Tag: dailyprompt

What’s the longest trip you’ve ever taken?

It was the mid-80s. I was fresh out of college. I had mile-high curly hair, a killer tan lingering from an entire summer spent at the beach and, in my hand, a plane ticket to Ixtapa, Mexico.

What could possibly go wrong?

Weeks earlier, my friend Maureen and I had spotted an ad in the back of Glamour magazine for a resort in Ixtapa. That’s how we found vacations back then, kids. There was no Expedia. No TripAdvisor. No Google reviews from Susan in Ohio complaining that the continental breakfast only had three kinds of muffins.

You flipped through a magazine, saw a picture of a palm tree and thought, Looks fabulous. Book it.

Maureen and I worked at The Big G—GEICO—before it exploded into the insurance giant it is today. Maureen was a Sales Supervisor and I was writing training manuals for Customer Service. Our regional supervisor’s husband, Morris Rosenberg, was a travel agent for a cruise line.

We told Morris we didn’t want a cruise, but could he hook us up with a resort?

A few days later, ten glossy, colorful brochures arrived at the office.

We studied them like we were choosing a new home.

Two weeks later, we were on a flight to Mexico for seven days of sun, unlimited drinks and as much fun as two New York girls in 1987 could possibly get into.

Again.

What could possibly go wrong?

The first few days are admittedly a blur. Severe sunburns. Tequila hangovers. Hair that somehow grew larger with every passing day.

It was glorious.

By Day Five, the burns had turned to tans and we were ready to resume our regularly scheduled programming.

Now, if you think I’m chatty, you should meet Maureen. This woman could charm the pants off you, interview you and somehow get you to reveal your deepest childhood trauma before you realized you had even told her your last name. She is a marvelous conversationalist.

We were early for dinner reservations one evening, so naturally we waited at the bar.

Another margarita?

Why yes. Thank you very much.

Sitting beside us was a mother and her two grown daughters. Small talk became more talk. They were from New Jersey. They all worked in New York City. Mom was a retired physician who had recently lost her husband, and her daughters had given her this trip as a gift.

They were great fun.

Twenty-one minutes later, they invited us to join them for dinner.

Naturally, we said yes.

Because who turns down a dinner invitation from complete strangers you’ve known for almost half an hour?

Somewhere around the clearing of the appetizers, we heard a roar.

Not just a noise.

A ROAR.

The loudest, deepest rumbling sound I had ever heard.

Maureen looked at me.

“Oh, that’s just the laundry cart rolling by outside.”

Que?

I rolled my eyes.

“Ladies, she’s loopy. It’s clearly a plane taking off.”

The airport was 90 minutes away.

Then the chandeliers started swaying.

Waiters suddenly appeared with our checks—even though our dinners hadn’t arrived.

“Señoritas,” they calmly explained in their best broken English. “There is an earthquake. Please exit onto the beach. You will need to walk the shoreline back to your hotel. Buenas noches.”

Que?

WHAT?

We bid adieu to Mama Doc and her flock and headed for the beach.

Very obedient travelers.

Just two New York chicks wandering along the shoreline during an earthquake in Mexico.

Completely normal.

I have no idea how long it took us to make it back to our resort, but eventually we arrived and found one of the pool bartenders.

“What is happening?”

He waved away our concern.

“As long as there is no crack in the swimming pool, everything is completely fine.”

Que?

WHAT?

Apparently, this was the Mexican Richter Scale.

No crack in the pool?

Carry on.

Our flight home was scheduled for the next day. Nobody had any information because, remember, this was 1987.

Cell phones?

What are they?

Somehow we made it to the airport the following day. How? No recollection whatsoever.

What I do remember is arriving to find—

No flights.

Because apparently an earthquake wasn’t enough excitement for one vacation.

Morris Rosenberg had booked us on AeroMexico for the trip home. Direct flight to JFK. Perfect.

Except the airline workers had decided that the very first day of their strike would also be the very day of our departure.

Of course they did.

Hours later, we were placed on another AeroMexico flight that “might” leave.

Maureen immediately renamed the airline:

Aero Maybe.

