Tag: writing

Pucker Up, Hot Lips & Other Disastrous Pickup Lines

On By jeanieelizabethIn ReflectionsLeave a comment

Disclaimer:

Before the gentlemen start backing cautiously toward the exit, let me acknowledge the obvious: this works both ways. I’ve known women who used men as a meal ticket. I can’t write their field guide because I haven’t been on the receiving end of it. The Cringe Catalog is always accepting new submissions! Comments open! 😂

The Cringe Catalog: Lounge Lizards in the Wild

I’ve been hit on more often than a piñata — and unlike a piñata, I don’t hand out prizes. In my twenties, I didn’t find it nearly as entertaining. The approaches were awkward and occasionally deserving of an intervention.

Decades later, the lounge lizards have simply aged. The delivery is slower. The material has changed. The mating ritual remains intact.

And dear Lord, do I have stories.

Field Research: The Cruise Ship Lizard

On a recent solo cruise, I encountered the floating lounge lizard.  

I was sitting in the Euphoria Lounge aboard the MAS Paradise when a gentleman approached. No hello. No conversation. Just:

“Pucker up, Hot Lips.”

I replied:

“I’m sure my lip gloss has higher standards.”

And just like that… Hot Lips was denied landing clearance.

Field Notes: Stronger alcohol may be required to erase the visual.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎

Rule #1: Befriend the Bartender

Years ago, my friend Margaret and I went dancing at a nightclub in Delaware. Four engineers from work spotted us. Their leader, John, was an overconfident lothario.

Drinks began appearing behind us — Kamikazes, ordered eagerly.

Then the bartender tapped my shoulder.

“They’re trying to get you drunk.”

He’d seen this act before.

“I’m making your drinks virgin. I’ll tap you and hand you the virgin one.”

The engineers kept ordering. Margaret and I kept “drinking.” We remained perfectly sober.

When we left, we walked straight across the parking lot in three‑inch heels. The engineers staggered behind us. One lunged into my car window — apparently failing to notice it was still up.

Thunk. Forehead met glass. Engineer met pavement.

The next morning, John reported to my boss that I had “drunk them under the table.” I accepted the compliment. No need to correct the record.

Bartenders see everything. Make friends with them. Tip accordingly.

Rule #2: Never Reward a Bad Opening Line

The Computer Geek

Line: “Are you a keyboard? Because I think you’re my type.”
Comeback: “Delete.”      
Field Notes: Terrible. Unfortunately, I laughed.
Survival Rating: 🦎

The Romantic Optimist

Line: “Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”
Comeback: “No, walk away and don’t reproduce. The gene pool has suffered enough.”
Field Notes: Ancient material. Points for commitment.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The Technologically Challenged

Line: “My phone’s broken. It doesn’t have your number in it.”
Comeback: “My phone filed a restraining order.”
Field Notes: Technology has spoken.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The One Who Almost Pulled It Off

Line: “You seem like trouble. I’m in.”
Comeback: “Okay. Sign the waiver. And buy me a drink.”
Field Notes: Risk acknowledged. Application conditionally approved.
Survival Rating: 🦎 Enough alcohol — that one might actually work.

Rule #3: When Necessary, Return Fire

One evening, the office cad wandered over to my barstool with a plan.

Line: “You get three wishes.”

I took a slow sip of wine.  
           
Comeback: “How about I wish you were gone?”
Field Notes: He gave me three wishes. I only needed one.                 
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎

Rule #4: Never Underestimate Audacity

The Opportunist

Line: “I looked at you and lost my train of thought. I think you owe me a beer.”
Comeback: “Your system failed, and I get a bar tab?”
Field Notes: Cheap‑date warning. Payment denied. 
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The Optimist

Line: “Ooh la la… I think you need to date me.”
Comeback: “Sorry. I don’t date for community service hours.”
Field Notes: Confidence exceeded market value.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The Straight Shooter

Line: “How about we finish these drinks and start making bad decisions together?”
Comeback: “Do you have references?”
Field Notes: Refreshingly honest. References requested. Decision pending.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎

Rule #5: Escape Routes & Strategic Seating

Years of traveling solo taught me that location matters. I prefer an end seat at a bar — easy access to the bartender, clear view of the room, and most importantly, an unobstructed escape route.

Know the exits. Carry a crossbody purse. And never underestimate the tactical value of landscaping. A strategically placed palm can provide valuable cover.

