Author: jeanieelizabeth

Barbados — The Beach Ride and the Pharmaceutical Taxi

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment
View overlooking the Sandy Cove at Coconut Creek Hotel

Barbados was a long-standing bucket-list island, so we finally booked a stay at Coconut Creek in St. James, a small cliff-top hotel on Barbados’ west coast.

A staircase wound down to the beach below, where sailboats rested on the sand waiting for the day’s first drift into the calm Caribbean water.

The hotel had a cricket-themed bar—a reminder that in Barbados, cricket wasn’t just a sport. It was part of the culture.

It was at Coconut Creek that we met a lovely woman named Alice. Every summer, she left Britain behind and went island-hopping through Barbados, Tobago, and Antigua.

Alice spoke about the islands with the confidence of someone who had explored the Caribbean for years. She described each one in detail, carefully explaining their differences and charms. More importantly, she made it clear that these weren’t simply places she enjoyed visiting—they were, in her opinion, the three best islands in the Caribbean.

At the time, we listened politely and tucked her recommendations away.

The Beach

The sandy cove had its own rhythm — warm sand and the fading footprints of early morning beach walks.

The Cricket Club

Cricket was everywhere in Barbados, so it wasn’t surprising that Coconut Creek had its own Cricketeers Bar.

One afternoon, while enjoying a Red Stripe, David struck up a conversation with Kevin, the bartender, about cricket. It quickly became apparent that he knew far more than the average tourist.

When Kevin learned about David’s cricket accomplishments in Wales, his eyes widened. He immediately reached across the bar to shake his hand and promptly served him another Red Stripe.

In Barbados, that was apparently the cricket equivalent of being recognized by royalty.

A small pair of trophy bats still hang on my wall. They remind me of the athlete David was, and the path he never got to finish.

Life changes direction in ways we never expect. An illness ended his professional cricket career, but he went on to earn his PhD in Physics.

A single moment can change everything you once took for granted.

The Beach Ride

Every island we visited had its own personality, and Barbados was no different.

We booked a beach trail ride with a local stable and took a taxi across the island.

The guide was an American named Chuck, and I was paired with a palomino named Nugget.

The ride itself was incredible—a beautiful stretch of deserted beach where the horses walked through the sand and surf at a relaxed pace.

Everything about it felt peaceful and sun-washed, the kind of experience that makes you wonder why you don’t simply stay in the islands forever.

After the ride, Chuck offered us a ride back to the hotel.

I climbed into his car still floating somewhere between beach bliss and heat exhaustion when I noticed pills.

Everywhere.

In the cup holders.

On the floorboards.

Rolling across the console during turns like loose change.

The vehicle looked less like transportation and more like a pharmaceutical scavenger hunt.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of David seated in the back seat.

“What are all these pills?” He asked.

Chuck never blinked.

“Uppers, downers … help yourself.”

I considered this generous offer for exactly one second.

“Yeah, that’s going to be a hard pass.”

He offered no further explanation.

We asked no further questions.

We simply continued toward the hotel while assorted mystery tablets migrated around the car like tiny tourists.

Machete Dude

Barbados seemed determined to keep me slightly on edge.

When I got out of Chuck’s vehicle, I made the mistake of stopping to photograph a colorful roadside fruit cart.

I captured one quick photo, but the vendor turned just as I was about to snap a second shot.

Before I could lower the camera, he waved the machete and began enthusiastically explaining—with dramatic hand gestures—that photographs apparently required payment.

At that point, I decided the fruit cart no longer needed documenting.

I consider that one of my better travel decisions.

Island Treasures

I always looked for unique art while traveling through the Caribbean, and Barbados did not disappoint.

I wandered into a small studio filled with beautiful hand‑dyed batiks, each one more vibrant than the last.

I purchased three batiks, and this colorful fish still hangs on my wall today — a little burst of island color that never lost its magic.


The Island and I had Words

Barbados was lovely.

The beaches were beautiful. The people were welcoming. 

But everywhere I turned, some new form of chaos seemed to be waiting.

At some point, I concluded that Barbados and I simply weren’t in sync.

The island was trying very hard to provide a relaxing Caribbean vacation.

The Final Verdict: Barbados failed to make the repeat list.

We mutually agreed to give it a few years and see other people.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series


Coastal Cowgirl: Naples, Florida

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

When I first moved to Florida in May, 2022, I lived in an apartment while I searched for my new home. I explored the state like a woman who had been handed a map, a full tank of gas, and absolutely no reason to stay home.

Every week brought another town, another “maybe I live here now” moment. In each place, I explored what life might look like there—but most importantly, I evaluated riding options, boarding stables for Rosie, and nearby hiking trails.