We shuffled down the counter to American Airlines, where an agent typed into a computer roughly the size of my current kitchen and eventually produced boarding passes for a 2:00 a.m. flight to Dallas.

They gave us hotel and transportation vouchers AND a free domestic flight to use within the next year.

Boom.

Done.

We had hours to kill, so we took the shuttle to the hotel across the street, showered, freshened up and then wondered what two responsible young women should do until their 2:00 a.m. flight.

Our feet took us downstairs to the bar.

Naturally.

There we found a whole group of people booked on our flight.

We had a drink.

Then two.

Then the tequila shots started.

I swear, if cell-phone cameras had existed in 1987, I would STILL be a viral TikTok video.

That hotel bar erupted into a party that rivaled anything I had witnessed in college.

Dancing on the bar.

Singing.

Swan diving into crowds of people.

Crowd surfing.

And I’m pretty sure this was before karaoke was even a thing.

My next clear memory is waking up in seat 24D beside a guy named Mike Kelley who worked in New York City.

Maureen was two rows behind me with some German businessman named Karl.

Que?

WHAT?

I looked at my watch.

The sun was coming up.

We were still on the tarmac.

It was 6:00 a.m.

Our 2:00 a.m. flight had never left.

Apparently, the plane needed a part for the air conditioner.

Then came the captain.

“Folks, our crew needs to have this part installed. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Oh my.

Four hours later?

Still on the tarmac.

No deplaning.

Just sitting there.

Finally, around 11:00 a.m., the seatbelt sign came on.

I looked toward the stewardesses—yes, they were still called stewardesses then—and watched them make the Sign of the Cross before fastening their seatbelts.

Excellent.

Very reassuring.

At that exact moment I thought:

I am not going to live to see 23.

Mike Kelley woke up with drool on his golf shirt.

Maureen and Karl were still deep in conversation.

And somehow, miraculously, we landed in Dallas.

Where another announcement awaited us.

There was no crew available to process the international passengers.

So we would continue on to Chicago.

Of course we would.

At this point, one thought finally hit me.

How will my parents know I’m alive?

Surely the earthquake had made the news back home.

There were no cell phones. No texting. No Find My Friends. No “Marked Safe on Facebook.”

Just my parents somewhere on Long Island wondering where in God’s name their daughter was while I toured the United States with Mike Kelley, Karl and Aero Maybe.

Long story longer, our plane finally arrived at JFK approximately two and a half days after our journey home had begun.

We were crispy.

Exhausted.

Beyond dehydrated.

Maureen’s father, a retired NYPD officer, picked us up at the airport. My parents met me at Maureen’s house.

And because we were young and apparently indestructible—

we went to work the next day.

When we saw our supervisor, we launched into the story.

The earthquake.

The airline strike.

The hotel-bar Olympics.

The broken airplane.

Dallas.

Chicago.

The missing two and a half days of our lives.

She stared at us blankly.

Not an ounce of sympathy.

Then, in the finest Long Island accent imaginable, she shrugged and said:

“So? So you saw a lot more of America than you wanted to. So what?”

Nearly forty years later, Maureen and I still howl over that line.

And maybe that really is the moral of the story.

Travel teaches you things. It broadens your horizons. It introduces you to new people, new cultures and new experiences. Sometimes it even introduces you to Mike Kelley in Seat 24D and a German businessman named Karl.

But most importantly, I learned that when life throws you an earthquake, an airline strike and a broken airplane all in one vacation, there is really only one important question to ask:

Is there a crack in the pool?

No?

Perfect.

Another margarita, please.

What’s the last movie that made you cry?

I think the answer to this question might be better answered with another question:

What movie has NOT made me cry?

Let’s face facts. Kiki is a sap.

I’m an empath. Sure, I am strong like bull, but I am also chock-full of emotions. Filled right to the brim, actually, like an emotional piñata just waiting for someone to give me one good whack.

A well-written movie can move me to tears—the happy AND the sad kind. And please. It doesn’t even have to be a movie.

I am a marketing executive’s dream.

Give me a well-written commercial with a returning soldier, an elderly couple, a lost dog or a kid surprising his mother and I am DONE. There was an old Folgers commercial where the son comes home from the Marines on Christmas morning. “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.”

