Author: KikiFikar

First things first—gratitude where it’s due.

A heartfelt thank you to BeingKevin – An American Living the Brazilian Way for the nomination. Kevin’s writing is thoughtful, layered, and quietly powerful—the kind of blog you start reading “for a minute” and suddenly you’re three posts deep, nodding along like you’ve known him for years. Do yourself a favor and spend some time there:

👉 https://beingkevin.com (go ahead… I’ll wait)

☀️ The Guidelines (because we follow directions… mostly)

Display the award’s official logo somewhere on your blog Thank the person who nominated you ✔️ Provide a link to your nominator’s blog ✔️ Answer your nominator’s questions ✔️ Nominate up to eleven bloggers Ask your nominees eleven questions Notify your nominees by commenting on their blogs

☀️ Questions & My Answers (the real stuff)

1. What is your favorite food?

A very rare cheeseburger, blue cheese crumbles, steak sauce, all sitting proudly on a freshly baked Kaiser roll. No substitutions. No apologies.

2. Favorite place to visit?

Bar Harbor, Maine. Not even close. It’s like stepping into a postcard—classic Americana meets “why don’t I live here yet?”

3. How old were you when you moved out?

Technically 18 for college. Officially 23 when I got married and the training wheels came off.

4. High school mascot?

The Golden Eagle. Strong. Majestic. Slightly aggressive.

5. Did you ever play organized sports?

I ran Track (shoutout to my New York State Games Racewalking era… yes, really) and competition Kickline. Balance and grit—my personality in a nutshell.

6. What are you afraid of?

Losing my kids before I check out.

Also: flipping a Jeep, bugs, and the possibility that this blog never makes it to TV.

7. Favorite TV shows?

This is where I lose control a bit:

Ted Lasso, vintage Saturday Night Live, Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, Seinfeld, Mad Men, The Sopranos, Entourage, and The Morning Show.

Movies? That’s a whole separate post—and you know I’ll write it.

8. What are you most proud of?

My kids. Ten and twelve years to bring them into this world, and they are—without exaggeration—marvelous humans.

9. Why do you blog?

To document real life as it happens. No fiction. No filters. Just the everyday moments that somehow become everything.

10. Thoughts on AI?

Let’s just say… I see its purpose. But I’m also side-eyeing it like it just sat in my seat.

11. Has social media helped or hindered society?

Hindered. Too much pressure. Too much comparison. Too much “what is even real anymore?” I’m grateful I grew up before it took over everything.

☀️ My Questions to You

1.What is your favorite hobby?

2.What was your favorite year of your life—and why?

3.Who was your first boyfriend or girlfriend? 4. Do you have a bucket list? What’s on it?

5. Did you play a sport growing up?

6. What are you afraid of?

7. What was your first concert?

8. If you could have one last conversation with someone you’ve lost, who would it be—and what would you say?

9. Why do you blog?

10. Who is your favorite musical artist or group?

11. Social media: help or hinder?

☀️ My Nominations (no pressure, just love)

JustCallMeSharon | A Delicate Balance of Highly Organized Within My Creative Disarray

Where It All Began 6 – Charlierobinsonbooks

Heart of Loia

My Little Corner of the World

Squiggle Line Cafe

The Happy Traveler

(And if you’re reading this and feeling a nudge… consider yourself unofficially nominated. Yes, I make my own rules. Michael, Brian, Willie, and Edward I am having trouble with the links despite Kevin trying to help this blonde gal.)

There’s something quietly powerful about being asked questions that make you pause, reflect, and answer honestly. So Kevin—thank you for the nudge into the sunshine.

Blogging started as a hobby for me, but somewhere along the way it quietly turned into a virtual classroom. Since tossing my words out into the wilds of WordPress and Jetpack, I’ve crossed paths with people whose talents stop me in my tracks on a daily basis—writers, musicians, storytellers who make you feel something before you even realize it’s happening.

Such is the case with my friend Bryan. He’s the real deal—an exceptional writer and an accomplished musician. Do yourself a favor and run, don’t walk, to his site: http://loia.blog

A few nights ago, Bryan posted a piece originally performed by Linda Ronstadt. I was hooked within seconds. One song turned into another, and before I knew it, I was deep into my playlists, dusting off long-forgotten Ronstadt tracks like I had just uncovered buried treasure.

Fast forward to tonight. I’m scrolling for something—anything—to watch, and there it is: a documentary on Linda Ronstadt sitting on Prime like it had been waiting just for me. I’m a sucker for a good documentary, so in I went. Within two minutes, I was smiling like I’d just run into an old friend.

What followed was less of a viewing and more of a deep dive—a full-on rabbit hole into music history. Early band beginnings, unexpected turns, and then those “wait…what?!” moments. When she struck out on her own, Don Henley showed up behind the drums. Not long after, Glenn Frey wandered into the mix. The two of them eventually stepped away to form Eagles.

It hit me as I watched—this wasn’t just a documentary. It was a web of connections. A reminder that music isn’t just sound; it’s history, relationships, timing…a classroom you never signed up for but somehow end up attending anyway.

