m smiling again. Possibly singing along to Fleetwood Mac while folding towels like a boss. No one knows what just happened, least of all me. But we made it, friends. We made it.
Now that’s a loaded question. Narrowing it down to one single book feels a bit like asking me to pick a favorite grandchild—and you better believe I’m not touching that landmine!
Truth is, I’ve always been a reader. Growing up, books were my escape hatch from a chaotic world, and I was the kind of kid who’d get in trouble for reading past bedtime. No joke—my daddy actually grounded me from reading once because he knew that would hit where it hurt! When he built our new house in the late ’70s, he even designed my bedroom around my love of books. I had built-in bookshelves and a cozy nook before book nooks were Pinterest-worthy.
These days, I still find joy in everything from thrillers to southern sass. My latest re-readable obsession? The Silent Patient—it was our book club’s first pick of the year, and whew! That one had me up way past my grown-up bedtime. I also loved Reese Witherspoon’s Whiskey in a Teacup. That mix of Southern charm and strong woman energy? Yeah… I get it.
And don’t even get me started on my Stephen King collection—all in hardback, of course. I’m obsessed. There’s something about his twisted, brilliant storytelling that hooks me every single time. I’ve also revisited a few of Mary Kay Andrews’ books—light, funny, and the perfect company for a lazy weekend.
So, what book could I read over again? Honestly? Too many to count. But if you hand me a good story, a cup of coffee, and maybe a lazy afternoon, I’m all in.
I wrote this days ago …the part in RED stayed in my drafts until I had time to clean it up a bit. But today, an 8-year-old girl in Lubbock, Texas, has died from measles, marking the second child lost to this preventable disease in the state recently.
The outbreak in Texas has now reached 481 confirmed cases since late January, with 56 hospitalizations. Neighboring states like New Mexico and Oklahoma are also reporting cases linked to this surge.
In response, Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., who has previously expressed skepticism about vaccines, visited the affected area and is now advocating for the MMR vaccine to curb the outbreak.
This tragic loss underscores the critical importance of vaccinations. Measles isn’t just a rash and a fever; it can lead to severe complications and, as we’ve seen, can be fatal. The MMR vaccine is a safe and effective way to protect our children and communities from such outcomes. Let’s honor the memories of those we’ve lost by taking action to prevent further tragedies.
I wasn’t planning on pulling up a soapbox today, but here we are. There’s a new outbreak of measles making headlines across the U.S., and it’s got my travel advisor brain and momma heart on high alert. I’ve got grandbabies, clients crossing borders daily, and a whole lotta love for common sense.
So let’s talk—kindly but directly—about this mess and the role vaccines play in keeping us safe.
Wait, Measles? Didn’t We Handle That?
Yes. We did. Or at least we thought we had. Measles was declared eliminated in the U.S. back in 2000. That meant it wasn’t spreading within our communities anymore, thanks to widespread vaccination. But lately? It’s popping up again—coast to coast. Airports, schools, even tourist destinations.
And here’s the kicker: it’s not that the measles virus got stronger. It’s that our immunity got weaker. Too many people are unvaccinated, and measles is one of the most contagious viruses on the planet. You don’t have to be elbow-to-elbow with someone to catch it—just breathing the same air an infected person did up to two hours earlier can do the trick. Yikes.
Why This Matters (Especially If You Love to Travel)
As a travel advisor, I see folks jetting off to amazing places every day—Europe, Africa, the Caribbean, you name it. But many of those destinations still struggle with measles outbreaks.
Even one unvaccinated traveler can bring it home.
It’s not just a health issue—it can throw a big ol’ wrench into travel plans, too. Some countries even require proof of vaccination or won’t let you in at all if there’s an outbreak. Imagine planning your dream trip, only to be turned away at the border. No thank you.
Vaccines Work. Period.
Now, before anyone gets riled up—yes, I know vaccines have stirred up controversy. I know people have questions, fears, and stories. I’m not here to bully anyone or pretend this is a black-and-white issue for every single person. But I am here to say this:
The overwhelming body of science supports vaccines as safe, effective, and vital to public health.
I’m also old enough to remember when kids got measles, mumps, and rubella—and it wasn’t a rite of passage. It was dangerous. Some never fully recovered. Some didn’t make it. We created vaccines so families wouldn’t have to go through that heartbreak anymore.
Let’s Be Smart, Not Scared
We live in a time where misinformation spreads faster than a virus, but so does knowledge—if we’re open to it. Talk to your doctor. Ask questions. Get answers from credible sources, not Facebook fear spirals. And if your child can be safely vaccinated? Please, do it. You’re not just protecting your family—you’re protecting babies, elders, cancer patients, and others who can’t get vaccinated.
Final Word
Listen, I don’t care if you breastfed, bottle-fed, co-slept, or Ferberized. I don’t care if you use essential oils, wear crystals, or swear by Tylenol. What I do care about is community, safety, and compassion. And right now, choosing vaccines when you can is one way we show up for each other.
Let’s keep the world open—for travel, for connection, for the next generation. And let’s keep measles where it belongs: in the history books.
Stay safe. Stay curious. And don’t forget to pack your vaccine card, y’all.
Let’s talk about a kind of poverty that doesn’t show up in bank statements or pantry shelves. I’m not talking about needing bread, rent money, or a new pair of jeans. I’m talkin’ about the kind of hunger that sneaks in quiet—like humidity on a Georgia summer night. You don’t notice it at first, but before you know it, it’s clingin’ to your skin and wearin’ you slap out.
Mother Teresa once said, “Sometimes people can hunger for more than bread… That, too, is poverty.”
And let me tell you something, y’all—ain’t that the truth?