Rule #6: Master the Art of No

Not every Lounge Lizard requires tactical deployment.

Level 1 — Polite: “No, thank you.”
Level 2 — Firm: “I’m good.”
Level 3 — Warning Shot: “I’m allergic to whatever you’re selling.”
Level 4 — Return Fire: “That line needed a helmet.”
Level 5 — Final Notice: “We’re done here.”

Being friendly never obligates you to entertain anyone. A drink doesn’t buy your phone number.

Rule #7: Know When It Turns Toxic

You moved. He followed. This is important scientific data: the specimen has failed to comprehend the escape attempt.

Change tactics. Be direct. Move toward the staff. If he follows you outside, recruit backup.

Rule #8: When the Rating Scale Breaks

Corporate America unleashed a new species: The Professional Lounge Lizard.

One particular boss — married, self‑proclaimed ladies’ man — once blocked my exit, looked down at me suggestively, and said:

“You look delicious today.”

I blinked. Hard.

Then he added:

“I never eat anything strange unless she’s really worth it.”

My brain refused to process the incoming data.

Actual Comeback: “That was totally inappropriate.”
Field Notes: This behavior escalates. Request reassignment.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎
Some comments deserve their own HR file.

Rule #9: A Pickup Line Does Not Require a Participation Trophy

The Migratory Lounge Lizard

Recently, I was walking across a Walmart parking lot when a man noticed me from a distance. He followed me inside.

Line: “You have the sexiest walk I’ve ever seen. I had to follow you all the way in the door.”
Interrogation: “Are you single?” “Available?” “Can I have your number?”
Comeback: “No, that would be a hard pass.”

He persisted.

Line:  “Can I hug you?”
Comeback: “For what?! You’re about to shop alone.”
Field Notes: Crossing the entire parking lot does not earn a participation trophy.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎
Final Disposition: Return this specimen to the wild.

Rule #10: When Subtlety Fails, Remove All Ambiguity

And then there was Mike, the Neighboring Lounge Lizard. Unfortunately, this specimen lived in the same apartment building.

After a group happy hour where Mike supplied the wine and charcuterie—and then counted how many pieces each of us ate—the red flags began multiplying.

Eventually, he approached me in the parking lot.

Line:  “I want to take you to lunch.”
Comeback:  “No, I’m not interested.”

“You’re not interested in lunch… or me?”

He requested clarification.   So I gave it to him.

“Neither.”

Field Notes:  Persistent specimen. Failed to respond to normal deterrents.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎
Final Disposition: Long-term habitat management required. Do not feed the wildlife.

Final Field Notes

Most Lounge Lizards are harmless. They are funny, charming, and painfully corny. A rare few are clever enough to make you laugh despite yourself. And some should never be permitted to open their mouths after the first cocktail.

But here’s the most useful lesson:

You can be friendly without being available. You can laugh without encouraging. You can say no without apologizing. And you can enjoy a bar, restaurant, nightclub, or cruise ship lounge by yourself without owing anyone else a seat at your table.

Sometimes a polite smile is enough. Sometimes you move. Sometimes you recruit the bartender. And occasionally… You return fire.

I truly believed I’d wrapped up my Lounge Lizard study. Then the universe whispered, “Hold my cocktail.”

A new specimen opened his mouth, and out tumbled fresh, premium-grade nonsense.

Naturally, I reached for my field notes. 

Part of the Reflections Series

Coastal Cowgirl:  Key West and the Case of the Rowdy Rooster

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

Every great island story starts with something falling apart.

One of my favorite memories from this cruise wasn’t an excursion.

It wasn’t the turquoise water.

It wasn’t the chocolate-dipped frozen Key lime pie on a stick.

It was the day my flip-flop was taken hostage by another tourist… and I met the most notorious little outlaw in Key West.

It started innocently enough.

I was standing in line at a shop on Duval Street, patiently waiting for my chance to order the famous Key lime pie.

The tourist in front of me suddenly stepped backward.

Not a gentle bump.

Not a polite little shuffle.

His entire weight landed squarely on my right foot, pinning it to the floor like he’d staked a claim on Florida real estate.

My foot was trapped.

I pulled.

He leaned.

I pulled harder.

SNAP.

The thong of my flip-flop surrendered with all the determination of a beach umbrella in hurricane season.

One second, I was standing there taking in the vibe.

The next…

A tourist blew out my flip-flop.

