Author: KikiFikar

By now you know that I am a beach girl. Grew up on the beach. Love to vacation on a beach. Salt air is my bestie. Mountains? Well they’ve played a part in my life but truly not even a supporting role because the highest elevation on this island where I live is sometimes a mound of snow in a parking lot crafted by the snow plows after a six inch snowstorm. 

Teen Kiki would travel to the mountains of Vermont to ski. There won’t be many blogs about those trips. Once I got going I wasn’t a bad skier. I was just terrified of it. Swooshing down a mountain at warp speed was not my thing. I hung up my skis in my 20s and never looked back. 

That was of course until a new type of mountain exposure entered my life. Enter Spartan racing in 2016. When you start training for these races they never really tell you what to expect. They lure you in with the number of miles you’ll run and the amount of obstacles you’ll tackle in said run. What they leave out is the elevation in the mountain race series. Most mountain races are held at ski resorts. Some on the very same slopes I hurled my body down years prior. Now, I was hiking up the mountains and tossing myself over walls and swimming through mud pits. I won’t lie – the races were brutal but extremely gratifying. If you visit Killington Resort in Vermont and look very closely – you will find a piece of my soul carved into the side of the mountain. At mile 6 (out of 16) and starting the biggest climb up (called The Death March), my blood pressure spiked to 200/120. I collapsed. I woke up on an ATV wearing a helmet at base camp while paramedics started an IV on me. Finishing the race that day was not in my cards (I did return three years later to volunteer on course). 

But that day in Killington changed something in me. Not in the big dramatic “and from that moment on I conquered every fear” sort of way. No. More in the “okay, mountains, I see you—and I respect the hell out of you” kind of way. Because mountains have a funny way of humbling you and expanding you at the exact same time. They’ll knock you flat on your back… and somehow still make you proud.

And yet, even after all that, I never converted into a mountain person. I didn’t suddenly start craving crisp alpine air or fleece-lined anything. Deep down, I’m still the girl who knows the exact shade the ocean turns at sunset, who can smell a tide change before she sees it, who feels most like herself when her toes are in warm sand. The beach is where my nervous system goes to exhale. The mountains? They’re where my blood pressure goes to audition for a horror film.

But here’s the thing: both have shaped me. The beach raised me. The mountains reminded me I’m tougher than I think. The beach is comfort. The mountains are challenge. One whispers. The other roars. And somewhere between the saltwater and the summit, I’ve learned that it’s okay to be a person who adores one and merely tolerates the other.

So yes, I’ll always pick a beach chair over a gondola ride. I will always choose sand over snow, flip-flops over trails, and a sunburn over frostbite. But I also carry a tiny sliver of Killington with me—the steep climb that nearly broke me and somehow built me all at once.

Mountains may never be my love story. But they are part of my plotline. And for that, I nod to them from sea level… preferably with a salty breeze in my hair and the waves reminding me I’m exactly where I belong.

In our house, there’s a running list—maintained exclusively by me. It’s not Santa’s Nice or Naughty list; only the big man himself has access to those sacred scrolls. No, this one is far more personal. It exists only in my daydreams, updated mentally as I wander around my backyard or stir another pitcher of sangria.

It’s my Summer Barbecue Guest List:

Who from history—or from my lifelong love of entertainment—would I invite to sit beside me in an Adirondack chair and drink handcrafted sangria under the soft glow of string lights?

I adore entertaining in the summer. My backyard is modest, but I treat it like a tiny retreat—a place where mosquito fighter candles (ok Citronella) double as décor and the wind chime sings softly. Each year I add a few touches: new flowers, a statement lantern, maybe a fresh outdoor pillow that I swear I don’t need but somehow buy anyway. And every year, as I sit outside, the breeze in my hair, I revisit the guest list.

Billy Joel has made appearances on this list—because who wouldn’t want “Piano Man” playing live next to the grill? Jerry Seinfeld would absolutely question the concept of my list (“A party for dead people? Who does that?”), which somehow makes me want to invite him even more. And then there are Eli and Peyton Manning—because someone needs to help my family settle our eternal quarterback debates.