And then…beep, beep. The WayBack Machine fired up.

It’s 1978. Thirteen-year-old Kiki hops on the N81 bus headed to the Sunrise Mall in Massapequa, Long Island. Babysitting money clutched tightly in hand, mission clear: get that brand-new album.

There it was—Living in the USA. The last one in the bin. You better believe I grabbed it like it was gold and made a beeline for the register.

That album didn’t just get played—it got lived. Spun over and over until it warped. Liner notes read so many times the edges gave out before I did. And that satin baseball jacket Linda wore on the cover? Oh, I campaigned hard for that one at home.

Back then, I had no idea I was listening to someone who would one day be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I just knew how it made me feel.

Music doesn’t ask for credentials. It doesn’t care how old you are, where you are, or what you know. It simply shows up—sometimes through a friend’s blog post, sometimes through a late-night scroll—and it pulls you back to moments you didn’t realize were still living inside you.

So here’s what I’ve learned from this little journey down the rabbit hole:
The songs may fade from your daily rotation, the albums may collect dust, but the feelings? They never leave.

They just wait patiently…for the next time you hit “play.”

Many people know the story of how I found Spartan training and racing. What they may not know is just how profoundly it changed my life. I can honestly say I will never return to my pre-Spartan days. Back then, my path was paved with shoulda… woulda… couldas.

Today, I look at things differently. I lean into my strengths and face whatever obstacle is thrown my way. And if there’s a way through it, I’ll find it.

Today I returned to the Spartan arena—not as a racer, but as a volunteer at a race held in New York’s legendary Citi Field. Each year I sign up to work an obstacle, cheer on fellow racers, and give a little something back to an organization that gave my life the jumpstart I never knew I needed.

The alarm rang at 3:15 a.m. By 4:15 a.m. my pal Sha Sha and I were headed into the city. We were the first two to arrive at the volunteer tent. After signing in, we grabbed our red volunteer shirts and hoodies for the day. Those red shirts are important—they let every racer know exactly who to turn to when they have a question, need help, or just need a little encouragement.

Before long we were stationed between the Weighted Burpee obstacle—15 burpees with a 55-pound weight for the gents or 33 pounds for the ladies—and my domain, the Multi Rig. Picture rows of hanging rings that racers must traverse, hand over hand, until they smack a cowbell signaling completion.

Simple in theory.

Not so simple after 15 weighted burpees.

As you can imagine, racers arrived at my obstacle already wiped out. I greeted them with a bullhorn and as much encouragement as my lungs could muster. If someone needed a breather, I guided them off to the side. Some people wanted to chat. Some ignored me and powered straight through. Everyone handles a challenge in their own way.

Then one racer tapped me on the shoulder.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

He looked me straight in the eye and said quietly, “Look… I can’t do this anymore. This is insane.”

I paused for a moment, took a breath, and held his hand.

“Nothing we do in life is easy,” I told him. “One day you’ll have a bad day at work. Another day your child might get sick. Some days you’ll just want to throw in the towel. That’s what these obstacles are. Each one represents a different piece of adversity.”

He told me this was his first race.

I pointed down the course and explained that there were only five more obstacles after mine. When he crossed that finish line, he would be a Spartan forever. He might never race again—but he would always know what it meant to be one.

He gave me a fist bump and headed off down the line.

About an hour later, I was chasing a section of my obstacle flooring that the wind had decided to launch into orbit. Suddenly I felt a hand on my back.

It was him.

He held up his medal, kissed it, and said, “I am a Spartan because of you.”

I smiled and shook my head.

“No pal—that’s all you. Every time you believe you can… Spartan Up and you will.”

We hugged and he jogged off into the crowd.

And that, my friends, is the magic of the arena.

Wherever your race through life takes you, remember who you are and what you’re capable of. Obstacles will show up when you least expect them. Some will knock the wind out of you. Some will make you question whether you belong in the race at all.

But the finish line is always there for those who keep moving.

So dig deep, keep going, and when life throws a wall in front of you—

Spartan Up… and don’t ever let yourself down.

Daily Prompt 1850

Are you patriotic? What does that word even mean to you?

For me, it has always meant something simple and steady. Something that lives in the quiet corners of memory and shows up in the loudest moments of celebration.

I’ve always loved our Memorial Day parade marching down the main drag of our little town. It was the unofficial start of summer — sunscreen, lawn chairs, neighbors calling out to one another, and the hum of anticipation in the air. We would march each year with different community groups. My very first memory is walking beside my Dad with the Knights of Columbus.

We assembled in the train station parking lot, a sea of familiar faces. Someone handed each of us a small American flag on a wooden stick. I remember gripping mine tightly, the thin stick warm in my hand. We walked through town waving to friends and family, flags fluttering in the May breeze.

I loved holding that flag.

Even as a child, I knew it stood for something bigger than our small town. Bigger than the parade. It stood for sacrifice. For freedom. For possibility. I may not have known all the history yet, but I felt it.