And that’s when the guy standing behind me started laughing.

“Oh… you’re about to meet Brooster.“

I looked around.

“Who?”

He nodded toward a rooster strutting in our direction with the confidence of a six-inch-tall mob boss collecting protection money.

Apparently, Brooster is infamous on Duval Street.

Not because he’s friendly.

Or charming.

Or the unofficial island mascot.

Brooster is a feathered menace with a rap sheet longer than Key West.

Rumor has it that there are actual Wanted posters

While I was still trying to process that information, Brooster marched straight toward my flip-flop carnage like he’d just been dispatched to investigate the crime scene.

He stopped inches from my foot, puffed out his chest, cocked his head, and stared at my broken sandal with the expression of a detective who’d already solved the case.

Then he looked up at me and let out a loud crow!

I’m fairly certain that translated to…

“Well… that’s not good.”

Before I could object, he took one aggressive step toward my exposed toes.

I jumped.

He pecked, missed, and looked genuinely disappointed.

Then fate intervened.

A little girl walking by me gasped as her key lime pie slipped from her hands and landed on the ground.

Brooster scurried into action.

Within seconds, he was sprinting down Duval Street with a chunk of pie like he’d just robbed the First National Bank of Desserts.

A local glanced over, shrugged, and said,

“Yeah… he does that.”

As if grand theft pie by poultry was simply part of island life.

By now, I was laughing so hard I’d almost forgotten my flip-flop was hanging together by sheer optimism.

The guy behind me was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

“Well… Jimmy Buffett warned you.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

He introduced himself as Nick, an architect who split his time between Palm Beach and Key West on work projects. During those visits, he’d apparently sampled enough Key lime pie to qualify as a local food critic, so he insisted I order his favorite.

Then, before I could object, he quietly paid for it.

As I attempted to hobble away on one functioning flip flop, he looked down and said,

“Hang on… I can fix that.”

Now ladies…

There are few things more attractive than competence.

Especially when it’s unexpectedly applied to your footwear.

We wandered down the Street to his office, where, with the confidence of a man who had clearly repaired everything from staircases to seawalls, he rebuilt my flip-flop in just a few minutes.

Good as new.

Actually… better.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded without a plan.

Nick offered to show me a few local favorites. 

As we wandered Duval Street, we talked about travel, architecture, my fantasy barndominium design, and all the little places tourists usually miss. He pointed out hidden courtyards and his favorite shops and restaurants that most visitors would never discover on their own.

Every few blocks, a rooster strutted across the street like traffic laws were merely suggestions. After a while, I realized Brooster wasn’t the exception… he was simply the most accomplished member of the feathered gang that apparently ran Duval Street.

Before we parted ways, Nick asked what my plans were once the ship docked. I let him know I’d only be in West Palm Beach for a few hours, using a Hilton day pass before catching the Brightline back to Orlando.

We exchanged numbers, and I boarded the ship.

Quiet Storm

On Friday morning, we docked in West Palm Beach beneath dark skies. Thunder rolled overhead, and sheets of rain hammered the deck. I opened the Brightline app to adjust my train time, but the Friday route to Orlando is evidently prime real estate — every seat was sold out.

I was on the phone with the Hilton West Palm Beach, trying to sort out my suddenly complicated day, when my phone pinged.

It was a message from Nick: “Not the best pool day. I’m in Palm Beach. How about a museum and lunch?”

I was beginning to feel like one of Nick’s architectural projects. First the flip-flop repair, and now a rainy-day rescue. Apparently, I had become a work in progress.

Luckily, he offered to come find me rather than the other way around. This was a wise decision on his part.

Navigation has never been my greatest strength.

In the last few days, I had gotten lost driving to the Orlando airport at 5 a.m. to catch the train and turned around on the cruise ship so many times that I began to wonder if I had somehow entered a nautical version of Groundhog Day.

By the time we docked in Freeport, I was so exhausted from trying to locate myself that I slept through the entire day.

In hindsight, Nick’s rescue was less a romantic gesture and more a public safety measure.

We spent the morning wandering through the Norton Museum of Art. I was especially drawn to the Chinese galleries, where centuries-old landscape paintings, jade carvings, and delicate porcelain reminded me how art can tell the story of an entire civilization.

It was pouring rain, so we settled into the museum’s restaurant for a casual lunch. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the sculpture garden.  

