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TV Time

Shirely Feeney is dead and I’m mad.

I can’t tell you why exactly but maybe I’m mad because Cindy William’s death is just another reminder that parts of my childhood just slip away. They will never return but will always stay a part of my life forever. Thanks to the endless amount of streaming services and YouTube clips, “schlemiel schlimazel hasenpfeffer incorporated” will still be humming along in my brain when I think of my old fave tv shows that filled my early years with so many laughs.  

Life is a series of Laverne and Shirleys. They were little pockets of gold that entertained you on nights when things may not have been so good during the day. You might have had a bad day at school because you thought the girls were talking behind your back on the bus ride home. Maybe your dance class was cancelled, and you were left waiting on the curb to be picked up for an hour because there were no texts or emails to alert you back in the day. Whatever the day held, our choice of shows that made us laugh always delivered a shot of happiness that returned your body and mind into the upright position. Early on in Kiki/Karen history there were heartthrobs that caught my eye and I could not wait the 7 days to see him again on tv. If I was fortunate enough, there would be a new “Tiger Beat” magazine out at the stationery store that week which if I was lucky enough carry at least a glimpse of the crush I was looking for. David Cassidy or Donny Osmond were never in short supply on tv or in print!  

When the kids were small, the Disney Channel was in its infancy and was jam packed with fun shows for them. I became addicted to their world that included such gems at The Suite Life of Zack and Cody or the animated Phinneas and Ferb. Julia can still recite lines from each show much like I can tell you the entire season catalog of Happy Days episodes from 1974 to 1984. Yowza…Yowza…Yowza. If you know, you know. Vintage “Emergency” and “Adam 12” still play on in our house thanks to Jake discovering these classics and memorizing the characters and story lines.  

A throwback to the early shows and days also brings back memories of sneaking down the hall to catch glimpses of “The Merv Griffin Show” some nights when I couldn’t sleep. Across the living room with the brownish/rust colored Berber carpet was our television set on the brass tv stand. Merv would welcome his guests onto his very mod looking chairs on the set and they would smoke and talk about their upcoming film or project. It was glamorous and I loved every glimpse I could soak in. My parents would be laughing along while glued to each word. Our dog was nestled between them feeling like the luckiest  miniature schnauzer in America.  

Heavy sigh…farewell Shirley. Say hi to Laverne and The Big Ragu for me. They have all gone to that big sitcom in the sky. Hopefully they are entertaining everyone up there that has enjoyed them for so many years like we did back down here on good old earth. I’d love to hear about your selections and discuss someday. There were so many choices despite the only 13 channels and gasp…no remote control.

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Tap. Tap. Tap.

This past weekend my girls and I met up at Vanessa’s house for a yard sale. Vanessa’s block was participating in an entire block of driveway sales. Jumping at the chance to spend time with Vanessa and belly laugh, I loaded up the Jeep with bins of “stuff” and headed over.

The day was filled with endless rounds of people rifling through my stuff which I thought I had priced low yet reasonable. At the New York yard sale though…the attendees are looking for a bargain that really says “free”. There is a huge amount of vicious negotiation (which mind you can escalate quickly) which sometimes can result in a “free” transaction purely because the buyer has worn me down to the point that if the exchange didn’t stop, I would be wearing an orange jumpsuit and doing pull-ups on my cell block doorframe.

The day moved on and I thought about the hilarious and even meaningful encounters I had during the day. Many of you know my deep seated view about the Universe and how it can tap you on the shoulder and teach you a thing or two. It can place people in your path that you may never see again. Sometimes, it can do both. You need to pay attention to said tap and how it arrives. As we all finished up our sales we sat around crisp from a day in the sun. We exchanged yard sale war stories because on Long Island, New York, we all have at least a few to share.

Many moons before, when we were only in our house a few years, we had a yard sale. Maureen and I sat on my front lawn for hours watching endless amounts of cars pull up looking for very specific items from collectibles to vintage door handles. We giggled and snickered throughout the day. As I was dismantling the operation at the end of the day, I saw and “heard” someone approaching. A very well dressed gentleman in a fedora was walking towards us. What I heard was tapping coming from his feet. Tap. Tap. Tappity. Tap. Tap. “Good day ladies” he said smoothly with a tip of his fedora. I thought oh my…The sharp dressed gent asked if I had any sheet music for sale. This was years before my Broadway Baby Jules arrived on the scene so my answer was a hard no. I politely answered and thanked him for stopping by. As he walked away I jokingly yelled “I do however have a lovely cake plate with your name on it” . Flash forward to 2021 at Vanessa’s where we smiled and laughed at the great day we had together.