I began on the Gulf Coast in Naples—the polished, palm-lined, rosé-at-lunch version of Florida.

Naples offered everything I needed for a soft landing: beaches, shopping, and the kind of Gulf breezes that make you forget you once survived life in the Sonoran Desert.

When I relocated from Phoenix, I traded blazing, bone-dry heat for something softer—still hot but wrapped in humidity.

I grew up on the East Coast, so the air here felt more like home than anything the desert ever offered.

Life Beneath the Flight Path

I stayed at the Hyatt House on 5th Avenue, perfectly positioned along the Gordon River Marina and walking distance to Tin City. It was the ideal base.

Well… ideal except for one tiny detail.

The room I booked overlooked the river from the back of the hotel—which, as I soon learned, sits directly beneath the flight path for Naples Airport.

One afternoon, I was sitting on my balcony, relaxing like a woman who had finally found her Florida calm. The sky was blue, the air was warm, the river was quiet…

And then— a loud whoosh overhead.

A jet came over so low I felt like I could read the pilot’s name tag.

The first time it happened, I didn’t just flinch—I instinctively ducked.  That first one spooked me harder than a horse encountering a plastic grocery bag.

Still, Naples had me hooked.

A Coastal Cowgirl Needs a Horse

No Florida chapter of mine would be complete without a horseback ride, so I found a local stable and joined a group trail ride through the wooded, sandy paths of Golden Gate Estates.

The horses were steady, the guide was friendly, and the trails felt like stepping into a quieter, wilder version of Naples.

It was the perfect blend of coastal and cowgirl—palm trees, pine flatwoods, and the soft thud of hooves on sugar sand.

As I drove through Golden Gate Estates, I caught myself daydreaming—the kind of daydream where you buy a few acres, build a barndominium, and give your horse the kind of at-home life that makes both of you happy.

Then reality arrived in the form of a single word: Hurricanes.

At the time, I had absolutely no hurricane experience.

The last thing I wanted was to find myself trying to evacuate a horse while half of South Florida attempted to leave at the same time.

I had evacuated horses ahead of a wildfire in Arizona. But I knew those roads and it wasn’t a mass exodus.

Standing in Golden Gate Estates, I realized I wasn’t ready to repeat that experience with hurricanes.

That was the moment I knew Naples—and other beach communities—could be my escape, my coastal reset, but not my home base.

So I stayed in Central Florida, where hurricanes remain a possibility but the logistics are kinder, and I let the coasts become my playground instead of my responsibility.

Hiking the Wild Side of Naples

Every place I’ve lived, I’ve adjusted my riding and hiking to the local terrain.

Delaware and the Jersey Shore offered parks and long beach walks. Arizona traded shade for red rock, elevation gains, and desert washes. Florida introduced me to mangroves, pine flatwoods, and wetlands.

The terrain changed; the daily mileage simply found a new backdrop.

As an avid hiker, I normally cover six to eight miles a day, six days a week, so Naples’ trails and boardwalks were an easy invitation.

I relied heavily on the AllTrails app to help me find routes that wouldn’t leave me lost, isolated, or starring in a local news segment.

My first hike was the Gordon River Greenway, a peaceful 2.8-mile out-and-back trail combining paved pathways and elevated boardwalks through mangroves and shaded wetlands.

From there, I ventured into Florida’s largest state park: Fakahatchee Strand Preserve.

The Big Cypress Bend Boardwalk stretches 2,500 feet through spectacular swamp scenery before ending at an observation deck overlooking an alligator pond.

It’s the kind of place where you half expect a nature documentary narrator to emerge from the trees.

I also hiked a section of the Florida Trail along East Main Tram, an easy four-mile out-and-back route following former logging roads.

Parts were muddy but manageable, and thanks to the wisdom of previous hikers posting on AllTrails, I wore waterproof boots instead of discovering the mud the hard way.

Tin City After Dark

No Naples visit would be complete without a stop at Tin City, conveniently located within walking distance of the Hyatt.

The shops were fun. The waterfront was beautiful.

But the real entertainment arrived after dark.

One evening, as I dined on the open-air deck at Riverwalk, a party boat returned to the dock carrying passengers who were enthusiastically singing to the music.

They were blissfully happy, rum-punch powered, and ready to toast anything that wasn’t nailed down.

My favorite was the final passenger to leave the boat.

She was still dancing to music that no longer existed.

The crew attempted to guide her down the gangway.

One even tried dancing her toward the exit.

Eventually she was escorted safely onto the dock, where she continued performing for the benefit of waterfront diners.