After lunch, we crossed the bridge to Palm Beach and wandered through the grand rooms of Whitehall, Henry Flagler’s Gilded Age mansion.   

I somehow found myself in the middle of an impromptu architectural lecture — full hand gestures, historical context, and the unmistakable enthusiasm of someone who has been waiting years to explain cornices.

By late afternoon, the rain had given way to blue skies. We ended the day with a leisurely seafood dinner overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway before he dropped me at the Brightline station to board the train to Orlando.

Mr. Fix-It

Nick is now officially the newest member of my travel tribe — a group of wonderful people I’ve met along the way who remind me that the world is still full of kindness, generosity, and surprises.

Every travel tribe needs a few essential members: the navigator (which I clearly am not), the storyteller, the adventurer, and apparently, Mr. Fixit.

I’m not sure when Nick officially became Mr. Fixit, but the evidence was mounting. First, the flip‑flop. Then, the weather disaster. Give him a broken plan, a little chaos, and apparently, he’s in his element.

Turns out, every great island story really does start with something falling apart — a flip‑flop, a carefully planned itinerary, or a day that refuses to go according to schedule.

But sometimes those are exactly the moments that bring the greatest surprises, the kindest people, and the most unforgettable journeys.

Over dinner, I casually asked Nick if people ever tell him he looks a little like George Clooney. He considered it for approximately half a second and said, “Once in a while.”

Of course. Naturally.

But then he told me the funniest comment he’d ever received:

“If George Clooney and Pierce Brosnan had a love child, I think you’re it.”

I nearly inhaled a shrimp.

Final Thoughts

And that’s when I realized the Travel Gods had really been smiling down on me in Key West.

Not only had I met Mr. Fixit, but I’d also met a man who was intelligent, charming, and generous—all traits that create a solid foundation for friendship.

Forget the Key Lime Pie… THIS was the local attraction.

Well played, Travel Gods. Well played.

As I unpacked my travel case, I looked at the patched-up flip-flop.

Another memory in paradise… courtesy of a broken sandal.

Somewhere in Key West, Jimmy Buffett was probably humming a new tune.

🎵 “The blowouts are nothing but souvenirs with soles.”

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl 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, Uncategorized2 Comments			

					


		

			






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







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Attack of the Bidet

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn ReflectionsLeave a comment			

					


		

			






Three coworkers by day, 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 never survived 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 historically preceded free upgrades and mild property damage.





And that’s how the three of us ended up on a quick getaway that returned us with poorly vetted decisions and a story that 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. 





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.





Paula, with confidence but no relevant experience, gave it a once-over.





“I mean… how hard could it be?”





Vivian curiously leaned in.





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





Paula announced calmy: “There’s 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.”





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.





Silence fell.





Only the sound of dripping water remained.





And three women reconsidering choices 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.   I would soon require a flotation device.





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 were permanently banned from unsupervised encounters with hotel plumbing.





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.







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Where The World Still Feels Untouched

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn Travel JournalLeave a comment			

					


		

			






There are places in the world where animals watch you.
And then there’s the Galápagos—
where they don’t.





There’s no fear in their eyes. No instinct to run. No sense that you don’t belong.
You’re not observing wildlife.
You’re stepping into their world.










Quito felt like an introduction… but not the destination.





The Marriott was familiar, predictable — a place to land before stepping into something I couldn’t quite picture yet. The next day brought the expected stops — the equator line, the views, the market, a lunch that felt more staged than real. It was interesting, even enjoyable, but still within the rhythm of travel. Structured. Explained. Designed for you.





It all made sense.





Until it didn’t.










Somewhere between Quito and the islands, the world shifted.





Smaller plane. Fewer people. More distance between things.
Less noise. Less urgency.





By the time we boarded the Celebrity Xpedition, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a typical trip. The ship didn’t feel like a destination — it felt like access. A way in.










In the Galápagos, the rules are simple — and enforced.





You don’t wander.
You don’t touch.
You don’t interfere.





Every visitor is accompanied by a licensed naturalist. The ecosystem is protected with an almost reverent discipline, and because of that, the animals remain exactly as they were meant to be — wild, undisturbed, and completely indifferent to human presence.





And that indifference is what makes the experience so extraordinary.










We explored the islands twice a day for a week — one excursion in the morning, one in the afternoon.





Each outing felt like stepping into a different world.