Dear God.

I’ll never recover.

I don’t even drink Folgers, but apparently I’m emotionally invested in their entire family.

Sometimes these Daily Prompts show up at eerily precise moments. I’ll see something, hear something or experience something and then—BAM—WordPress comes knocking with a prompt that fits perfectly.

Such was the case this morning.

I had finished my shower, my daily meditation/inspiration track and was sipping my coffee while taking a quick stroll through Instagram. Guilty pleasure. No apologies.

An old cinema account I follow popped onto my screen.

And there it was.

The scene.

Robert Redford.

Barbra Streisand.

Hubbell and Katie.

The final scene of The Way We Were.

Their love story was never meant to be. Honestly, those two were doomed from the beginning. But still, after everything, when Katie reaches up and brushes Hubbell’s hair across his forehead in that final scene?

Holy Mother of God.

I lose it.

And I don’t just cry. Oh no. Amateur hour.

I recite the lines.

With inflection.

I am IN the scene. I may as well be sitting in a director’s chair just off camera wearing a headset and yelling instructions through a megaphone.

“Okay, Barbra…reach for the hair…beautiful…Robert, give me wistful…WISTFUL! Annnnd…CUE THE TEARS!”

The dialogue ends.

Cue Babs singing The Way We Were.

And Kiki is officially goo.

A big puddle of emotional goo sitting there with her morning coffee, sobbing over two fictional people whose relationship ended more than 50 years ago.

Such was the case this morning. As I tried to sop up the puddles forming under my eyes, I opened Jetpack/WordPress and Daily Prompt 2859 sprang to life:

What is the last movie that made you cry?

How apropos.

There have certainly been plenty of movies that have touched my soul over the years, but The Way We Were was one of the first—besides Old Yeller, which frankly should have come with a childhood trauma warning—that taught me just how deeply a movie could reach inside you.

So, what was the last movie that made me cry?

Apparently one I’ve already cried over about 847 times. Pass the Kleenex.

“Your girl is lovely Hubbell”

Share a photo of your pet and tell us one thing that makes them uniquely them.

Phoebe is an old soul.

I don’t mean that in the “she likes to nap a lot” kind of way. Although, let’s face it, she certainly doesn’t turn down a good nap. I mean there is something behind those beautiful eyes that makes me believe she has been here before. Possibly several times. And I’m pretty sure in at least one of those lives she was a therapist.

Phoebe has never been a lap dog. She has boundaries. She does, however, need to be next to you at all times. There is a difference. If I move from one room to another, Phoebe moves. If I sit down, she settles nearby. Close enough to know exactly what is happening, but far enough away to maintain her independence.

And then there are the conversations.

Somehow Phoebe inserts herself into them like a treasured old friend. She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t bark. She just…joins us. She looks from one person to the next, listening so intently that I sometimes forget she has absolutely no idea what we are saying.

Or does she?

Because those eyes. Those beautiful, soulful eyes can look straight through you. Tell Phoebe something and she will stare back as if she understands every single word. Your good days. Your bad days. Your worries. Your secrets. She takes it all in and, thankfully, has never repeated a thing.

She is fiercely protective of the people she loves. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons she and I understand each other so well. We love hard. We protect harder. And we like to keep our people close.

She is our shadow. Our protector. Our confidante. Our treasured friend.
And sometimes, when those beautiful brown eyes lock onto mine, I swear she isn’t looking at me at all. She’s looking right into my soul. And somehow, I think she knows exactly what she sees. ❤️

What’s your home decoration style?

My decorating style is probably best described as “If it makes me smile, it gets a spot.”

I love old things that look like they’ve lived a life before finding their way to me. Oversized clocks. Distressed wood. Vintage-looking signs with words that remind me who I want to be. Warm lamps that make a room feel like someone is always home.

Then I sprinkle in pieces that tell my story.

A vase overflowing with hydrangeas because fresh flowers make an ordinary Tuesday feel special. A Hamilton book because some stories deserve a permanent place in the room. And yes…a sign that simply says FABULOUS because sometimes we all need a little reminder – plus it’s my fave word.