Yesterday I arrived at a nursing rehab where my Dad is currently a patient (I have not shared this story with many people yet so forgive me. I’m still processing what is happening). Dad and I were waiting for the elevator. I was taking Dad in his wheelchair down to the patio where we could enjoy some time together on a very late Summer day. The elevator door opened. Everyone jockeyed for position in the elevator.

A gentleman tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to say hello. He tipped his fedora and said to me “Good day Miss. If you are interested, I will be playing some tunes for our patients in the lounge area if you would like to bring this fine gentleman”. I smiled and thanked him. The door opened and the dapper man in the fedora exited..his shoes were tapping on the tile as he walked. Under his arm was a pile of sheet music. My goodness. It was the same man from years earlier.

An hour later, Mommy and I wheeled Dad into the lounge and watched Dad light up and clap his hands as Mr. Fedora crooned a B side Elvis tune. There was a glow around Dad’s head that we haven’t seen in s month or so. I looked at Mommy and said “I love you. Everything is going to be ok. The Universe just tapped me on the shoulder and told me so.”

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No One Likes to Wait

No one likes to wait. It is uncomfortable. Depending on how bad we want something or how much of a hurry we are in – waiting stinks. The line at the supermarket…New York traffic…waiting for Christmas morning…everyone’s list is different, but no one likes to wait. I was scheduled for bloodwork this morning for an upcoming doctor’s appointment. Given my disdain for needles and well, the wait, I left 30 minutes before the lab opened. I had zero coffee in me having observed the strict eight hours fast prior to the test. I ran from my car into the building expecting to hurdle over any senior citizen I found in my path on the way to the lab. I took the stairs two at a time rather than facing a wait at the elevator. Much to my surprise I rounded the corner and found myself FIRST. Victory was mine. The lab techs arrived and reminded me that the lab opened at 7:30 a.m. and it was first come-first served. I relaxed and messaged my friends until the next patient arrived. 

A gentleman greeted me and asked if he was next. His eyes were warm, and he seemed very friendly. As most people know everyone looks familiar to me. I am forever saying “Isn’t that so and so?” I drive people nuts with this. Sorry people. The gentleman sat down and opened his New York Times. I turned to him and said softly “Pardon me…are you Dr. Weiss?” he looked at me over his glasses and said, “Who wants to know?”. I explained that I had been a patient of his for 14 years and he delivered my children. He stood up and said “My dear Karen. How have you been?” The tears flowed, and I instinctively hugged him. 

I had met Dr. Weiss in 1987 as a new patient who was newly engaged. He was a funny man who always took my fear of doctors to heart and made me feel at ease. We talked about many world topics during each visit and he explained whatever was happening with my body as if I was his daughter. He was caring and made me feel like I was his only patient. A year after I was married I explained that we would like to start planning a family. We discussed many different scenarios and were cleared to start planning pregnancy. Months turned into a year with no success. All of our friends were also getting married and starting their same journey. 

Another year went on and it was obvious that nothing was happening in the baby arena. Blood tests were performed. Gynocological exams and procedures were introduced. All tests were negative. There was really no reason as to why we couldn’t conceive. Medications were prescribed, and things started to get tight. My moods dipped as one friend got pregnant…then another…it was starting to wear on me. Dr. Weiss was very reassuring and full of positivity. My dear Karen he would say…God will make you a mommy when the time is right. After another few months I was referred to Dr. Weiss’ best friend, Dr. Avner Herschlag who coincidentally had a very famous daughter named Natalie Portman. We went through two rounds of treatment with Dr. Herschlag. One evening I ended up in the ER with a terrible stomach bug that just would not go away. Well it wouldn’t go away because it wasn’t a virus but a baby. Our dream had finally come true. Dr. Weiss called me at 11 pm that night at home. He was crying and full of congratulations. The next few weeks were wonderful filled with blood tests and sonograms. The baby would be here in December. 

After losing the baby a few months later we returned to Dr. Weiss. My head was in my hands and I sobbed hot tears for what seemed like an eternity. He held my hand said “My dear Karen. I want you to go home. We need to take some time off here”. That we did. We took a trip to the Bahamas that next month to clear our heads. More friends were pregnant. More getting married. It was consuming me. 

A month after our trip we decided to try adoption. We had a phone installed in our guest bedroom for “the call”. We advertised in papers around the country. There was no internet then. It was all me canvassing the library and magazines looking for leads. Finally, we received a call. A mother from Arizona was due to give birth in April. We found a well-known lawyer on Long Island who was confident about the birth mother and said that the “transaction” should run smoothly. All was going well until that phone rang again and the mother coolly told me she had chosen another couple. Turns out in the end that the other couple offered a better “cash” option up front according to our attorney. 