One moment you’re walking along a rocky path beside marine iguanas, the next you’re standing quietly while a sea lion pup studies you with curious, unguarded eyes. Birds nest at your feet. Crabs scatter across volcanic rock. Life unfolds all around you, uninterrupted.





There is no performance.
No reaction.
No need for you at all.










I wasn’t prepared for how close everything would be.





Not just physically — although that alone was surreal — but something deeper.





The blue-footed boobies walked past like we didn’t exist.
A sea lion blinked slowly, unimpressed by my camera hovering inches away.
Marine iguanas gathered in clusters, ancient and unmoved.





It wasn’t that they trusted us.
It was that they had never learned not to.










There was one moment that stayed with me — simple, unexpected, and oddly meaningful.





We stopped at what they call the “post office” on Floreana Island.





Not a building.
Not a mailbox.





Just a weathered barrel surrounded by driftwood signs from travelers who had passed through before us.





We were each given a postcard and asked to write a message to ourselves — name and home address included.





Then came the part that made it unforgettable.





We were told to sort through the stack of postcards left behind… find one addressed to someone who lived near us… and take it home to deliver.





No stamps.
No system.
Just trust.





My husband’s postcard arrived first — hand-delivered by someone we now refer to only as “Blood Bank Bob.”





Mine showed up later, quietly, like it had always belonged there.





And somehow, it meant more than anything sent the traditional way ever could.















At the time, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.





The marine iguanas looked almost prehistoric — dark and unmoving against the volcanic rock — until you noticed the color. Not subtle… but vivid. Reds and greens woven through their scales like something alive beneath the surface.





Later, I learned we had arrived just as the breeding season was beginning.





Even here, in a place that feels untouched by time, there are rhythms quietly unfolding — whether you recognize them or not.















And then there were the albatross.





Before the cliffs… before the flight… there was something quieter.





Pairs stood facing each other, calling, moving in sync — a kind of ritual that felt both ancient and deliberate. There was no audience. No urgency. Just connection.





They bond for life.





We watched as they moved through these small, repeated gestures, as if reinforcing something already understood.





And then, later, at the edge of the cliffs, they gathered again — this time facing the wind.





One by one, they stepped forward.





A pause.
A shift.





And then — without hesitation — they launched into the air.















Even in the harbor, nothing really changed.





The sea lions claimed boats like they owned them, lounging without concern, completely indifferent to the activity around them.





There was no boundary between wild and human life — just a quiet understanding of who truly belonged.















Not everything in the Galápagos lives in the light.





Deep inside the lava tubes, where the air cools and the world goes quiet, we found an owl — perfectly still, perfectly aware.





It didn’t move.
It didn’t flinch.





It simply watched us… as if we were the ones out of place.










The Moment That Stayed





It was an instinctive click.
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t frame it. I didn’t ask.
I just reacted.





The moment that stayed with me wasn’t a landscape or a sea lion or a postcard view.





It was a woman at a hillside market, working with her child tied to her back.





She moved with a rhythm that belonged entirely to her life — unhurried, unposed, untouched by the presence of a stranger with a camera.





No one looked at me.
No one performed.





I was invisible.





And somehow, that’s what made it matter.





It wasn’t a moment created for me.
It was a glimpse of something real — offered without intention — and it stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect.










 















 







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
A Few Boundaries Between Friends

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn Lessons from the HerdLeave a comment			

					


		

			






Boundaries Don’t Need Words





I was about to be slid into a narrow cylinder with no exit and asked to lie still for forty-five minutes.





The attendant explained the process in a calm, practiced tone, then offered music to help me relax. 





I declined.





Ten minutes later, I regretted every life choice that brought me to that moment.





Somewhere in the next room, a burly man was yelling, “Get me out of this thing!” His panic did nothing to soothe mine. Inside the tube, the air felt thinner, the walls closer, and my heartbeat louder. Claustrophobia crept up my spine like a slow electrical current.





And then I heard my horse trainer’s voice in my head: Listen to the birds sing.





There were no birds there, but I reached for the image anyway. I pictured myself walking along a quiet beach, waves rolling in and out, the sun warm on my shoulders.





It must have worked, because the next thing I knew, the attendant was nudging me awake. Forty-five minutes had passed without me clawing my way out of the machine.










Horses have been teaching me things for years, often without my noticing.





They are honest in their interactions, intuitive in ways humans rarely allow themselves to be, and immediate in their responses. I’ve been told so many times to “think like a horse” that I now catch myself watching people for the same cues I look for in a pasture: dominance, insecurity, bluffing, avoidance.





