Author: KikiFikar

Albert Einstein famously said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result. I don’t know about you, but I am absolutely guilty of this every so often. I get stuck in a familiar loop, convincing myself, this has to work this time. Same effort. Same approach. Same outcome.

Today is February 2nd — Groundhog Day. The day we collectively wait to see whether a groundhog (most famously Punxsutawney Phil) sees his shadow. Shadow means six more weeks of winter. No shadow means an early spring. This blonde only realized a few years ago that spring technically arrives in six weeks anyway… but traditions are traditions, and here we are.

While it’s not an official holiday, February 2nd gave us a gift back in 1993: the movie Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray as Phil Connors, a cynical local weatherman sent to cover the festivities in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. A snowstorm traps Phil and his crew overnight — except Phil doesn’t just spend the night. He ends up reliving the same 24 hours over and over again.

I won’t recount the entire movie here (though I could — it’s firmly in my top five cinematic picks), but what I will say is this: the film is a master class in what happens when we stay the same.

Phil wakes up every morning at 6:00 a.m. to Sonny & Cher’s I’ve Got You Babe. At first, he repeats every move from the day before. Then he starts experimenting. Each new morning becomes a chance to change things — indulgence, arrogance, charm, cruelty, excess. He tries being outrageously rude. He tries being wildly self-serving. He tries manipulating outcomes. Yet no matter what he does — good or bad — the result never changes. He is stuck. Eternally.

As the story unfolds, Phil falls in love with his producer, Rita. Day after day, he learns her likes, her quirks, her values. In one scene, he orders her exact cocktail — knowledge gained from countless previous days — and offers a toast: “I like to say a prayer and drink to world peace.” Rita is stunned by the synchronicity. It feels magical. Meant to be.

But the magic doesn’t actually come from knowing the script. It comes later.

It isn’t until Phil stops trying to control the outcome — stops performing, manipulating, repeating — and starts genuinely changing himself that time finally moves forward. He learns. He gives. He becomes kind without expecting anything in return. He learns to love Rita, yes — but more importantly, he learns to love who he is becoming.

And only then does the alarm clock change. Only then does February 3rd arrive.

That’s the quiet truth hidden inside Groundhog Day: nothing changes unless you change. Not the day. Not the season. Not the outcome. We can wake up to the same song every morning and swear this time will be different — but until we do something differently, until we choose growth over habit, awareness over autopilot, we’ll keep living the same day.

Sometimes the shadow isn’t cast by a groundhog at all. Sometimes it’s our own unwillingness to change.

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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.

It’s easy for any one of us to get caught up in the thick of things. A conversation. A situation at work. Bad news. Or sometimes, oddly enough, a string of good things happening too fast. Life gains momentum and suddenly we’re sprinting without realizing we’ve lost our footing. Before we know it, we’re stuck in a full-blown Lather. Rinse. Repeat. loop—reacting instead of responding, running plays that aren’t getting us anywhere.

I was having a conversation with my son yesterday when I could see his mood starting to tilt toward that familiar cliff of anxiety. His words came faster. His breathing shortened. I could almost hear his heart racing ahead of him. As expected, his voice began to rise. I remember thinking, Well, that escalated quickly.

And then—clear as day—I heard my father.

“Drop back and punt, Karen Anne.”

Now, I don’t know if it was my dad’s presence slipping quietly into the room—he left us two years ago yesterday—or just one of those instinctual mother moments where memory and muscle reflex collide. Either way, there it was. One of his Spitballs of Knowledge, perfectly timed.

My dad was famous for them. He had a deep bullpen of phrases and adages he rotated through our lives, always uncannily tailored to the exact moment we were in. “Drop Back and Punt” was a big one. We watched the New York Giants with him every Sunday from the time I was… three? Four? Football wasn’t just a game in our house—it was a language. We knew the plays, the rhythm, the patience required when a drive wasn’t going your way.

To my dad, “Drop Back and Punt” literally meant this: stop. Take two or three steps back—no more, that’s all the NFL allows—and punt the ball. Give yourself space. Reassess. Change the angle. Clear the field so you can regroup and move forward with intention instead of force.

That message—along with so many others—carried us through some pretty wacky moments, and some very serious ones too. It showed up in boardrooms, family kitchens, hospital waiting rooms, and long car rides where the answers weren’t obvious yet.