After another year I returned to Dr. Weiss who was thrilled to see me. He knew of a colleague who specialized in IVF and could help us based on my test results. We took the plunge and visited Dr. Richard Bronson. The rest is history as most of you know. Jake was our first “fresh” cycle and Jules our “frozen” cycle. Dr. Weiss held Jake for the first time after birth and said, “Young man – no child will ever be loved more”. Such truth. Months later I heard Dr. Weiss had retired but he literally slipped away from the practice with no explanation. Years later I had heard that the malpractice fees were astronomical, and he decided to retire. 

The door opened, and the lab technician called Dr. Weiss and I in together. He said “My dear Karen I am humbled to have talked with you today. Wishing you love on the rest of your journey.” We hugged again. I may never see him again, but my life today was made complete for I was able to say thank you to a man who made me a mom. The universe placed this angel in front of me today. This was a wait I will never forget. 

 

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Coincidence? I Think Not.

Synchronicity takes center stage in my life more often than not lately. Perhaps it always has and I just didn’t pay attention. Yesterday I believe god tapped me on the shoulder and said “watch this” as yesterday’s events unfolded. The universe was about to deliver another amazing show.

Her name was Marsha and she was my sisters oldest and best friend. She was bubbly. She had a laugh that would knock you over. She was witty. Marsha loved her friends and family fiercely in this girl’s opinion. Her two little girls are cute as buttons and her husband is someone who walked into her life and just clicked from the start.

Yesterday we all met to say goodbye to our friend who received staggering news some mere weeks before. Marsha was diagnosed with a rare heart cancer that whisked her off of our stage in Act One.

I left work to attend shiva at Marshy’s home with a quick stop at my fave bakery to pick up a few items for the family. In addition to my selection I decided to buy these gorgeous painted cookie creations that this bakery is known for. I thought Marsha’s princesses should have a treat. Shiva usually doesn’t offer choices for the kids and I wanted them to maybe smile a teensy bit. The bakery gal was lovely and commended me on my cookie choice of unicorns and butterflies. After paying I told the navigation fairies where I wanted to go and off I went.

Driving to Marshy’s I thought about my sister who lost her friend and how she must be feeling. I love my friends with such passion that I cannot imagine losing one of them. My thoughts went to Marsha’s parents and how they will remember what a gorgeous soul they raised. The next thoughts were of Mitchell who just lost his only baby sister in the blink of an eye. Our families were connected with my sister and Marsha and coincidentally Mitch and I having dated in and after college. I was now a block away from the house and I was anxious to see everyone. The navigation fairies slapped me again and dumped me at the wrong house. As you know I can get lost in a paper bag.

It struck me as I entered the house that there were still no tears from me since I received the news on Saturday. The door opened and I was enveloped by Marsha. I felt it. A picture of my friend was right in front of me. She was smiling the way she did – a giant beam with her eyes. I always told her that her smiles came from her eyes. She had an awesome face that drew you in every time. I hugged some very fabulous people on the way to the yard and was watching everyone chat about our girl that was taken way too soon. Marsha’s cousin took my cookies to the girls after I explained that I hope they liked the designs.

I was sitting at the table with my sister and her friends. We were joined by Mitchell who was explaining how he created his eulogy. We were all engaged and laughing. Mitch has a larger than life sense of humor and pulls you in from the first hello. As he’s talking I notice a large butterfly who is literally flying in what seemed like a figure 8 around many of those at the table. Usually butterflies flit briefly and leave. Not this one. If lingered throughout our entire conversation. I thought..that butterfly is Marsha. The cookies. Butterflies. At that very moment I glanced right. On the lawn in the girls play area was…wait for it…a giant inflatable unicorn. I turned white and choked back the tears. Synchronicity. The rest of my visit was fabulous. Brief in nature but reconnecting with old friends and listening to stories of Marsha that warmed my soul.

It was time to resume my routine and drive home. I could see the unicorn as I left the house. I got in the car and sobbed. I finally cried. I was given the gifts of Marsha and Mitchell and all of these beautiful people connected to them. The universe stepped in and gave me unicorns and butterflies to remind me that there are no coincidences. We are all connected for a reason.

Today I’m asking that you hug the ones you love with every ounce of strength you have during Act One and pay attention to the signs that were placed on your stage. Coincidences? I think not.