If humans handled conflict the way horses do — directly, immediately, and without apology — we’d probably have fewer interpersonal disasters.










Take Sunrise, my Peruvian Paso.





Around people she is sweet, soft-eyed, and polite. But turn her out with other horses and she becomes the matriarchal mare who takes no prisoners.





The first time I saw her defend herself, I was stunned.





On Day 1, as the new horse in turnout, she was kicked and bitten.





On Day 2, she made her point.





She singled out the aggressor, chased her relentlessly, cornered her, and left no doubt about where she stood. That mare never looked at Sunrise sideways again.





Sunrise only had to say it once.










Rosie, my Arabian, is the opposite.





With humans, she’s expressive, fiery, and full of personality. You’d assume she’d dominate any herd.





She doesn’t.





In turnout, she’s the one who gets pushed off hay piles, chased from the fence line, and quietly yields space to horses half her size.





Something in her body language tells the herd she won’t fight back.





They read her correctly.










Watching them taught me something I should have learned years earlier:





What’s inside a horse — or a person — is rarely what you see on the surface.





Sunrise looks delicate but is steel.
Rosie looks bold but is vulnerable.





And humans? We’re even worse at showing who we really are.










Horses don’t tolerate mistreatment.





They don’t make excuses.
They don’t wait for things to “get better.”
They don’t hold meetings about it.





They respond — immediately, clearly, and without hesitation.





Their boundaries are visible, consistent, and respected.










Humans, on the other hand, let things fester.





We stay silent.
We rationalize.
We reward the very behavior we claim to hate.





 And then we wonder why people “always” treat us a certain way.










A wise woman once told me that every time I interact with my horse, I’m training it — whether I mean to or not.





The same is true with people.





With every interaction, we teach others how to treat us — through our words, our behavior, and our silence.





When someone crosses a line and we say nothing, we’ve just taught them they can do it again.










Healthy boundaries aren’t walls.





They’re self-respect in action.





They keep us centered.
They protect our peace.
And they’re the first step toward becoming our own best friend.





 





Part of the “Lessons from the Herd” series





 





 





 





 





 





 





 





 





 















 





 







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
The Horse They Said Couldn’t Be Trained

						

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They called her difficult.





They called her untrainable.





By the time I met the small Arabian mare named Rosie, eight owners in eight years had already given up on her. The current owner was preparing to send her to auction — a fate that rarely ends well for a horse.





Somehow the grieving human and the troubled horse found each other.





What followed became a bond of trust that neither of us expected, but both of us needed.










Every horse person remembers their first ride.





Mine came at the age of twelve.  Later, after transferring to a new job in Delaware, a colleague named Vivian convinced me to join her for riding lessons. She had recently attended the Devon Horse Show and concluded that riding must be simple — after all, the horse does most of the work.





We signed up for lessons at Arundel Stables in the middle of winter. The outdoor arena was buried in snow and the temperature hovered near twenty degrees.





Vivian rode a horse named Whitey. Each week she proudly mounted and rode toward the arena, only to have Whitey spin around and gallop back to the barn with Vivian screaming the entire way.





One especially cold morning Whitey decided he had endured enough. He deposited Vivian into a deep snow drift, cleared the arena fence, and returned to the warmth of his stall.





Vivian climbed out of the snow unleashing a series of colorful words before storming away.





It was the last day she ever rode a horse.





For reasons I still cannot fully explain, it was the day I realized riding had entered my blood.










Years later, I found the horse who would become my first great partner.





Her name was Sunshine.





She was a ten-year-old Arabian-Quarter Horse cross with kind eyes and endless energy. For the next twenty-five years we explored trails together, first on the East Coast and later in Arizona, where I moved with her when she turned twenty.





Sunshine lived to the remarkable age of thirty-five before impaction colic finally claimed her life.





Losing her was devastating. Some days I laughed remembering our adventures. Other days I cried buckets.





Her photographs still hang near the entryway of my home. Every time I walk through the door, she greets me.





I told myself I would never love another horse the same way.





Then Rosie appeared.










I was looking for a companion horse for Sunshine when someone suggested I visit a backyard outside of Phoenix to see an eight-year-old mare.





Rosie possessed none of the qualities I thought I wanted. She was defensive, mistrustful, and widely considered untrainable. Eight previous owners had passed her along like an unwanted responsibility.