We look around our homes and see full bellies, clean laundry, and a roof over our heads, and we think, “Whew, thank God we’re blessed.” And we are. But sometimes we forget to check the emotional pantry. You know—the one where love, connection, and attention are supposed to be stocked up.
You ever been in a room full of people and still felt completely alone? That’s not just “having a rough day.” That’s a deep, aching kind of poverty. And honey, it can hit anybody—your child, your husband, your best friend… even you.
We rush around doing All The Things—working, cooking, planning trips (hi, it’s me), juggling babies and bills—and sometimes forget to look the people we love square in the eyes and say, “Hey, you good? Like, for real?”
Now, I’m not saying go full-blown therapy session at the dinner table (unless you want to, of course), but I am saying let’s stop mistaking being “taken care of” with being seen. We need affection. We need warmth. We need to feel like we matter—beyond the chores we do or the roles we play.
So maybe tonight, instead of checking your email or folding one more towel, you sit down beside your child, your spouse, or even your own reflection in the mirror and just be. Hug tighter. Listen longer. Let folks feel felt. Because emotional poverty is real, and the cure is simpler than we think: presence, affection, love.
From someone who lives with two snoring Bassets, a cat who healed her heartbreak, and a whole lot of opinions.
Let’s get something straight: I love animals. But not all of them are meant to live in your house, hog your blankets, or judge your snacking habits like a disappointed Southern aunt. I’ve got opinions, and I’ve got experience—namely in the form of two dramatic Basset Hounds named Cash and Shelby, and one unexpected little hero of a cat named Bean. So here’s my take on which animals make the best—and bless their hearts—worst pets.
Best Pets (Most Days)
Basset Hounds: Oh honey, let me tell you. Cash and Shelby are two short-legged, long-eared, emotionally unstable lovebugs who run the show around here. They’re like having two dramatic toddlers who are convinced they’re the stars of their own reality show. They’re loyal to a fault, have a nose that leads them into chaos daily, and snore like chainsaws. And yet? They are pure love on four stumpy legs. If you can handle drool, drama, and daily naps with a side of stubbornness—you’ll never find better companions.
Shelby-GirlMy Cash – The Best Boy Ever
Cats: Specifically, Bean—my little unexpected sidekick. I didn’t want a cat. I was working in Vet-Med, I’d seen enough cats to know what I was getting into. Not to mention, my housemate & bestie had like, FIVE! But then my son was leaving for Japan (Semper Fi!), and there I was—trying to be brave, hiding the heartbreak. Someone handed me this tiny, five-week-old ball of fluff with a motorboat purr and eyes too big for his head. And just like that, I wasn’t alone. Bean wiped my tears, made me laugh, and clawed his way into my heart (and occasionally, my furniture). He’s sweet, sensitive, slightly unhinged, and exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
The Bean
Worst Pets (Bless ‘Em, but No Thanks)
Okay, let’s not call them the worst… let’s call them “not for me.” Anything that needs a heat lamp, eats live bugs, or might escape and show up in my laundry room at 2am? Hard pass. Lizards? Very cool. Love to admire them from a distance. But I’m not built for pet ownership that involves thermostat management and crickets on auto-ship. Respect to those who are—I salute you. Truly. But this gal needs fur, eye contact, and a personality big enough to match my own.
The Final Word:
Pets are like people—some are weird, some are wonderful, some are downright exhausting. But when you find the ones that fit your life and fill your heart? Hold on tight. Whether you’re a dog devotee, a cat whisperer, or someone who just really loves lizards, your perfect pet is out there. Mine just happen to snore, shed, and steal snacks.
Not a meltdown day. Not a catastrophe. Just… still.
I didn’t shower. I didn’t clean. I didn’t talk—out loud.
I watched TV. I worked on some content. I poked around my weekly schedule. That’s about it.
Some days, I feel perfectly fine. Solid. Functional. Even funny.
Other days? It’s like I’ve never dealt with a damn thing in my life.
My mind is a magician. A good one. She’s got a whole stage show going—spotlights, mirrors, applause. She can make you think I’ve got it all together. Honestly, she can make me believe it too.
But just when the illusion feels real, she reaches down into that fancy top hat and pulls out a rabbit.
Only it’s not a fluffy little bun-bun.
It’s a hideous, twisted thing. A reminder. A trigger. A memory I thought I’d burned.
Most of the time, I’m pretty quick. I stuff that monster back down into the hat and smile through the final act. The crowd never even notices.
But not today.
Today, I just… let it be. Quiet. Still.
It’s not defeat. It’s not weakness. It’s just part of it.
For the last couple of years, I truly thought I had crossed over to the dark side. That I had suddenly become an introvert. I mean, I found myself turning down plans. Preferring a cozy night in with my dogs and a good book over going out. Actually enjoying the silence. Who even was I?
But then it hit me, clear as day:
I’m not an introvert. I just love being at peace.
And I’m still wildly extroverted around the people who bring me that peace.
Give me a room full of folks who feel like sunshine on a hard day, and suddenly I’m the same loud, laughing, storytelling, joke-cracking, dance-floor-dominating me. But stick me in a crowd full of chaos, small talk, or fake energy? I’ll be clinging to the nearest exit faster than you can say “nope.”
See, I used to think solitude meant something was wrong with me. That needing alone time meant I had changed. But peace? Peace isn’t loneliness. It’s a soul exhale. It’s choosing quality over quantity. It’s recognizing who and what drains you—and who and what fills your cup until it’s overflowing.
I’ve learned to stop labeling myself. I’m not introvert or extrovert. I’m just someone who has finally learned how sacred peace is—and how damn good it feels to protect it.
So if you see me out, and I’m quiet, don’t assume I’ve changed.
And if you see me lighting up like a firework around certain people, know this:
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.
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).
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.
Journeys With Jani 