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Taking Chances

Finally, she mused 
that human existence 
is as brief as the life of autumn grass, 

So what was there to fear 
from taking chances with your life?

Mo Yan, Red Sorghum

I do my best thinking while blow drying my hair each day. Some people take long drives to contemplate a situation. Some meditate. Some spend hours in a therapist’s office hoping to find clarity. I however ponder life, weigh out my life scenarios, and even make my most important decisions while using a ridiculously large round brush and an 1800-watt hair dryer. 

Often I find myself overthinking a situation (I know this may shock some loyal Kiki followers – insert your snarky laugh here) and weighing in with 8,789 reasons why I should or should not do something. These last few years though I have shed these doubts and bouts with overthinking simply because I realize that life is short. Just do it as the Nike ad suggests. There are a million sayings that can fit this notion of “It’s Now or Never” – hell even Elvis sang about it and made millions with this approach. How did I get here though? 

Years of vulnerability and wanting to feel safe kept me in a very stable bubble. If I kept status quo and average, I would never rock the boat and life would be good. There would be no anxiety. No worry. No reason to get upset because everything was just the way it was supposed to be. 

Or was it? 

Certainly, my fitness journey gave me the confidence I lacked or shoved below sea level for years. I finally surfaced and declared…yes declared that I would no longer accept average in my life. I started to take chances that I never thought possible. Always outgoing I became fearless at work, became a master problem solver with a take no prisoners type attitude, and did not stop until I figured out any problem placed before me. At home, I was now handling situations with the kids with zero worry. Looking forward and not back was much more fulfilling than wallowing in the past and letting my feet remain stuck in the mud. 

Are there days when I am stuck in the war of the “what ifs”? You bet. I was just discussing this the other night and admitted that I sometimes allow the what ifs to rule me. I was reminded that practicing “mindfulness” and dealing with the right here and now would be the key. I am now soaking up as much of this practice as I can. Kiki promise to blog about this in the hopefully near future. Now back to my point about taking chances. 

The fitness thing led to Spartan which led to well…the key to everything I had been looking for even when I did not know I was looking. Every damn thing on that course from the rocks, the mud (that goddamn thigh high mud), obstacles, elevation, the comradery, random conversations, and finally – jumping fire represents life. Each race I have run has taught me more about me than any amount of therapy ever could. There was one race though that stands out as my signature race. I think about it every damn day (and not just when I am drying my hair). Tuxedo 2018. My third time on that mountain. I ran alone. Well, I was not alone – in Spartan, you are never alone. You are with thousands of fellow racers all there with the same purpose. Nevertheless, this day, I ran happy and was so at peace. I emerged from each part of the trail truly renewed. I came up with new mental strategies to prepare myself for the next leg. I was smiling more than I ever did in a race. I was so alive. There are other races when I can feel myself approaching the finish line. You can hear the music from the festival area pumping. You can feel the energy from the crowds and the surge of adrenaline from the last obstacles. But mostly for me…you can smell the fire. I can feel it in my bones. It NEVER signifies the finish for me. It is a symbol of taking chances and a leap of faith. There are some races when I am only physically able to hop over the line of fire. Not this time. I turned the corner to find the final rig obstacle. I nailed it (yay me) and looked ahead at the line of flames and the finish line beyond them. Yes, I could have hopped over as before and race towards the medal. I could have accepted this because it is what I normally did. But no. I train every night (yes every night) to no longer accept average. As my friend, Scott tells me “You must train with the single purpose to reach that finish line”. And so I sprinted. I sprinted as if I was running to catch the last plane off the burning planet. That is when it happened. I lept. Sailed over those flames. I landed with my hands in the air and tears streaming down my cheeks. The medal was soon around my neck and I was at peace. Really…what was to fear from taking chances? 

I will no longer be rooted and stuck in fear of taking chances and stepping outside of my comfort zone. I realize that it will be tough. I will still have days peppered with anxiety but I look back and realize it is a far worse life if I never take these chances. As Mo Yan says…our human existence is as brief as the autumn grass. 

Let go. Leap. Take chances. 

Live. 

 

Exit Stage Left

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

I don’t think I ever truly considered death until I gave birth. Ironic, isn’t it? Bringing life into the world and suddenly being terrified of leaving it. I remember rocking Julia to sleep at night, the soft hum of CD-101.9—New York’s Cool Jazz station—filling the room, whispering prayers like Please let me live long enough to hold Julia’s children. Let me see her experience life as a mother.