The list is long, ever-changing, and slightly chaotic—much like me. But one name never leaves. One name is permanently etched at the top, like it’s written in pixie dust:

Walt Disney.

What I wouldn’t give to have a real conversation with the greatest imagineer of all time. What we see in his parks and films is only the surface—the shiny tip of a much deeper, more daring iceberg. His mind, they say, never slept. Maybe that’s why the urban legend lives on in that he wanted to be cryogenically frozen, ready to be revived in some future era just to see if his ideas held up. I never understood that story entirely, but what I do understand is that his creativity shaped the childhoods of millions—including mine—and continues shaping generations that follow.

Some people aren’t Disney fans.

I am not one of those people.

If I ever had the chance to meet Mr. Disney, I think I’d skip the formalities and go straight in for a hug. A real one. The kind that says “thank you” without making a scene. I’d thank him for Herbie the Love Bug, which made my young heart feel like anything could come alive with a little imagination. I’d thank him for the castles, the characters, the music, the worlds he built out of thin air and big dreams. And most of all, I’d thank him for the look on my children’s faces every time we walked into Disney World—eyes wide, spirits lifted, wonder pouring out of them like light. That kind of magic stays with a mother forever.

And since this is my daydream, after the hug and the gratitude, I’d pour him a chilled glass of sangria and ask the questions that have lived rent-free in my mind for years:

What idea were you most proud of? Which one kept you up at night? What sparked your imagination the most—the characters, the worlds, or the believing?

I’d want to hear about his failures, too—the ones he learned from, the ones that stung, the ones that eventually led to something extraordinary. Because no great legacy is built without a few burnt hot dogs and wobbly patio chairs along the way.

The truth is, none of these people will ever set foot in my backyard. They’ll never taste my sangria or laugh at my mismatched patio cushions. But that’s not the point.

The point is that imagining these conversations—dreaming about what we’d say, what we’d learn, what we’d feel—reminds me why these individuals mattered to me in the first place. They shaped the soundtrack, the humor, and the curiosity in my little life. 

I’m relatively new to this prompt answering process but not to blogging. Here is a piece I created a few years back about my gut instincts and where they can take me.

https://mobileorderforkaren.com/2020/10/26/intuition-is-the-gps-of-the-soul/

Living on an island you would think I would have my fill of water, sand, and salt life. Sound the game show buzzer. The correct response is that I need to be by the water. I can’t be landlocked. It is not in my plans.

My skin lights up when I’m by the ocean. Everything about the salt life has my name on it. Summers on Long Island can be brutally hot and humid. The type of humidity that sent 1980s permed curly hair screaming for a can of Stiff Stuff hairspray or worse – a baseball hat that couldn’t fit all of those locks underneath. To escape the heat we would head to the beach for a day with our friends. We would ride our bikes or if lucky enough we had a friend with a sibling that drove and we’d literally pile in their Chevy Nova until we could drive ourselves.

No beach chairs then – just towels and blankets stuffed in a canvas beach bag, bottle of Coppertone, can of Tab, transistor radio tuned to WBAB, plastic bag of ice, and a bologna sandwich with mustard. The crowd at our town beach was a combo of electric and chill all at once. Everyone from town was there and you always met people from neighboring towns that you’d see out at the local bars each week. The best part was this guy that roamed the beach selling ice cream. You’d hear him dragging his cooler and barking “Ice cold Fudgie Wudgie Bars”. Man – to me that was the coolest job around (pun intended). I grew up wishing to always be on the beach no matter where I was in life.

When the kids were small we fell in love with Florida’s west coast on a vacation to the Clearwater area. We drove through a town called North Redington Beach. That was it for me. I fell in love with everything about this jewel of a town. It was gorgeous and sleepy. It had edge yet was classic. I created a whole Pinterest board about the town on the plane ride home. To this day I still check the real estate prices and am saving my sheckles to buy something there soon.

