Journeys With Jani

TSA in the USA: A Tale of Pat-Downs, Shoe Removal, and “Ma’am, Is This Your Bag?”

August 12, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Travel Advice

Let’s Talk About It…

When you fly as much as we do, you start to realize that airport security isn’t just a process — it’s a cultural experience.

Here in the U.S., and particularly in my home airport of Atlanta, TSA is like the Chick-fil-A drive-thru on a bad day. You’ve got long lines, people who apparently didn’t realize liquids in your carry-on are still a no-no after twenty years of hearing it, and agents who oscillate between “good morning, welcome” and “step over there and don’t touch anything.”

In Atlanta, I can count on three things:

The Marathon Walk – From the drop-off to the security checkpoint feels like a cardio session. If you didn’t pack your walking shoes, congratulations, you just made your bad decision of the day. The Shoe Shuffle – Without TSA PreCheck, you’re almost guaranteed to be peeling off your shoes, belt, and dignity while trying not to hold up the line. Bag Drama – If I had a dollar for every time my bag got pulled for “secondary screening,” I could charter my own plane and avoid the whole circus. And it’s always over something like my travel-size peanut butter or a suspiciously-shaped hairbrush.

Now here’s where I admit — I’ve gamed the system. I have all the things: TSA PreCheck, CLEAR, and the new digital ID in my Apple Wallet. In Atlanta, this means I can often glide through in minutes while others are still debating if they have to take out their laptop (spoiler: they do). It’s glorious. It’s efficient. It’s worth every penny — if you fly often enough to use it.

If you’re flying twice a year? It might not be worth the cost and the application hassle. But if you’re like us and airports are basically your second home, PreCheck, CLEAR, and that digital ID are your VIP passes to sanity.

Now, about going abroad—a few examples…

France:

Flying out of Paris, I braced myself for Atlanta-level chaos. Instead, I was greeted with a calm, almost polite security experience. Sure, they still check your liquids and wave the magic wand if you beep, but it’s done with a certain je ne sais quoi. The French TSA-equivalent doesn’t seem personally offended by your existence. They even smiled when I said “Bonjour.” I about fell over.

Mexico:

Mexico’s airport security feels more like a high school field trip chaperoned by very thorough aunties. They’re quick, efficient, and a little warmer in their delivery — but don’t get it twisted, they will absolutely make you open your bag and pull out that one random thing you swore you didn’t have. They also seem to have a sixth sense for spotting snacks.

Dominican Republic:

Oh, the DR. Flying out of Punta Cana, I learned that security there is a fascinating blend of relaxed island energy and serious authority. You’ll get through quickly if you follow instructions, but they’re not playing around. And yes, they might swab your hands for…reasons that remain a mystery to me. All I know is, I passed and kept moving.

The Verdict?

In the U.S., especially Atlanta, TSA can feel like a gauntlet you must survive to earn your boarding pass — unless you have the “fast lane” combo of PreCheck, CLEAR, and digital ID. Abroad, I find the process a little less soul-sucking and slightly more…human. Either way, I follow the rules, smile when I can, and keep my toiletries in a clear bag like it’s my badge of honor.

Because at the end of the day, whether it’s Atlanta’s “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to step over here” or Paris’s “Madame, if you please,” the mission is the same — keep us safe while we get where we’re going. And if that means I’m taking my shoes off for the 437th time, so be it.

XOXO, Jani

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Cash and the Case of the Mystery Whatever

August 11, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

If you’ve been following our little hound dog drama, you know our boy Cash gave us quite the scare. Friday, we came home to find blood—fresh, bright red blood—in various places. At first, we thought maybe he and Shelby had dragged in some poor critter, but nope. Turns out, Cash was bleeding from one nostril.

Other than that, he was his usual happy, nose-to-the-ground self. It stopped quickly, but we took no chances. Greg dropped him off at the vet first thing yesterday morning.

Fast forward to this morning—6:00 a.m. to be exact—Dr. Moore calls. Bloodwork looked great except for anemia. And here’s the kicker: NO cancer, no tumors, no definitive “this is what’s wrong” diagnosis. Just another mystery whatever in Cash’s long history of baffling the medical world.

For those who don’t know, Cash is immune deficient and had his spleen removed a while back. No spleen = slower red blood cell production. So whatever triggered the nosebleed also made his red blood cell count drop in record time.

Bottom line? He’s home. He’s happy. And he’s still Cash.

And between you and me, as much as I love that dog, I’m not sure Greg would’ve survived if the news had been anything serious. I’m pretty fond of the both of them, so I’m grateful we didn’t have to test that theory.

To everyone who sent prayers, checked in, or sent us love—thank you. You’re part of Cash’s village, and we are blessed to have you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a hound dog who needs a belly rub and a snack.