The years, of course, did what years always do. They flew. My stories of raising J & J are well documented here and will continue to be retold for as long as I’m able to tell them. It’s no secret these two have aged me decades—sometimes within a single twelve-hour stretch—but the trade-off was always worth it. I prayed for time the way some people pray for money or miracles. I wanted all of it. Forever, if possible.

And here we are, a quarter of the way through the millennium, with things feeling a little…unsteady. Two bouts of melanoma—a Stage 3 and a Stage 1—plus a side of basal cell carcinoma for kicks. A major overturned car accident in 2023. The kind of things that leave scars, visible and invisible. They changed me, but they didn’t finish me. I’ve been training daily since 2014 and I have no intention of stopping now. Movement still feels like defiance. Like gratitude.

My thoughts on death shifted in 2024. The girl who once wanted to live forever said goodbye to her dad—a man who slipped away in pieces. First his memories of us, stolen almost overnight and tossed off a cliff, never to be recovered. Then his faculties. Then, finally, the lights went out. Watching someone die is its own kind of death. Quiet. Relentless. It rewires something inside you that never fully returns to its original shape.

This summer, floating in the pool, I found myself staring up at the clouds as they drifted and rearranged themselves. I wondered—like I always do—what the clouds look like on the inside of Heaven. For most of my life, I never wanted to know. I feared stepping through the gates.

Now… I’m okay with the idea of exiting stage left – hopefully before my story reaches the chapter where sickness lingers longer than living. I want a graceful exit. A smile. The comfort of knowing J & J are happy and settled in their own lives.

And honestly? Knowing what I know now about who they’ve become, I could be okay leaving earlier than I once planned. Not because I love life any less—but because I’ve loved it fully, fiercely, and with my whole heart.

Copyright 2026 © mobileorderforkaren All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews or scholarly work. This work is protected under domestic and international copyright laws. Unauthorized use or reproduction of this material is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action.

“Yesterday You Said Tomorrow”

If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?

I remember when Nike didn’t just sell sneakers — it sold permission. Permission to stop waiting. Permission to move before you felt ready. That billboard in the middle of the city didn’t whisper motivation; it called you out. Yesterday you said tomorrow. Ouch. Truth hurts when it’s accurate.

Procrastination has always worn a polite disguise. It tells us we’re being thoughtful, strategic, responsible. Nike ripped that mask right off and replaced it with three simple words that became a cultural nudge: Just Do It. Not perfectly. Not someday. Now.

Somewhere between tying our laces and stepping out the door, society absorbed the message. Start the run. Write the page. Make the call. Because tomorrow is a promise we keep breaking with the best of intentions. And sometimes all it takes is a billboard, a brand, and a little tough love to remind us that momentum beats waiting every single time.

Lend Me Your Ear…

What is the greatest gift someone could give you?

I like to think of myself as a loyal friend and an active listener. And by active, I don’t mean the polite nodding while mentally composing a grocery list. I listen to understand. I hear the words, the pauses, the tone, and the stuff that’s being said without being said at all.

Living in a house with four humans and one four-legged adult (I swear she’s human) means things get loud and busy fast. My radar is always on, tuned to everyone’s frequency. If you need me, I’m there—ready to respond. Are there days when I miss things? Of course. Distractions happen. But for the most part, I’m on duty. Always.

The problem is, not everyone’s ears are open.

Screens are permanently attached to noses, and AirPods seem to be surgically implanted into ear canals. A solid 65% of the things I say are met with, “When did you tell me that?” or my personal favorite, “I must have missed that one.” Really? Fascinating.

As a result, I’ve evolved. I now document important information in the family group chat. If someone claims they missed the visual cue, I send a screenshot. Evidence. Receipts. Occasionally, I go full Super Snark and call one of the residents while they are literally in the same room as me. Is it obnoxious? Yes. But so is being ignored.

Which brings me back to this morning. Coffee in hand, planning the rest of my day, I offered to make resident number one another cup. Silence. No response. So I poured my own.

Moments later, I hear, “I’d love another cup.”

Ah yes. The echo of a moment too late.

And that’s really the thing, isn’t it? We hear plenty, but we don’t always listen. Not fully. Not intentionally. Not in a way that makes someone feel seen, valued, or even mildly acknowledged in their own kitchen.

So here’s my ask—simple and maybe a little overdue: lend me your ear. Put the screen down. Pause the podcast. Take the AirPod out. Because listening—real listening—might just be the greatest gift we can give one another. And I promise, the coffee tastes better when it’s heard the first time. ☕👂

Copyright 2026 © mobileorderforkaren All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews or scholarly work. This work is protected under domestic and international copyright laws. Unauthorized use or reproduction of this material is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action.