Last I saw, she was twirling toward the nearest bar like an adorable dancing diva.

Not Every Place Is Meant to Be Home

The best part of Naples has always been its effortless elegance.

The soft Gulf light and the calm water. The breezes that feel like an exhale.

Naples never seems to demand attention. It simply exists, confident in what it is, and that quiet existence is part of its charm.

When I was searching for a place to call home, Naples taught me something important: not every place you love is meant to be where you live.

Some places become escapes, others become the places you return to when life feels too loud.

Every visit reminds me why it remains one of my favorite coastal escapes—a place where nature, adventure, and coastal elegance come together effortlessly.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl Series

Swimming with Horses in Palma Sola Bay… Anna Maria Island

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment
📷: Ava Schultz Photography

I retired my personal horse, Rosie, from strenuous riding in her early twenties. An abused rescue, she had earned an early retirement package.

I would still hop on her bareback for a slow wander around the property, but I no longer “rode” her — not in the walk‑trot‑canter, trail‑miles sense of the word. To me, that defines riding.

What we did in her later years was simply keep each other company. Rosie was perfectly content in retirement; her only real complaint in Florida was the relentless swarm of flies who seemed personally offended by her existence.

Like most of my friends with senior horses, I shifted to riding rentals — the natural extension of staying in the saddle while honoring the limits of a horse who had already given so much.

So when I happened upon Florida Beach Horses on social media, I knew this would be my next riding adventure. 

I spent the night in Lakewood Ranch and drove to the meet location the next morning with the kind of nervous excitement that usually means you’re about to do something memorable.

As I crossed the causeway into Anna Maria Island, I spotted the horses hitched under a shade tree, tails flicking lazily in the warm air.

I parked in a sandy pull-off, checked in, and was paired with Buddy — mildly irritated, fully opinionated, but tolerant because he loved his job.

The Sand & Surf Ride began along the shoreline, each horse and rider moving in quiet formation. The bay lay still as glass, the sun already spilling gold across the water, while Buddy carried me forward with the calm certainty of a familiar task.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

Back at the start, the saddles came off for the surf portion. The water was chest‑deep and the guides easily walked the horses out to a sandbar where we formed a circle. One by one, we stood on our horses’ backs, the bay glittering around us.

Then came the skiing.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

We slipped into the water and grabbed hold of the horse’s tails as the guides mounted up.  A reminder floated back to secure my suit, though there was no real concern —only trust, and the strangeness of what was about to happen.

And then Buddy moved.

A surge and suddenly I was being drawn through the bay like a thread through silk—four hooves carving motion through water, turning effort into flight.

Next came swimming on horseback, in water just deep enough for the horses to lift into that slow, powerful float. They knew their job and followed the lead horse willingly. You don’t fall off a horse riding bareback in water — the buoyancy keeps you right where you need to be.

The final stretch was a race to shore. As we approached the shallows, Buddy started blowing bubbles like a mischievous child. It made me smile. His ears were pinned so I couldn’t tell if he was pleased the swim was over—or quietly disappointed it had to end.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

The sun was shining. The water was warm and salty. It was the kind of day that doesn’t feel real until it becomes memory.

My next hiking and riding trips were to the Appalachian Mountains, Assateague, and Monument Valley, but those were unfortunately canceled due to unforeseen circumstances.

There are no guarantees in life, only moments —all we can do is enjoy the ride we’re on.

📷: Ava Schultz Photography

After the ride, I continued across the causeway still thinking about Buddy — the steady rhythm of his stride through the water.  It was a feeling — a quiet confidence a rider earns from a new experience.

I pulled straight into the parking lot at Holmes Beach and settled on the outdoor patio of Anna Maria Beach Café with fish tacos and an iced tea.  

Holmes Beach has soft, powdery white sand and shallow, turquoise waters. The beach spans seven acres of dunes, palms, and sea grapes. 

One unexpected thing I noticed on Anna Maria Island — and eventually became slightly obsessed with — was the island’s apparent competition for most entertaining mailbox.

Not normal mailboxes.
AMI mailboxes.

Dolphins leaping from posts.
Manatees the size of small kayaks.
Flamingos balancing beside driveways like permanent lawn guests.

Some looked hand-painted. Others looked like full art projects someone absolutely took too seriously in the best possible way.

At some point I realized the mailboxes were quietly telling the story of the island itself — playful, sun-faded, slightly eccentric, and completely unconcerned with being fashionable.

I started photographing them the way other people photograph sunsets.

Because on Anna Maria Island, apparently even the mailboxes have beach personalities.

Dinner was at the Sandbar Restaurant known for its toes-in-sand dining and sweeping gulf views. 