The current owner was ready to send her to auction.





I bought her simply to spare her that fate.





I knew she would be a project. What I didn’t know was how deeply our lives would intertwine.










Training Rosie required help from an extraordinary horsewoman named Koelle.





Koelle quickly recognized that Rosie’s behavior wasn’t stubbornness — it was fear. Every interaction with humans triggered defensive reactions, particularly when anyone tried to touch her face or feet.





Years of mishandling had taught Rosie that people could not be trusted.





The first breakthrough came with the farrier. After a disastrous initial visit, he refused to work on Rosie again unless she was sedated.





Eventually I convinced him to attend a training session with Koelle.





He arrived skeptical.





Within an hour, Rosie stood quietly for hoof care and lifted her feet on cue without even being touched.





The farrier left astonished and still tells the story of Rosie’s transformation that day.





That was the moment the light bulb went on.





Rosie was not untrainable.





She simply needed someone willing to listen.










Despite her mistrust of humans, Rosie displayed surprising gentleness toward Sunshine as the older horse aged.





During turnout in the arena, Rosie adjusted her pace to match Sunshine’s ability on any given day. Some days they ran together. Other days Rosie simply circled protectively while Sunshine rested or struggled to stand after rolling in the sand.





Watching Rosie care for the older mare revealed a side of her few humans had ever seen.





Beneath her defenses was a remarkably intuitive horse.










One moment convinced me just how aware she truly was.





I turned Rosie loose in the arena to run. I removed my sunglasses so she could see my eyes more clearly while we worked together.





Afterward I walked toward the gate with Rosie following behind me.





Only when I reached the gate did I realize my prescription sunglasses were gone.





For twenty minutes I searched the entire arena, convinced they had been crushed beneath pounding hooves.





Rosie waited patiently at the gate, watching my every movement.





Finally, I gave up and walked back toward her.





At that exact moment Rosie left the gate, walked across the arena, and stopped in an unusual spot. She lowered her nose to the sand and held it there.





When I reached down to attach her lead rope, I saw them.





My sunglasses were lying directly beneath her nose.





Not only had she seen them fall — she had carefully avoided stepping on them while galloping around the arena.





When I put the glasses back on, Rosie rested her head on my shoulder and gently nuzzled my neck.





It was the first true affection she had ever offered.





No words were necessary.










Over time, Rosie allowed me to touch her face and welcomed the affection she once rejected.





Every day I remain grateful for the lessons she has taught me about patience, trust, and the quiet power of understanding.





They called her difficult.





They called her untrainable.





But Rosie simply needed someone willing to listen.





She lived with me for twenty years after that first uncertain meeting, and in time she became the horse no one believed she could be — calm, trusting, and deeply intuitive.





I lost Rosie in September of 2024.





When I think of her today, I still see her soft eyes looking into mine on that final day.





Some horses teach us how to ride.





Rosie taught me how to listen.










Part of the “Lessons from the Herd” series





 







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Healing with Horses:  Sunshine, Rosie, Sunrise

						

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Sunshine: My First Horse, My Teacher





Sunshine, my first horse, was an absolute angel. I made all my early mistakes with her, and she tolerated every one of them with patience and grace. She lived to 35 and guided me through the early years of horse ownership with a temperament that could calm any storm.





She was loving with people, gentle with the herd, and willing in every task. Wherever we boarded, Sunshine became the sweetheart of the barn. She taught me the rhythm of partnership, the importance of consistency, and the quiet power of empathy.





When Sunshine suffered impaction colic and passed away, I was heartbroken. Rosie, her companion at the time, suddenly needed a new herd mate — and I needed a way forward. That loss opened the door to the next chapter: Sunrise.










Rosie: The Difficult Fireball





Rosie had been labeled untrainable. Eight owners in eight years had given up on her, and she was on the brink of being sent to auction. I bought her to spare her from that fate, fully aware she was a project — and fully unaware of how much she would change me.





Her early life had left its mark. She was reactive, protective, and deeply sensitive. Even simple tasks like touch or hoof care could trigger resistance. But behind all that fire was intelligence, intuition, and a fierce will to survive.





Her first breakthrough came with the farrier. After a disastrous initial visit, he refused to trim her without sedation. Two failed attempts later, I convinced him to work with Koelle, our equine trainer. Within an hour, Rosie lifted her hooves calmly and consecutively — a moment that felt like witnessing a miracle.