I Need More Words From You…

It may come as a shock to those who truly know me, but there was a time when I struggled to express myself out loud. Writing? That was always easy. Pen to paper felt safe. But if I had to actually say how I felt—voice an opinion, name an emotion—I’d clam right up.

When I was ten years old, we lost my mom’s uncle. I don’t remember him all that well, but his wife—my Aunt Anna, one of my grandmother’s sisters—was a big part of my life. I remember her sadness when Uncle Charles passed. 

I sat down and wrote her a letter. I told her that I loved her and that I didn’t want her to feel unhappy when she thought of Uncle Charles. I asked her to remember how he made her feel. I couldn’t say these words out loud, but I could place them carefully on blank paper. I left the letter on a pile of Mass cards at the wake.

Years later, my mom told me that letter made her cry. Aunt Anna had called to say my words helped her through a very dark time. Even then, I didn’t fully understand what writing could do—but somewhere deep inside, I knew it mattered.

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. I took a Creative Writing course taught by Eugene Murphy. He was so damn talented. A laid-back literary with the biggest head I’d ever seen—physically and intellectually. After my first three assignments earned nothing higher than a “B” or “B+,” he called me over after class one day.

He looked at me and said, “Eastwood, I need more words from you. You have more to say. Let it flow.”

That afternoon, I walked into town and bought a three-pack of marble notebooks and a fresh pack of Bic pens. That night, I started narrating everything. The new toothpaste in the bathroom. The gut-punch feeling of finding out everyone was invited to a party at Eleni’s house except me. The neighbors painting their house blue after it had been red for as long as I could remember. I wrote about everything.

Three notebooks turned into fifty. Typewriters were upgraded. White paper was bought in bulk. I dreamed of writing for television, though I never imagined success beyond Mr. Murphy’s classroom. I wasn’t writing for an audience. I was writing for me—and for the greeting cards I sent each year. Still, I kept dreaming.

When I created this blog, I kept it private. Then one day, I uploaded my first piece to Facebook. I nearly threw up when I hit “Publish” on WordPress. The kind of nausea that comes from vulnerability, not food poisoning. To my surprise, kind words came back to me. That wasn’t why I published it.

I write to express. I write to process. I write to share what I think and feel in the only way that has ever fully made sense to me.

And now, here we are—in a community of writers. I devour what all of you write and publish. Truly. It’s extraordinary to be surrounded by people brave enough to put their words out into the world.

So please—don’t ever stop writing.

As we wrap up 2025, I’ll borrow the words that changed everything for me and carry them with us into 2026:

I need more words from you.

My Room With a View

You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

Truthfully, I’ve never had a proper space dedicated to reading or writing. My words have always had to find me where they could—between sips of coffee, while waiting for an appointment, or parked crookedly in the corner of a lot with the engine still running. I jot down notes for character development in single subject spiral notebooks or journals I grab while on line at Home Goods. I scribble—and I do mean scribble—half-formed thoughts I’m afraid will disappear if I don’t trap them fast enough. Some days I take screenshots of something that sparks me and layer text over it, just so I don’t forget the little nugget I stumbled across. 

There are days when a blog idea arrives fully formed, demanding immediate attention. Those are the ones you don’t negotiate with. I’ve pulled into parking lots to write entire pieces because the fear of losing my original point was louder than the honking cars around me. Some blogs have been born in my laundry room, spoken softly into voice notes on my phone while socks tumbled nearby (and plotting their escape from my dryer). You truly never know where my brain kernels might start to pop.

But given the chance, I’d retreat to the space I’ve already built a hundred times over in my mind. I dream big—and in specifics. Some days I can smell the fresh paint on the walls as I open my laptop and begin to type. 

The view is an ocean, stretching endlessly in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. No panes. No grids. Just sheer glass, uninterrupted, so nothing competes with the water beyond it. The only movement comes from rolling waves and slow-drifting clouds that seem to nod knowingly as they hover over the salt air. Maybe a couple wanders by, walking their dog, unbothered and unhurried.

I go back and forth between a simple desk made of vintage surfboards or one crafted from reclaimed wood. Either one speaks to me. What matters most is that it holds one of the many coffee mugs I rotate through—designs ranging from Bob’s Burgers characters to my college logo to our high school football team. Each one tells its own small story, just like the words I’m trying to catch.

A custom sound system is built into the room, quietly shuffling through playlists and motivational pieces I’ve collected over the years. Black-and-white photos from my life line the side walls—moments frozen in time, grounding me. Behind my desk sits a full, fluffy pale yellow couch, draped in layers of cornflower blue blankets. Oversized, comfy-chic pillows balance the space, inviting pauses, rereads, and the occasional stare-out-the-window moment.