I was intrigued by The Doctor’s Office, a clever restaurant and bar in Holmes Beach.  I decided to stop in for a glass of recovery — a virgin Hibiscus Pom Margarita.

The bartender referred to my order as a ‘placebo’.  This is one of the most entertaining restaurant concepts on the island. The menu reads like a medical chart written by someone with a sense of humor: Culinary Prescriptions, First Aid, Initial Consultations, Taco Therapy, and Emergency Care.

The interior was eclectic — part vintage doctor’s office, part moody cocktail bar.  There was an eye chart on a ledge and a skeleton with a pink stethoscope propped in a corner, looking like he’d stayed for one drink too many.

Shopping on the island feels the same way — relaxed, local, and diverse — with little boutiques scattered throughout Anna Maria Island and along Bridge Street, where wandering around somehow becomes part of the entertainment.

Outside one boutique, exuberant parrots greeted me with a full‑volume chorus of chatter and whistles — tiny, feathered chatterboxes gossiping like they were on their third mimosa and absolutely living for the drama. 

That’s part of AMI’s charm.

Not flashy. Not manufactured. Just beach bars, quirky restaurants, bicycles leaning against fences, and a community that collectively decided life works better in sandals.

Apparently the cure for an ordinary week involves one beach horse, fish tacos, mailbox flamingos, and a prescription for Taco Therapy.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series

Devil’s Bridge — Sedona, Arizona

On By jeanieelizabethIn HikingLeave a comment

There are places in this world that feel borrowed from another planet, and Sedona is one of them.

The red rocks rise like ancient cathedrals — glowing at sunrise, burning at sunset, shifting from rust to fire to deep wine as the light moves across the canyon walls.

For years, I was lucky enough to live just forty minutes away — close enough to disappear into Sedona whenever life needed a reset.

Some days that meant coffee beneath the cottonwoods.

Other days, it meant wandering through galleries at Tlaquepaque Village or the downtown shops along 89A.

But sometimes, it meant hiking Devil’s Bridge.

Not because it was the hardest or the longest, but because it always felt a little sacred.

The Hike

The best time to go is during the cooler months. I went for my birthday in October — crisp mornings, golden afternoons, and fewer crowds (though there are always crowds).

Most hikers start from the Mescal Trailhead, but I preferred Dry Creek for the more direct route. The hike is 4.6 miles RT from the paved lot. If your vehicle can handle off-road driving, continue down the unpaved road until large rocks prevent further access. From there, it’s about 1 mile to the trailhead.

The first stretch is a wide, rocky path shared with mountain bikers — scenic hiking with occasional survival instincts. Keep your ears open. They come fast.

Once the route merges with the official Devil’s Bridge Trail, everything changes. The terrain steepens. The trail narrows.

Smooth dirt becomes uneven rock and natural stone steps.

The elevation gain is only around 400 feet, but Sedona’s dry desert air makes every incline feel a little steeper.

And then the landscape starts showing off — red cliffs, scattered pines, endless sky.

After the first major trail sign, the climb begins in earnest. A few sets of steep rock stairs lead you to the classic viewpoint you’ve seen in photos a hundred times.

And there it is: Devil’s Bridge stretching across open canyon, with hikers waiting patiently for their turn.

It’s wider than it looks in pictures, but it still commands your full attention. Risky photo ops are… unwise.

But honestly? The hike isn’t about the bridge. It’s about the feeling when you get there.

The Moment

That final stretch before the arch changes people.

The trail hugs the rock wall just enough to remind you there’s a drop beside you — not terrifying, just enough to make you aware of every step.

You turn the corner and there it is — the arch, suspended over open sky, with a line of dusty hikers waiting their turn. Phones out. Cameras ready. Strangers cheering for strangers.

Honestly, that might be my favorite part.

I finally stepped onto the arch with the wind brushing my face and the canyon opening beneath me. I lifted into my pose — one foot grounded, one leg raised — and for a moment everything went quiet.

Someone cheered. Someone snapped a photo. And I walked back feeling a little taller than when I started.

The Reward Afterward

The best hikes end with good food.

For me, that was always Indian Gardens Café & Market in Oak Creek Canyon — coffee, homemade soup, and a Mediterranean salad under the shade trees. Everything tastes better when you’ve earned it.

There’s something about Sedona that quiets the noise of the world.

Somewhere between the canyon silence and the endless sky, you remember what it feels like to simply exist inside a moment instead of rushing through it.

Part of the Hiking Series

The Girl With the Pink Surfboard

On By jeanieelizabethIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

At five o’clock, after the lifeguards climbed down from their stands and tourists dragged their coolers off the sand, the beach finally belonged to us.

