KikiFikar

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. ☕👂

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.

Copyright © 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.

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.)

⸻