Maybe one day that room will exist beyond my imagination. Or maybe it already does—just not in four walls and a perfect view. Because the truth is, my writing has never waited for ideal conditions. It shows up in parking lots, laundry rooms, coffee lines, and quiet moments I almost miss. And maybe that’s the real space I’ve built: one where words know they’re always welcome, no matter where I am when they decide to arrive.

The Nice List

I work hard all year.

Not the kind of hard that comes with trophies or titles but the kind where you try to keep everyone happy, even when you’re running on fumes. The kind that doesn’t always get noticed… until it does.

Lately, I’ve been wanting to bring back the Christmas spirit I feel like I misplaced somewhere between responsibilities, routines, and real life. You know—that spark that used to come so easily when December rolled in.

Today, in the middle of an ordinary day, I ran into an old friend. Red suit. White beard. Very familiar twinkle in his eye. He asked me if I’d been good this year—and just like that, I felt eight years old again.

Then he asked what was on my Christmas list.

I thought about it for a moment. No gadgets. No things. No shiny distractions. I told him I really just want to concentrate on my writing. On telling stories that make people feel seen. On spreading a little happiness wherever my words might land.

He smiled. The kind of smile that tells you he already knows the answer.

And just like that, I’m pretty sure I made the nice list—not because I was good, but because I kept showing up with heart. Sometimes, that’s the biggest Christmas thing of all. 🎄✨

Carts Ready…

List your top 5 grocery store items.

Watching me grocery shop is like catching a rerun of that old, not-so-popular game show Supermarket Sweep. There is no casual strolling. No browsing. My race begins in the parking lot. The list lives on my phone, and the second those automatic doors part, I hit the ground running.

Before we go any further, I need a pinky swear. Promise you won’t judge me by my list. I’m on a journey to eat right. Most of my lunches and dinners come from a local meal prep service, so my weekly grocery run is really just about breakfasts and snacks. I rotate through the same staples so I don’t get bored… and spiral. Because boredom in the snack aisle is where dreams go to die.

Pinkies up?

Green grapes.

My ShopRite carries these absolutely colossal grapes. Raised-on-steroids, not-from-this-earth sized. Juicy. Luscious. Some days I freeze a cup and convince myself they’re tiny Italian ices. A girl can dream.

Yogurt.

Yes, I read reviews. Of yogurt. Lately, Cabot non-fat plain Greek has my heart. I toss in frozen, no-sugar-added fruit and call it breakfast. I know—it’s not exciting. But I’m trying to look good at the beach, and sacrifices must be made.

Snyder’s Buffalo Wing Pretzel Pieces.

You can’t always find them, which makes them feel exclusive. On desperate weeks, I order them online like a woman with priorities. I live for crunch, and these deliver every time.

Trader Joe’s Mini Brie Bites.

Each tiny wheel is 70 calories, which means I can pretend I’m hosting a charcuterie party for one. Cheese without guilt is a little miracle to me. 

Eggs.

If you’ve been here a while, you already know this about me. A soft-boiled egg is perfection. Portable. Reliable. Essential. I cannot live without them.

And that’s it. Items scanned. Cart returned to the corral. Exits store victorious.

See you for the next prompt.

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Yabba Dabba Doo

What’s your favorite cartoon?

You would think it would be easy to answer the daily prompt about my favorite cartoon. I sat down to write saying, well, it was hands down Bugs Bunny. “Duh!” I thought. Turns out there was another choice that knocked on my brain and said, “Yabba Dabba Doo — I’m here too.”

The Flintstones showed up. How could I forget my modern stone-aged family?

I’ve always thought the animated series were written more for adult humor than kids. After all, the Flintstones were modeled after The Honeymooners—so closely, in fact, that Jackie Gleason contemplated suing the creators. And honestly? I get it. The jokes, the timing, the innuendos… half of it soared right over our childhood heads while our parents chuckled in the background.

But every week I’d plop down and watch the antics that Fred and his sidekick Barney—or Wilma and her bestie Betty—would tumble into. Prehistoric tales served up in modern situations. It cracked me up every time Wilma “vacuumed” using what basically amounted to a wooly mammoth on a stick. And don’t get me started on the celebrity cameos. There was something so perfectly corny about seeing a familiar face written into the show and handed a rock-themed name. Ed Sullivan? Ed Sullystone. And my absolute favorite: Ann-Margret shimmering onto the screen as Ann Margrock. Pure genius.