That’s when we paddled out.

I was the girl with the pink surfboard.

Not because pink was fashionable—it wasn’t. The board had sat unsold at Kona Surf Shop for so long it practically looked abandoned. But the moment I saw it leaning against the rack, I knew it belonged to me.

Long before mountain trails, desert hikes, or red rock canyons, there was Wildwood Crest.

That’s where my love of moving through the world began.

Growing up at the Jersey Shore meant living between two worlds—the ocean on one side, the bay and Sunset Lake on the other. Close enough to smell saltwater no matter which way the wind blew.

Some of my best memories were born there.

Sunset Lake was its own universe: crabbing off the pier, water skiing across the bay, sunfish sailboats skimming over water that turned gold in the evening. Entire days shaped by tides, weather, and whatever adventure sounded fun at the moment.

Life wasn’t perfect. But it felt free.

Dodging the tram car on the boardwalk was its own kind of dance — a mix of timing, instinct, and luck. The boardwalk was alive: music spilling from arcades, chatter drifting from bars, tourists and locals moving in all directions.

Boardwalk or beach, it was hiking—the terrain never mattered, just the freedom of moving under your own power.

Surfing was different.

I learned to surf goofy foot—right foot forward—which made perfect sense for someone who’s been directionally challenged in nearly every aspect of life. Of course, I surfed backwards.

Eventually, I graduated from the pink board to a custom surfboard—orange with a navy pinstripe and white deck—the kind of board that made me feel like I truly belonged out there.

The pink board was passed down to my younger brother, Joe, and sister, Janice.

I teased Joe about surfing on a pink “girl board.” He just shrugged. “Whatever. It works.”

That was Joe. Quiet, easygoing, completely unbothered by things that didn’t matter.

Sandwiched between two sisters, he spent most of his time rescuing us without making a big deal about it.

Some friends pick up where they left off… others end with summer. Alice was an ending. She borrowed my pink board, spent hours in our basement shooting pool, laughing, lingering in the heat of long summer days. By fall, she was gone, and the season — along with her — had slipped away.

The cute little pink surfboard had seen it all — wax, salt, duct tape, and a dozen beginners finding their footing.

Our summer home was a gathering place. Sandy towels hung everywhere. Sun-faded boards leaned in corners. The smell of surf wax and salt air was permanently embedded in everything we owned.

We often hung out at the Surf Shack with Zoo-Man, Zoo, for short. We practiced sliding down a longboard propped against the wooden shack while he coached.

Back then, the beach wasn’t a destination. It was simply part of life.

It had its own rhythm: morning quiet, afternoon dancing in the sand, and early‑evening surfing.

Long before hiking trails, there were morning walks on the beach from Preston Avenue to Diamond Beach and the jetty—barefoot through wet sand while cold foam chased my ankles.

The early morning beach belonged to surfers, fishermen, runners, locals—the ones who showed up before the world got loud.

There was almost always a fisherman standing alone in the low surf, casting into waves that barely seemed awake.

By noon, we’d wander down the beach to the Barefoot Bar. The Diamond Beach Barefoot Bar was its own little world — live music drifting across the sand, barefoot people dancing near the surf, plastic cups in hand, and the warm Jersey air carrying that intoxicating feeling that summer might somehow last forever.

At the time, I didn’t realize those walks were quietly teaching me a map I would follow for the rest of my life. Not in mountains. Not in deserts. But here—in the rhythm of moving forward.

After hiking mountains, national parks, and traveling far and wide, part of me still returns…

To the ocean.
To Sunset Lake.
To long beach walks.
To the intoxicating freedom of being young at the Jersey Shore before adulthood scattered everyone in different directions.

And to the girl with the pink surfboard—long before I realized I was already learning how to wander.

Part of the Hiking Series

If My Life Were a Radio Playlist

On By jeanieelizabethIn UncategorizedLeave a comment 





 
There’s something about getting in the car
that creates a false sense of control.
Destination set.
Coffee secured.
Confidence high.





And yet—





somewhere along the way,
the plan dissolves,
decisions are made without my full consent,
and I find myself navigating situations
I was not prepared for.





If my life were a road trip,
this would be the playlist—
the moments, the miscalculations,
and the quiet acceptance
that we are just going to see how this goes.










Departure Dilemma





I finally leave the house.
Momentum achieved.
A deceptively smooth beginning — always suspicious.

Three blocks later, my brain casually informs me
that the overnight bag
is still sitting in the driveway.
Just… out there. 

Watching me leave.
Like we had a plan
and it chose
not to participate.