I don’t worry much about whether something is trendy. Trends come and go faster than my Amazon deliveries. Home should feel like a collection of your favorite memories, not a page torn from a furniture catalog.

When people walk into my house, I don’t want them to notice the furniture first. I want them to feel comfortable. I want them to see little pieces of my family, my personality, and the things that make me laugh, think, and appreciate life.

Maybe that’s my decorating style after all.

Not farmhouse. Not rustic. Not vintage.

Just…me.

Do you remember life before the internet?

I don’t know if any of you are involved with Pinterest the way I am, but there isn’t a day that goes by where I’m not clicking, scrolling, saving, or searching for dinner ideas I’ll probably never actually make. For me, it’s the world’s biggest rabbit hole. One minute I’m looking for a chicken recipe and forty-five minutes later I’m emotionally invested in a woman restoring a farmhouse in Idaho while organizing her pantry in matching glass jars.

But Pinterest reminded me exactly how I should answer today’s prompt.

Today, Pinterest exists with flash messages, recipes, advertisements, and perfectly curated outfits worn by people who somehow never spill coffee on themselves. You can “pin” your likes to boards and pages you create. It’s basically a virtual vision board.

“Back in the day” — and you all know how much I love that phrase — my vision board was very real and very oversized. It lived on the wall of my bedroom at 36 Grant Avenue. I covered a giant corkboard with magazine cutouts attached by brightly colored pushpins. I cut out letters from magazines like I was preparing a kidnapper’s ransom note just to label sections of the board. There were concert ticket stubs, wrinkled boarding passes from family vacations, doodles born out of boredom during math class, dance wristbands, and newspaper clippings featuring my Kickline performances or Track Team racewalking results.

My entire life — and the life I hoped to create — lived on that board.

It hung above my prized stereo system, which took up nearly as much emotional real estate as the corkboard itself. I never wanted a Sweet 16 party, so my parents bought me a stereo setup instead. Best decision ever. I could disappear into music for hours while lying on the shag carpeting in my room or French braiding my hair before school each morning. That stereo was therapy before we called things therapy.

The stereo and my portable transistor radio also doubled as my pre-internet mix tape headquarters. I was an absolute professional at recording songs off the radio. I knew every DJ’s rhythm and signature lines. I could sense the exact second they were about to “hit the post” and stop talking right before the lyrics started. That was my cue to slam down the record button.

Young friends, this was our playlist creation process. This was iTunes before Apple even knew what iTunes was.

And then there was the view from my parents’ bedroom window overlooking the block. That was my social media feed. We had thirteen kids living on our block and from around 7:30 in the morning until well after dark, somebody was outside. Bikes were scattered across lawns. Kickball games erupted without warning. Somebody was always crying over something dramatic and life-altering like who slept over whose house the night before.

There was early girl drama long before group chats existed. Who slept at Mary’s house without inviting me? Why were Debbie and Kathy sleeping at my house while Mary and Peggy were left out? Every day brought a new emotional scandal worthy of a daytime soap opera.

Honestly, it was Facebook before the World Wide Web.

Painful as those years sometimes felt, I can say with complete certainty that I probably would not have survived my later high school years had social media existed the way it does today. There. I said it. Living inside the small protective bubble of my little neighborhood gave me room to grow up quietly. Mistakes disappeared by the next morning instead of living forever online. Embarrassing moments weren’t recorded, reposted, analyzed, and commented on by strangers.

We lived our lives in real time, not highlight reels.

And for that, I’m deeply grateful.

There’s something beautiful about having memories that only exist in stories, ticket stubs, faded photographs, and corkboards covered with dreams. Nothing was curated back then. We were just kids trying to figure ourselves out one mix tape, one sleepover, and one pushpin at a time. Maybe that’s why those memories still feel so alive to me. They weren’t created for an audience. They were simply lived.

What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?

The oldest thing – ok things I’m wearing today are my Pandora charm bracelets. I cannot take these things off or put them back on by myself so they live on my wrist. Shower, gym, work, sleep – that are always there.

What are your favorite brands and why?