Yesterday, my son took that golden nugget from his grandfather and ran with it. He slowed his breathing. His shoulders dropped. The field opened up. Calmness replaced chaos.

And in that moment, I realized something: maybe my dad never really left the game. Maybe he just moved upstairs to the coaching booth. Quietly calling plays. Stepping in as Offensive Coordinator exactly when we need him. Reminding us that not every moment is meant to be charged ahead—sometimes the smartest move is to drop back, punt, and trust that there’s another drive coming.

🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈

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.

Twenty years ago, these words took up permanent residence in my head. They moved in, unpacked, and never left.

We’re all in this together

Once we know

That we are

We’re all stars…

You know the rest. Of course you do. Because once Troy Bolton and Gabriella Montez locked eyes at a ski resort on New Year’s Eve, none of us were ever quite the same again.

It was a modern-day Grease—two teenagers from opposite ends of the high school social spectrum, finding each other despite sports jerseys and brainiac reputations. Only this time, it came with Disney polish, catchy choreography, and songs that burrowed into your soul and refused to be evicted.

High School Musical premiered on January 20, 2006, and just like that, it became part of our family fabric. We didn’t just watch it—we lived it. We bought everything. Blankets. Sweatshirts. Bedding. Somewhere deep in the basement (next to the holiday decorations and the forgotten treadmill) lives the Barbie-condo-style East High, complete with every doll and character from every possible scene. Proof that at one point in time, this movie ruled our world.

There were trips to Disney, of course. And yes, I once found myself in the middle of a flash mob at Hollywood Studios, dancing to We’re All In This Together with confidence that can only come from secretly learning the choreography on YouTube. I surprised the kids after a very fun lunch, arms flailing, heart full. I also quietly began setting money aside in case they ever needed behavioral therapy to process that memory. Parenting is about balance.

So here’s a heartfelt shoutout to Disney—for creating a world that wasn’t just for kids, but for us. The Disney Channel. The stars. The concerts. The magic. It gave us permission to dance in our living rooms, sing in our cars, and connect with our children in a way that felt joyful and effortless. Those moments mattered. They still do.

Today, while I was at work, the family group text exploded.

Madre! It’s today! HSM 20th Anniversary!

And suddenly, twenty years disappeared. I could see the blankets, hear the music, feel the energy of a time when togetherness looked like sitting side by side on the couch, singing at the top of our lungs, believing—if only for a moment—that dreams really do come true when we stand hand in hand.

Because some songs don’t just mark an era.

They mark a family.

And no matter how much time passes, we really are still all in this together.

As writers, we are forever editing. We add, enhance, delete—or sometimes, in my case, crumble up the paper and start all over again. When I’m writing on a computer or tablet, I’ll find myself cruising along at a good clip. Then I stop to collect my thoughts. Change that—backspace… backspace… backspace. Insert new words. Resume.

Some of the changes I make are dramatic. Others are so minuscule they’d go unnoticed by anyone else. But I know the difference. I never hit publish until I feel that all of me is standing behind my message. Some may call this perfectionism. My family calls it OCD. Either way, it’s my personal policy: nothing gets released into the writer’s universe unless it truly sounds like me.

Changes.

It’s a new year, and almost everyone is armed with resolutions—whether you call them goals, intentions, or improvements. Maybe you frame it as an enhancement, but it’s still a decision to do something differently. This year, I thought: why not make it a year of rephrasing? A tweak. A shift. A new approach. Still a change, just a subtler one.

In the middle of my class at the gym this morning, I glanced down at my heart rate as I pushed hard on the Assault Bike. My watch flashed 166—solidly in the orange zone. I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath, “I’m too old for this effing %^+# sh*t. And yet I’ll be back here at 9 a.m. tomorrow.”

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

“I get to be back here tomorrow at 9 a.m.”

New spin. Reframing things will serve me far better. Yes, I’m older—but I’m still doing this six days a week, and I feel damn good. That matters.

I don’t have to do anything. I get to do everything. And for the next 348 days, when things feel heavy or rough or just plain exhausting, I’ll pause, reconsider, and edit accordingly. Because sometimes the most powerful change we can make isn’t rewriting the story at all—it’s simply knowing when to hit backspace and choose better words to keep going.

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.