Unexpected Road Hazard





Everything was fine.
Clear roadway ahead.

And then—

a rocking chair decides to exit a moving pickup 
and openly defy physics.

It is now hurling straight at my windshield 
at a speed I would classify as unwelcome.

It’s shredding mid air like homemade shrapnel.

And suddenly, I’m a target.

The chair abandons its mission 
and targets someone else.
I can breathe again.










Parallel Parking Jury

No one was around.
Until I tried to park
in the only space available 
a space so small
it feels like a setup.

And now—

there’s a small gathering
of strangers

watching me perform
what can only be described as

a slow, public unraveling—

with occasional pointing
for emphasis.










 Coffee Override

No hesitation.
No debate.

Whatever direction I was going in
is no longer relevant.

Caffeine has spoken—
and I respect the authority.










Next Rest Area – 50 Miles





Hydration has consequences.

At the time,
it felt responsible.
Healthy, even.

Now it feels…
like a personal betrayal.

And a situation.










The Cone Vendetta

It was clearly visible. 
Bright orange. 
Highly avoidable.

And yet— somehow

it has attached itself to my vehicle 
like an invited guest

scraping the road, 
in full plastic despair.

I have emotionally divorced myself 
from its journey.










Cruise Control Disconnect

Everything is fine.
The car is basically driving itself.

I am, at best,
middle management.

All is smooth— 
until it misses a turn.

And I am suddenly yelling
at the car like
this is a collaboration.

Which is when I realize
it has inherited
my sense of direction.

And is now
a curse on wheels.










Golden Arches Ambush

It seemed harmless. 
Just me and a small order of fries.

And then—
one seagull.
Followed by… friends.

Now I am surrounded by birds
on the hood of my car, 
peering through the windshield

with the confidence of diners
who believe this is a shared meal 
and I simply didn’t get the memo.










Toll Booth Incident

Everything was normal 
approaching the toll.

And then—
the car next to me. 
Children. 
A bucket.

Suddenly— frogs. 
Everywhere.

The toll collector is in the street
dancing

like a man
who has been personally
betrayed by amphibians.










The LED Love Guru

The sign flashes:

“No Valentine?
Your seatbelt will hold you.”

Absolutely not.

I refuse to take dating advice
from a road sign
that has seen things

and is one overhead sighting away
from witness protection.










In the end,
it isn’t about the road trip 
or survival.

It’s about accepting 
that somedays, I am 
the universe’s 
test subject.










If your life had a soundtrack,
what song absolutely
belongs on the playlist?












 












			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Notes from the Edge

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn Lessons from the Herd, UncategorizedLeave a comment			

					


		

			






Close enough to belong. Far enough to breathe.










Even in a herd, there’s always one that drifts to the edge.





Not lost.
Not pushed out.
Just… not standing in the center.










It’s easy to assume that one is different.





Less connected.
Less involved.
Somehow outside of it all.





But that’s not what’s happening.










The one at the edge sees more.





The movement of the group.
The shift in energy.
The subtle changes before they become obvious.





They’re not separate from the herd—
just positioned differently within it.










I’ve realized, over time…
that I tend to live there.





Not completely alone.
Not fully in the middle, either.





Somewhere just outside the center—
close enough to belong,
far enough to breathe.










I’m outgoing.
I enjoy people.
I love meaningful conversation.





But I’ve never had a wide circle.
Never felt the need to be constantly surrounded.





There’s a quiet hesitation in me—
a little bit of shyness that never fully leaves.










And sometimes…
I do step into the center.





I lean in.
I engage more.
I try to stay there.





But it rarely lasts.










Not because something dramatic happens—
but because I start to feel it.





The noise.
The expectations.
The subtle misalignments.





And without thinking too much about it,
I begin to pull back.










I don’t make an announcement.
I don’t force distance.





I just… drift.





Back to the edge
where things feel clearer again.










It’s not about people being wrong.





It’s about knowing where I’m most myself.










Horses understand this instinctively.





They don’t cling to the center for comfort.
They move when they need space.
They return when it matters.





No explanation.
No second-guessing.





Just awareness.










There’s a quiet strength in that.





Not leaving—
just repositioning.





Creating enough space
to stay grounded
without losing connection.










Maybe that’s why the edge has always felt right to me.





Not because I don’t belong in the center—
but because I don’t need to stay there
to feel connected.










Because from the edge,
you can see the whole picture.





And when you step back in—
you do it as yourself.










I don’t leave the herd—
I just know where I stand within it.










From the Lessons from the Herd series







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Chronically Directionally Challenged

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn ReflectionsLeave a comment			

					


		

			






I am, without exaggeration,
one of the most navigationally challenged people
you will ever meet.