XOXO, Jani & Cash

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Southern Talk: The Menfolk Edition

August 10, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

You know, us Southern women get all the glory when it comes to “coded” speech. We’ve got “Bless your heart” down to an art form—it can be sweet as pecan pie or sharp as a switch, depending on the tone. But let me tell you, the fellas have their own language down here, and if you’re not from around these parts, you might think they’re just talking slow. Nope. They’re talking strategic.

Take “Aight.” Short for “Alright,” yes, but don’t you dare think it means just one thing. In the South, “Aight” is the Swiss Army knife of male vocabulary.

As a greeting: “Aight.” Translation: Hey there, friend. As a goodbye: “Aight.” Translation: Welp, I’m outta here. As agreement: “Aight.” Translation: Yep, you’re right. As a threat: “Aight.” Translation: You’ve got about five seconds to move before we have ourselves a situation.

The difference? Tone, eye contact, and maybe whether his jaw is clenching.

And it’s not just Aight. Southern men have an entire arsenal of verbal shortcuts.

“Mmm-hmm” – This is either “I agree with you” or “I’m not listening to a word you’re saying but I’m gonna nod so you’ll hush.” “I reckon” – The polite way of saying “I think so, but don’t quote me on it.” “Shoot” – Could mean “Darn,” “Wow,” or “You’re full of it,” depending on whether he’s grinning or scowling. “Git” – Not “get.” This is an actual command. Usually aimed at dogs, kids, or people who’ve overstayed their welcome. “Hell yeah” – This is not a casual yes. This is a full-body agreement that comes with a head nod, maybe a slap on the back, and enough enthusiasm to make you think you just suggested the best idea in the history of mankind. And yes, I have personally heard my 4-year-old granddaughter say “Hell yeah” when her daddy asked if she wanted to go to Waffle House. He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, but let’s be real—that little grandgal is pure sass. Wonder where she gets that from?

Southern men can say more in one syllable than some folks can say in a whole paragraph. And while women down here might wield their words like a lace fan—soft, but able to cut—the men? They’re more like a good pocketknife. Useful, reliable, and if necessary… dangerous.

So next time you hear a Southern guy say, “Aight” or “Hell yeah,” pay attention. He might be saying “Hello.” He might be saying “Absolutely.” Or he might be telling you your window of opportunity is closing real fast.

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Pivot.

August 10, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

Yes, no doubt, I’ve dealt with a whole lotta crazy in my life.

The kind of crazy that would make a great miniseries—equal parts drama, dark comedy, and “did that really just happen?” moments. But here’s the thing… who hasn’t been through something?

Life is a buffet of hard knocks, served with a side of “you’ve got to be kidding me.” We all have our share of trials—some folks just get them supersized.

And I’ve noticed something about those of us who’ve had our plates overflowing more than once:

We tend to handle the unexpected better.

We’ve learned to pivot.

Now, I’m not talking about the frantic kind of pivot—like Ross from Friends yelling PIVOT! while wedging a couch through a too-narrow stairwell, all arms, panic, and poor planning. That’s the pivot of people who have never been in that hallway before.

I’m talking about the kind of pivot you learn from experience. The calm “turn here, shift there” move that comes when you’ve been in enough tight spaces to know where the corners are. It’s changing course when the map gets ripped in half. It’s laughing when you want to cry and making a new plan when the old one blows up in your face.

Truth is, those curveballs life throws? They don’t feel quite as catastrophic once you’ve already survived a few fast pitches to the head. You start to realize you can take a hit and still move forward—sometimes even in a better direction than before.

And here’s my take:

If you’ve lived through chaos, heartbreak, loss, betrayal—or all of the above—you develop this unshakable confidence that you’ll figure it out. That’s the gift. Not the mess you went through, but the knowing that you can land on your feet no matter what.

So yes, life’s still going to throw the occasional sucker punch. But I’ll be over here doing what I do best…

Smiling, rolling up my sleeves, and—

Pivot

XOXO, Jani

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If I Were Gonna Open a Shop… Let’s Talk About It…

August 10, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

Front Door Sign – Back Door Sign

If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

This one started as a little creative spark from my Daily Prompt on Jetpack via WordPress. The question was simple: “If you were gonna open a shop, what would you sell?”

Well, I couldn’t just toss out, “Oh, coffee and cute things.” No. My imagination packed a bag, grabbed its passport, and went fast and ferocious.

I’d call my shop simply… Journeys.

Because it’s about more than trips on a map — it’s journeys of the senses. The visuals, the smells, the textures, the tastes… and yes, the conversations that just might turn into a plan for your next real journey across the globe.