Years later, when our kids were young, we took a trip to Baltimore and boarded the ferry to Fort McHenry. Inside the Visitor’s Center, we watched a film about how The Star-Spangled Banner was written. On September 14, 1814, after a relentless 25-hour British bombardment during the War of 1812, Francis Scott Key looked out and saw the American flag still flying. Inspired, he penned the poem originally titled “Defence of Fort M’Henry.”

As the film ended, the lights dimmed. Slowly — almost reverently — the floor-to-ceiling drapes began to open. And there it was. The largest American flag I had ever seen, stretching upward in breathtaking silence.

We all gasped.

I have never been so moved by our flag as I was in that moment. It wasn’t political. It wasn’t loud. It was simply powerful. A visual reminder that through bombardment — literal and figurative — we are still standing.

And then came this morning.

I walked in from the gym and the house was buzzing. The USA men’s hockey team was tied with Canada and heading into overtime for the Gold Medal in the 2026 Winter Olympics. I dropped my bag and joined the crowd in my own living room. Ten minutes later, Jack Hughes took the shot that sealed it. USA. Gold Medal.

Just like that.

It brought me right back to the 1980 “Miracle on Ice” — that scrappy, determined group of young men who captured gold and our hearts at the 1980 Winter Olympics.

Thirty minutes later, there we were — hands over hearts — singing along with the team as the National Anthem echoed through the arena. Their eyes were glassy. So were ours. They represented our country, and in that moment, they made us all stand a little taller.

So if you ask me whether I’m patriotic?

Yes. I am.

No matter who is in charge. No matter the season. No matter the noise.

For me, patriotism isn’t about perfection. It’s about pride. It’s about remembering where we’ve been, honoring those who stood before us, and believing — always believing — that when the drapes open and the flag is revealed, we will still be here.

Standing. Singing. Waving.

This morning I read a fabulous post from one of my favorite authors, Tracie (please do yourself a favor and visit Squiggle Line Cafe — she’s wonderful). She wrote about lunchboxes from back in the day and just like that, I was transported.

Until Fourth Grade, I was the proud owner of a tin lunchbox featuring The Bugaloos — yes, that Saturday morning masterpiece brought to us by Sid and Marty Krofft. The lunchbox was embossed on the front in all its psychedelic glory. It had a metal hinge and clasp that could be heard opening from the other end of the cafeteria. There was no such thing as a quiet entrance when you carried The Bugaloos.

Inside sat the matching thermos — either filled with Campbell’s soup in the colder months or lemonade when the sun decided to show off. That lunchbox was more than a container. It was a status symbol. A conversation starter. A piece of personality.

It held a prime seat each day at Central Boulevard Elementary School, where thirty of your closest friends gathered around long tables under fluorescent lighting that did none of us any favors. Before we even took a bite, we would survey the scene. Who had what? Was there a Hostess cupcake in sight? Pretzels? A pudding cup? Occasionally — and I mean occasionally — a coveted trade would take place. Negotiations were swift. Serious. Binding.

And then there were the days when The Bugaloos stayed home at 36 Grant Avenue and I opted for cafeteria cuisine.

Oh, the confidence.

I would waltz right up to the lunch lady in her hairnet as if I had a reservation.

“I’ll have the special.”

Would you like a side salad with dressing, Miss Eastwood?

Why yes. Yes, I would, Mrs. Lunch Lady.

Back then, it felt like a five-star establishment. The round Friday pizza. The mystery-meat Mondays. That iceberg lettuce salad that I can still smell to this day (and not in a good way). But in the moment? It was divine. It was independence. It was grown-up.

Every meal was served on a sturdy melamine tray with tidy compartments — our very own version of a TV dinner. Everything in its place. Orderly. Predictable. Safe.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — compared to what happened when someone dropped their tray.

There was a stainless steel bucket outside the cafeteria doors where you deposited your used tray. Every now and then, someone would misstep. A sneaker would catch. A hand would slip. And down it went.

Crash.

The tray would hit the green tile floor with a dramatic smash, aluminum silverware scattering like confetti. The sound echoed off the walls.

Then came the silence.

Three… maybe four seconds of absolute stillness. A hush so complete you could hear your own heartbeat.

And then—

The eruption.

The entire cafeteria would leap to its feet in thunderous, stadium-worthy applause. The kind reserved for rock stars taking the stage. It was instantaneous and unanimous. A rite of passage. We always felt terrible for the unfortunate soul standing amid the carnage… but the applause? Legendary.

To this day, that memory makes me laugh out loud.

My dining experiences have certainly evolved over the years. I’ve enjoyed meals in beautiful restaurants with linen napkins and candlelight. I’ve tasted cuisine I couldn’t pronounce in cities far from Central Boulevard.

But none of it quite compares to those 42 minutes each school day when food and friendship sat side by side on a plastic tray.

Fine dining, indeed.

Sometimes the best restaurants in the world aren’t the ones with five stars — they’re the ones with fluorescent lights, round pizza, and a standing ovation you never saw coming.