Not “a little bad with directions.”
Not “sometimes I get lost.”





I mean: if there are two options —
left or right —
I will choose the one that makes
no geographical sense whatsoever.










And it’s not random. It feels intentional.





Like my brain hears “correct direction”
and rebels… “Absolutely not.”










I’ve gotten lost driving home from work.
Same route. Every day.





I have entered a parking lot…
and exited confusion.





I once drove home from the Jersey Shore—
a trip I’ve done a hundred times—
and somehow ended up approaching New York City.





Which, by the way, is not
on the way home to Delaware.





That’s not a detour.
That’s a lifestyle change.










At some point, my husband would finally ask, very calmly:
“Do you know where you’re going”





And I’d say, with equal calm:
“No.”





Then, for clarity:
“Evidently, I’m going where my inner goddess directs me.”










My personal philosophy is simple:
I don’t panic. I just commit.





“Let me make the mistake,” I would say,
“and I’ll correct it later.”





Which sounds reasonable…
until you realize we are now in a different state
and I am still confident I am correct.










I once went on a business trip with my boss.
He was driving.
Traffic was bad.
He handed me the map.





In my defense, this was before GPS.
But also… he had met me.
So that’s on him.










I took the task seriously.





“Go this way.”
“Take that exit.”
“I think it’s up here.”





After a while, he went quiet.
Then— “I think we’re going in circles.”





We had passed the same monument three times.
At that point it was basically greeting us.





He pulled over, took the map away, and said:
“Yeah… I’m going to handle this.”





Fair.










Eventually, I accepted this is not fixable.
This is not a skill issue.
This is a personality trait.










But here’s the strange part:
I don’t actually hate it.





Because when you’re constantly lost,
you see things you weren’t trying to see.





Wrong exits.
Unexpected places.
Accidental discoveries.





And sometimes…
that’s better than the plan.










So yes. I will take the wrong turn.
Miss the exit.
Confidently drive in the wrong direction
with the conviction of someone
who absolutely should not be in charge of navigation.










Because for me,
driving isn’t just transportation.
It’s an experience.










But it’s fine.





My inner goddess is navigating,
and she’s clearly on her own journey.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Painted Ponies

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn Lessons from the HerdLeave a comment			

					


		

			







Like a herd of painted ponies, friends are the color in life’s kaleidoscope.

They don’t arrive all at once, and they don’t stay in formation.










Some move through quietly. Others burst in, bright and unforgettable. A few linger long enough to feel like part of the landscape.





The people we meet along the way come in all personalities. Some are lasting. Some are transient. All of them leave a mark—one of remembrance or a lesson.










Some friendships are easy. They settle in naturally, without effort or expectation. You pick up where you left off, no matter how much time has passed.





Others arrive with intensity—fast, vibrant, consuming—only to fade just as quickly. At the time, they feel significant. Later, you realize they were never meant to stay.










And then there are the ones who challenge you.





The ones who reveal something you didn’t want to see. The ones who test your boundaries, your patience, your sense of self. They don’t always leave gently, but they leave something behind—clarity, strength, or the quiet understanding that not every connection is meant to last.










It’s easy to measure friendship by duration. The ones who stayed. The ones who didn’t.





But time isn’t always the measure.










Some of the most fleeting connections leave the deepest impressions. A conversation. A moment. A shared experience that shifts something in you, even if the person is gone just as quickly as they arrived.










Like a kaleidoscope, the pattern is always changing.





Pieces move. Colors shift. What once felt central fades to the edges, while something new comes into focus. You don’t always see the full design while you’re in it.










Only later do you recognize the pattern—the way each person added something, even if it was brief.










Some brought warmth.
Some brought laughter.
Some brought lessons you wouldn’t have chosen, but needed all the same.










And all of them, in their own way, added color.















Part of “Lessons from the Herd” series





 


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Attack of the Bidet

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn ReflectionsLeave a comment			

					


		

			






Three coworkers by day, deeply questionable decision-makers by night—we had a long-standing tradition built on clubs, dance floors, and the sacred lie of “this is the last stop,” a promise that had never once survived contact with reality.





So, when Vivian announced she wanted to take a trip to Reno for a job search, there was… a pause.





Not because anyone doubted her.





But because everyone understood exactly what “job search” means in Vivian’s universe.





“To be clear,” I asked Viv, “Are we actually job searching… or are we just bringing résumés near casinos?”





Vivian just smiled—that raven-haired, chaos-coded smile that has historically been preceded both by free upgrades and mild property damage.