By now, you know I love to shop. And if you don’t—well, welcome. Grab a cart. Stay awhile. In Chez Kiki, shopping isn’t a chore; it’s an experience. I read the reviews like they’re the morning paper. I compare, contrast, second-guess, and then—just when I think I’ve found “the one”—I’ll try something completely different just to keep things interesting. Loyalty, for me, isn’t blind. It’s earned.

Take store brands. I used to breeze right past them like they were the understudies of the grocery world. Why settle, right? Until one day, curiosity (and maybe a sale sticker) got the better of me. And guess what? Plot twist: some of those “backup singers” are hitting higher notes than the headliners. Same quality. Sometimes better. Honestly, I’m convinced there’s a mysterious warehouse somewhere in the tri-state area cranking out both labels while we all argue in aisle five.

When it comes to cars, my loyalty used to be inherited. I grew up in a Chevrolet family, with a little Audi influence sprinkled in. And to be fair, those Chevys treated me well. Reliable. Familiar. Comfortable. Then marriage came along—and with it, a new contender: Jeep. Three years ago, that “contender” became my forever. My Jeep flipped—up and over, spinning like it had somewhere else to be—before finally landing on its roof. I crawled out upside down, shaken but here. That vehicle didn’t just get me from point A to point B. It saved my life. Brand loyalty doesn’t get more real than that. I won’t drive anything else. Period. Full stop.

Now let’s talk clothes—because this is where things get personal. I’m not a high-end, designer-label kind of girl. Give me classic with a little personality and I’m happy. About thirty years ago, I walked into Gap and felt like I found my fashion soulmate. Since then, my closet has become a tribute to all things Old Navy and Athleta. At this point, I should probably get a holiday card from corporate. And while we’re here—let’s just say it: Athleta gym clothes outperform Lululemon in my world. There, I said it. They last forever, they move with me, and they don’t make me nervous to actually…you know…sweat in them.

The only other brand that has truly earned my undivided loyalty? Nike. I’ve tested them all—every style, every promise, every “this will change your workout” pitch. But Nike? Nike gets me. I’ve got a thin foot with a high arch, and since 2014, I haven’t had a single ounce of foot pain after a workout. Not one. Sometimes I don’t even branch out—I just keep buying the same sneaker like it’s a trusted friend. No flash required. Just results.

If you’re keeping score at home, my “brand style” is less about labels and more about loyalty with receipts. I’ll try anything once, but when something proves itself—whether it’s saving my life, surviving my laundry routine, or supporting my arches—it earns a permanent place in my story.

At the end of the day, our favorite brands say a lot about us—not just what we like, but what we trust. They’re stitched into our routines, parked in our driveways, and lined up in our closets like old friends. Some we outgrow. Some surprise us. And a few? A few show up when it matters most and never leave. Those are the ones worth sticking with…no coupon required.

What are your favorite emojis?

Daily Prompt 1921

The texts absolutely fly here in the Land of Kiki. At any given moment, there are family texts for just the four of us, separate chats between me and the kids, groups with my mom and sister, and enough sidebar conversations to qualify as their own social network.

The messages are quick, chaotic, and usually hilarious. Some days I can barely keep up—especially with the extended family and cousin group texts, where responses come faster than I can find my reading glasses. Thankfully, we’ve added the younger cousins to the mix. They keep us current on all the latest emojis, abbreviations, and internet shorthand. Please note: I often need to quietly sidebar someone for translation services.

Apparently there are entire conversations happening in symbols now, and I’m just doing my best to remain bilingual.

Jules and I, however, have taken things to the next level. We now have our own private emoji language. We discovered you can turn photos into stickers, which means ordinary texting has evolved into a highly specialized communication system made up of facial expressions, inside jokes, and random snapshots used as punctuation.

You may recall that Jules and I saw Stevie Nicks last year. After every song, she’d grow very quiet. A hush would fall over the crowd… and then she’d offer one long, dramatic, deeply heartfelt: thaaaank you.

Naturally, this became part of our vocabulary.

So now, instead of typing “thanks” or even the efficient little “TY,” we simply send the Stevie sticker. No words necessary. Just mystery, gratitude, and a touch of chiffon.