Here’s the twist — you can enter from either end. Step through the front entrance into a light-and-airy, coastal Maine boutique — sunlight pouring in through big windows, soft blues and whites, touches of driftwood, and a breeze that smells faintly of the ocean (even if we’re nowhere near it). Along the windows, a few small café-style tables — the kind you’d find in a coastal cottage — wait for you to sip coffee, nibble on something decadent, and people-watch.

Or, come in through the back entrance, where you’ll be instantly wrapped in the warm, old-world charm of a Cambridge law library — minus the “shhh” energy. Think rich wood shelves, warm lighting, deep chairs you can sink into, and the faint smell of leather and paper. This is my reading lounge & little library, where folks can grab a book, settle in for an afternoon, or check it out for a week or two. The space would seat 20–30 comfortably — perfect for book clubs, travel talks, or those Wednesday night wine-and-snack gatherings where we pretend we’re there for the conversation but really came for the cheesecake.

Now, no matter which way you enter, you’re greeted with the smells of fresh coffee and the sight of a bakery case full of mini cheesecakes that are just the right size to convince yourself they don’t count, plus charcuterie boards that are the real deal. I’m talking artisanal cheeses, fresh bread, cured meats, fruit, nuts, and little things you can’t pronounce but will forever crave once you’ve tried them. This isn’t a pile of lunch meat next to a sleeve of crackers — no, we’re doing charcuterie justice here.

To one side, you’ll find travel goodies — not the generic, airport gift shop trinkets, but the good stuff: luggage tags that make baggage claim a treasure find, beach towels so cute you’ll never want to get them wet, and travel-size everything… because I know you forgot yours at home.

And because I believe in a little luxury, there’d be a small selection of wines right in the library section — available to open and enjoy while you read or to take home for later.

One more thing — no paper, no plastic. All plates, cups, glasses, and napkins will be real, reusable, and charming enough to photograph. Anything “to-go” will be 100% sustainable, compostable, or recyclable. Because treating yourself should never mean trashing the planet.

And when I do talk travel planning? I’ll be right there in a comfy chair in the library or at one of the café tables — coffee, wine, or charcuterie in hand — helping you dream up your next getaway.

So no, Journeys wouldn’t just sell things. It’d sell moments. The kind you tell your friends about, and the kind you secretly hope become part of their stories too.

Now… who wants to be my backer? 😉

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Prayers for Our Boy, Cash 🐾❤️

August 9, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

Cash & Shelby

Last night started out like any other—until it didn’t.

We came home to blood. A lot of it. In various places.

Honestly, with the way our hounds like to hunt, we thought maybe they had dragged something in, but we couldn’t find a thing. Later, we realized it was Cash—bleeding from his nose, only on one side. Other than that, he seemed perfectly fine, still wagging that tail like nothing was wrong. The bleeding stopped quickly, but my heart didn’t stop worrying.

This morning, Greg dropped him off at the veterinarian’s office, where they’re running a full battery of tests. We love Dr. Moore at Animal Medical Center, and I know he’s in the best hands possible.

Cash isn’t just a dog—he’s my furry best friend. We adopted him when he was just a year old from the Etowah Valley Humane Society, and we were blessed to get his full history. Back then, I was still in the veterinary field—a blessing in disguise, because within months of bringing him home, he got sick.

His red blood cell count dropped to 4. Yes… four.

What followed was months of tests, rounds of steroids and other medications, and research help from UGA, Merck Pharmaceuticals, and Idexx Labs. No one could ever pinpoint an exact diagnosis beyond the fact that he was immune-compromised.

The week before all of that, he had undergone surgery to remove his spleen because it had twisted. (Spleens, as it turns out, are generally overrated anyway.) Through it all, Cash was a trooper—never once anything less than his happy, hound-dog self.

That’s why, today, this feels like déjà vu. We’ve walked the scary path before, and thanks to prayer, love, and one determined dog, we came out the other side.

So, I’m asking again—for love, prayers, and good vibes for Cash. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the power of prayer, paired with the wag of a determined tail, can work miracles. And Greg and I just can’t accept anything less than our boy being back to 100% soon. 💕 —Jani

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“Are You Busy Tomorrow?” — The Most Loaded Question Ever

August 9, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

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.

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Let’s Talk About It… My Alternate Universe Life

August 8, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Describe your life in an alternate universe.

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.

And honestly? She’s probably right.

Ciao, Jani

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You Don’t Mess With a Southern Woman – Let’s Talk About It…

August 8, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

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.

XOXO, Jani

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The Great Homestead Awakening — Let’s Talk About It…

August 7, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

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.

Love from the cabin.

XOXO, Jani

#BougieButPrepared #RusticAndRuthless #InflationCanKissMyGrits

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