Maybe that’s why the Flintstones nudged their way into this prompt today. They weren’t just a cartoon; they were a tiny slice of comfort I didn’t realize I’d stashed away. A reminder of simpler afternoons, of laughing at jokes I only half understood, and of a world where dinosaurs doubled as household appliances and nobody questioned it.

So yes, Bugs Bunny may have been my first instinct. But the Flintstones? They’re the ones who quietly rolled their stone wheel into my heart and parked it there. Yabba Dabba Doo indeed.

Share five things you’re good at.

“No one is you and that is your super power.”

I never feel totally comfortable talking about myself. Honestly, it’s probably one of the reasons I arrived fashionably late to the Blog Party. I spent years hovering outside the door, worried about putting myself out there, bracing for criticism that might never even come. But somewhere between dreaming about writing and actually doing it, I finally hit “send.” And just like that, my words were out in the world. Suddenly I was answering prompts, connecting with fellow bloggers, and fanning this tiny—but mighty—writer’s flame spark back to life.

With that little backstory, let’s tackle today’s prompt.

I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of Family Feud or some fabulously cheesy 70s game show. “We surveyed one hundred people… tell us FIVE things you’re good at.” The lights are bright, the clock is ticking, and here we go.

1. Presentations.

Hand me a microphone and a room full of people, and I’m oddly at home. Speeches, training sessions, full-on emcee duties—bring it on. I spent years as a trainer at GEICO, teaching Customer Service employees. I genuinely miss those days. Twice I was asked to emcee my friend’s fundraising event, standing in front of 250+ people as we raised money for her cancer foundation. It was an honor, a thrill, and maybe the closest I’ll ever get to feeling like a celebrity host—minus the sequins.

2. Listening.

Not the pretend kind of listening where someone nods while crafting their response. I mean the real deal. I’m an active listener, always trying to understand not just what someone is saying—but what they mean. It’s one of the quieter things I’m proud of.

3. Shopping.

Look… part of this might be a hobby, part might be a personality trait, and part might be a slight obsession—but I am a good shopper. I can track down the perfect gift or that one impossibly specific item like it’s a mission assigned directly by the universe. I am relentless and I have no shame about it.

4. Dancing.

You will not catch me doing this in public anymore—my ego is fragile and TikTok is unforgiving—but I’m actually a pretty decent dancer. Nineteen years of dance will do that to a girl. It’s probably why Broadway musicals have my whole heart. I don’t just watch the show; I devour the choreography like it’s dessert.

5. Being a loyal friend.

Plain and simple. If you’re mine, I’ve got you. No disclaimers, no fine print. Just loyalty, wrapped up in love, salted with honesty, and delivered in the way only I know how.

The 2025 Kiki’s Music Awards

Cue the house lights and imaginary orchestra…

Yesterday—Tuesday, December 2, 2025—my very own personal music awards ceremony took place. Yes, my ceremony. Center stage? Me. The venue? My living room. Wardrobe? Gym clothes, naturally. I was about to head out the door when Apple casually slipped an email into my inbox and—boom—the musical magic began. If you’ve ever wanted to feel electrified, frenetic, melodic, and fashion-forward all at the same time, try opening your Replay in leggings with your hair in a messy ponytail. The only thing missing was a red carpet… although my hallway runner tried its best.

This was the first year I remember Apple Music Replay arriving so ceremoniously. Meanwhile, my daughter got her Spotify Wrapped at the exact same moment—as if the tech gods synced our mother–daughter soundtrack reveal. The link was so cool. All of my favorite artists, songs, and playlists appeared like nominees awaiting their awards, meticulously ranked based on my year of listening. And as someone who is always humming, tapping, or blasting music from the car to the kitchen, it’s no shock to me (and now to all of you) that I logged thousands of plays over the last 365 days.

And the top honor? Apparently, “No Hard Feelings” by Old Dominion stole the show with a grand total of 17 plays. Seventeen! Listen, once I fall in love with a song, I commit. We’re in a long-term relationship until someone else sweeps me off my feet.

So, in true awards-show fashion, I’d like to thank the Academy—also known as Apple, Siri, her sister Alexa, and of course my iPhone—for delivering the soundtrack to my year. I’m forever grateful for the ability to tap into my music wherever I am. Technology really is a beautiful thing. This girl has come a very long way from sitting on her bedroom floor in middle school, pressing record on a cassette deck, praying the DJ wouldn’t speak over the intro of the song.

Thank you.

(Said into my imaginary microphone, under the glow of my living room spotlight.)

⸻