Honestly, if every family had a custom emoji dialect, world peace might be possible. Or at the very least, fewer misunderstood texts.

What makes you laugh?

Daily Prompt 1892: What Makes You Laugh?

If you’ve spent any time here with me, you already know—these blogs are basically a breadcrumb trail of who I am. Some crumbs are obvious. Others? You’ve got to squint a little, read between the lines, maybe even take a leap and guess. You might be right. You might not. That’s part of the fun.

Here’s one that requires zero decoding:

Most days at work, I walk into the ladies’ room, close the door behind me, exhale like I’ve just finished a marathon, and think, “Why on earth am I not writing for TV?”

And every single time, the answer is the same: I have absolutely no idea.

What I do know is this—I love to laugh. Not a polite chuckle. Not a courtesy giggle. I’m talking about the kind of laugh that sneaks up on you, takes over your whole body, and leaves you wiping your eyes wondering what just happened. And if I’m being honest? I want more of that in the world. We’re all wound a little too tight these days. No politics here—you know that’s not my lane—but let’s not pretend we couldn’t all stand to loosen the grip a bit.

So what do I do? I go hunting for laughter.

Over the years, I’ve spent plenty of time in comedy clubs—some live, some courtesy of the YouTube rabbit hole that swallows hours of my life without apology. I’m fascinated by comedic timing. It’s an art form. A science. A rhythm. And long before he became a household name with Seinfeld, I was drawn to Jerry Seinfeld. He studies comedy. Dissects it. Perfects it. His writing? Sharp. His delivery? Effortless. The man doesn’t just tell jokes—he engineers them.

Now yes, Seinfeld is legendary. Untouchable in many ways. But for me? It’s not even his best work.

That honor goes to Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.

The premise is simple—which is exactly why it works. Jerry grabs a classic car (because of course he does), gives you a quick love letter to the vehicle, picks up a fellow comedian, and they head out for coffee. That’s it. No bells. No whistles. Just conversation.

But oh…that conversation.

Two masters of their craft sitting side by side, talking shop, life, absurdity—it’s magic. Pure, unscripted magic. And every now and then, there’s a moment where Jerry completely loses it. Full-on, can’t-catch-his-breath laughter. The kind where you start laughing just because he is. Honestly, that might be my favorite part. Because if you can make him laugh like that? Good God…you’ve made it.

So here’s to chasing the laugh. To studying it, finding it, sharing it. To refusing to let the weight of the world steal something so simple and so necessary.

Because at the end of the day, if we can still laugh—really laugh—we’re doing something right.

What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?

Like many card-carrying members of modern society, I proudly hold an Amazon Prime membership. Which means, naturally, I can have just about anything my heart (or impulse control) desires delivered to my doorstep in record time. Need paper towels? Done. A last-minute birthday gift? Covered. A random 2 a.m. purchase I’ll question in the morning? Already out for delivery.

At some point, we’ll unpack my relationship with Amazon a little more—because, trust me, there’s a story there. But for today, just know: I’m a frequent flyer.

So when I sat down with this prompt, my mind wandered like it usually does. Sure, I’d love to read minds (strategically, of course). I wouldn’t hate waking up with effortlessly perfect Pinterest hair. Baking something edible—consistently—would be a win. And yes, I stand by my lifelong dream of sharing a few cocktails with Kenny Chesney on a beach somewhere.

But instead of typing any of that, I found myself entering two simple words into the Amazon search bar:

Thick Skin.

According to vocabulary.com, “thick skin” means being emotionally resilient, mentally tough, and not easily rattled by criticism, rejection, or the occasional unnecessary comment that somehow sticks longer than it should.

In other words, I’d like to glide through life a little less ruffled. A little less reactive. A little more…unbothered.

That’s it. That’s the wish.

It doesn’t feel like a big ask, honestly. Not compared to mind-reading or mastering the perfect sourdough. Just the ability to let things roll off a bit easier. To not carry what was never mine to begin with.

And if Amazon happens to have that in stock? Even better.

I’d gladly pay the extra $2.99 for same-day delivery—somewhere between 4 and 8 p.m. would be perfect.

Because while I’m still a work in progress, I have a feeling this is one package worth waiting for.