Rosie’s intuition was extraordinary. She read energy with precision.





The day I arrived at the barn after my accident — disheveled, injured, and emotionally raw — she recognized it instantly. She nickered loudly, nuzzled me gently, and made it clear she knew something was wrong. She didn’t need touch to understand vulnerability.





Through years of partnership, Rosie taught me patience, awareness, and the kind of trust that must be earned, not assumed. She forced me to slow down, to listen, and to show up consistently.










Sunrise: The Companion Who Chose Me





After Sunshine’s passing, Rosie needed a friend. That search led me to Sunrise, an eight-year-old Peruvian Paso mare who had been rescued and professionally trained.





Sunrise was everything Rosie wasn’t — calm, brave, steady, and deeply attuned to her rider. On her first day, we performed join-up in the round pen. She approached me directly, stopped in front of me, and the rescue owner said, “She just chose you.” And she had.





Her past had been difficult. She and her lifelong companion, Conquistador, had been rescued from neglect. But she had also been trained in California, competing successfully and earning ribbons at the Pomona Championship Horse Show.





Watching Sunrise and Rosie together was its own kind of education. They were different in every way, yet somehow balanced one another. Over time, their relationship shifted, and so did Rosie’s confidence.





Sunrise became my trusted trail horse — calm, protective, and reliable. She taught me the value of steadiness, intention, and quiet leadership.















Lessons from the Herd





Each horse taught me something different, something essential:







    

  • Sunshine taught consistency, grace, and the foundation of partnership.
    • 




  • Rosie taught resilience, intuition, and the courage to set boundaries.
    • 




  • Sunrise taught stability, bravery, and the quiet strength of reliability.
    • 








Together, they reshaped my understanding of connection, communication, and presence.





Horses speak through energy, not words. They respond to intention, not performance. They mirror our emotional truth whether we want them to or not.










The Enduring Gift of Horses





Even after their passing, their lessons remain. Rosie’s intuition, Sunshine’s patience, and Sunrise’s quiet strength continue to guide me — in relationships and in life.





Horses are not just animals. They are teachers, companions, and mirrors of our emotional selves.





Their gift endures — in memory, in wisdom, and in the way I move through the world.










Part of the “Lessons from the Herd” series





 







			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Feathers in the Wind

						

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Today marks the first anniversary of my husband, David’s, death. In the quiet moments, my heart still aches.  My inner goddess continuously persuades me to get out and enjoy life.  She who cannot be ignored wisely infers that no one leaves a lasting imprint by tiptoeing through life.





In the early weeks following David’s death, the stillness woke me.  In the dark of night, I understood why people feared silence.  His memory invaded my every thought.  It was like a wicked form of torture.   I went through the motions of daily life feeling like the walking wounded. I still hear his voice in my head scolding or encouraging.  We knew each other so intimately that he would have a thought at the same time I verbalized it.   I know exactly what he would say to me in every instance.  It is comforting to feel David’s presence.





I planned to spend this weekend on a healing ride through Monument Valley with a Navajo guide named Joe. Unfortunately, the Tribal Park is closed due to the Covid-19 outbreak. Instead, I spent a quiet morning with my horses.  While snuggling my palomino, Sunrise, a small grey feather floated in space, landing near my feet.   The feather was noticed earlier in the week but disappeared. As if on cue, it reappeared today. Twirling in the breeze, it eventually landed on the toe of my fringed moccasin.  Native Americans believe the feather is a powerful symbol.   Feathers arrive unexpectedly, but always with purpose.  When a feather falls to earth, it carries a message to a living being.  The feather brings inner strength from a loved one. The symbolism is overwhelming and the hair stands up on my arms and neck. 





Until you experience indelible loss, you cannot understand what it does to a person’s soul.  Life can be painful and heart-rending. The pain of loss is immeasurable. The most devastating endings usher in the next chapter in life. Over the last year, intense grief has become profound sadness.  There comes a moment when you realize everything has changed.  





I truly believe people come into our life with purpose.  The people we meet along the path teach us lessons, help us to grow emotionally, and force us to realize special moments. There are no mistakes or failures, just an evolution in time.  Each chapter in life teaches us what doesn’t work; thereby, forcing us to focus on what we need.  





A year has passed, yet here I sit with tears streaming down my face.  It is through grief that we learn to value the present.  Each of us is the architect of our life story.  Every chapter must be worth reading.  





Written April 26, 2020