And that’s how the three of us ended up on a quick getaway that returned us with snacks, poorly vetted decisions, and a story that honestly should come with a warning label.





Not just a story—a series of regrettable brilliance.                                                                                         The kind that changes a person.










Somewhere between check‑in and getting the room keys, Vivian turned on the charm with the reservation clerk — that effortless flirtaholic energy she refused to turn off — and next thing you know?





Suite upgrade.





No one asked questions. No one intervened. The universe simply… allowed it.





Which is how we ended up with a much‑nicer‑than‑necessary hotel bathroom.





Clean tile. Soft lighting. A dangerous level of confidence in the air.





And sitting innocently beside the toilet… a bidet.





Paula stared at it like it had personally wronged her.





I backed away immediately, already sensing danger.





Vivian? She just tilted her head, assessing it like a puzzle she fully intended to solve incorrectly.





Paula, a grown adult with confidence and absolutely no relevant experience, gave it a once-over.





“I mean… how hard could it be?”





Vivian, already interested in chaos, leaned in.





I stayed near the door. Observing. Judging. Preparing to testify later.





Paula held up a finger as she recounted this part afterward.
“There was a button labeled Mountain Stream.”





Me: “That sounds aggressive.”





Vivian: “That sounds like a challenge.”                                                                                                  





Paula:  “I’m pressing it.”





She should not have pressed it.





What happened next defies physics, plumbing, and several personal boundaries.





A jet of icy, high-pressure water blasted upward with the enthusiasm of a Yellowstone geyser. Paula shrieked—loud enough to concern nearby guests and possibly alert the front desk to a situation they were not trained for.





The force launched her forward.





I watched this unfold in real time and can confirm… she left the ground… like fully airborne.  It was like witnessing a NASA rocket launch. 





Paula hit the wall, slid down dramatically, drenched, stunned, and—by her own account—spiritually rearranged.





Dignity?  Gone.
Composure?  Gone.
Grip on reality?  Slippery at best.





Naturally, Vivian stepped forward.





“You didn’t do it right. Move.”





I tried to induce sanity: “No. No one needs to do it right.”





But Vivian had already committed.





She approached the bidet with the enthusiasm of someone who has never been defeated by plumbing—or common sense.





The bidet responded with the confidence of a machine that absolutely intended to win.





Within seconds, Vivian was hydroplaning across the tile like a confused penguin in a disaster film. Towels were sacrificed. Dignity was lost. The bidet remained… committed.





At one point, she caught her reflection.





Hair soaked. Eyes feral. Shirt clinging like she’d just fought the ocean and lost.





She didn’t look human anymore.





She looked like Soakazilla— a damp, furious creature born from dubious life choices and excessive water pressure.





“This is how I die,” she announced, slipping—again—while reaching for the knob.





Paula, still recovering on the floor, offered zero assistance.





I was pressed against the wall, now laughing in the specific tone of someone witnessing history.





Somewhere between the slipping, the shrieking, and the aggressive aquatic betrayal, Vivian managed to hit peak velocity—hydroplaning into the towel rack, careening sideways, and sliding down the wall like a damp tactical mural.





Eventually—after what felt like 8–12 business seconds but may have been an entire era—she shut the bidet off.





Silence fell.





Only the sound of dripping water remained.





And three women reconsidering every life choice that led them to that bathroom.










But here’s where it gets worse.





Because after witnessing Paula’s launch and Vivian’s transformation into a water-based cryptid, there should have been a lesson.





There was not.





There was… a second attempt.





Paula, fueled by wounded pride and extremely poor judgment, whispered, “Okay but I think I understand it now.”





“You don’t”, I pleaded “You absolutely don’t.”





Of course she tried again.





The bidet, unwavering in its mission, responded with the same unholy enthusiasm.





Another blast. Another shriek. Another loss for humanity. 





At this point, the bathroom floor was no longer a surface—it was a hazard.





Both Paula (Geyser) and Vivian (Soakazilla) had now been personally victimized by hotel plumbing.





I remained the sole survivor. Dry. Untouched. But emotionally changed.










No amount of personal development will undo what happened in that bathroom.





Some experiences stay with you.
Some follow you.
Some… require towels and silence.





And for everyone’s safety, Soakazilla and Geyser are now permanently banned from unsupervised encounters with hotel plumbing.





I, meanwhile, have been appointed both witness and historian.





If anyone ever suggests a quick trip again—I will be bringing a flotation device.





Because apparently being launched across a bathroom wasn’t humiliation enough, the hotel bill politely informed us: ‘No Charge for the Power Wash.’  Honestly, that hurt more than the water pressure.





 





RIP Vivian, thanks for the memories.