I literally have the entire house I would like all mapped out. I’ve built it in my mind for a few years. I can see what I’m wearing as I sit outside at my pool looking out over the ocean (a pool – ocean/gulf combo is a must in my mind). There will be a dock and a boat. At the base of the dock will be a small hut or maybe a “she-shed” where I keep the paddle boards and yoga mats. I have even designed where I will write. A desk made from retired surfboards will be placed in a room with a floor to ceiling window that looks out over the Gulf. That will be where I answer all writing prompts one day as I sip Iced Americanos and reach into the cooler for you guessed it – a Fudgie Wudgie bar.

Enjoy your weekends my fellow dreamers!

“Dogs are not just pets, they are furry therapists.”  – Unknown Author

My life has been lucky enough to have three dogs so far. My first love was Alexander the Great the Third. He was a gorgeous light gray Miniature Schnauzer who lived to be 19 years old. We brought him home when I was three years old and had just moved to our house on Long Island. 

When having a baby became excruciatingly painful, we adopted a black Flat Coated Retriever from a litter discovered at a construction site by my neighbor. We named her “Clancy”. When you are huge Bugs Bunny fans, your favorite episode involved Bugs and a group of mobsters. The one police officer instructs his squad “Clancy – take the boys and surround the house”. I’ll take useless trivia for $500 Alex…Clancy was a mush in every sense of the word. She loved our backyard and being with anyone who glanced her way. She laid on top of us each night and really calmed me down all of those years when I prayed for a baby to arrive. Once the kids took center stage Clancy protected them at every turn. Losing her at age 15 was something I’m still weepy about.

We swore off getting another dog after Clancy left us. That was until our Julia learned Microsoft Power Point. She couldn’t clean up her room but one Friday night after pizza she fired up her laptop and presented her case. She was smooth and swift hitting all of the sympathetic notes about why we needed a dog NOW. It’s no wonder Jules ended up in pre-law. Her case was a great success. Before we knew it we were approved by a local rescue group to pick up our new dog at one of the shelter’s pick up villages. 

When we arrived to check in, the volunteer explained that the dog we were picking up was at the vet’s office because she was pregnant. Well. A quick glance to the back seat to see Julia’s face turn beet red was all I needed to see. I popped out of the car and said to the volunteer “Listen. We need a new family member. Please. Help us.” 

Within five minutes a cute black dog with a chest flocked in white and very pointy ears was walking towards us. She walked right up to Julia and sat down at her feet. Julia said “Please welcome Phoebe”. 

Our new angel has been with us for five years. She is the star of the show. Walks 3 miles a day with Jake, sleeps on top of us each night, has her own Instagram page, won’t leave you alone unless you administer 10 minutes of belly rubs and ear scratches, and will lay with you while you sing to her all night long. She is our world. 

So when I read the prompt what is good about having a pet I realized that there is nothing bad about having a pet in my little corner of this universe.  I’m in love with being in love. 

For any of you playing along with our home game here on MOFK (Mobile Order For Karen) you will know I like to shop. Sometimes it’s a straight out hunt for the perfect item.

I’ve been known to spend hundreds on handbags and clothes. I love to scroll through my pins on Pinterest and locate a few fabulous outfits each season. I’ve also developed an addiction to skin care so it is not uncommon for me to drop a good amount of cash on certain beauty lines that I’ve been following for years.

When I think about the biggest amounts I’ve spent though I have to say it has been on my hair. The salon prices here in New York are astronomical. It has gotten to the point where I literally have to plan out my finances based on how many gray locks will sprout up every 6 to 8 weeks! I feel like I’m scheduling my hair for service at the dealership. A half head of highlights with a cut and blowout plus tip is a little under $400. This practice four times a year is slightly under what my mortgage payment is.

Lately though I found this little hair shop run like a Chinese nail salon. I don’t know what their annual revenue is but when you walk in you are hit with white clouds of product from the 50 hair dryers whirring each hour. They treat me like a Princess for a fraction of the cash. Admittedly the quality is not top tier but for what I need now, I’ll take the reduced price ticket of just under $200. Maybe I can put the saved rubles for a new handbag that I clearly don’t need.

Happy Sunday everyone!

I’m an impulsive shopper. I’ve been known to attend an event where I admire someone’s handbag or dress and by the time the parking valet has brought my car around – I’ve ordered the admired bag or frock from my phone.

But pay to go to the moon? Eh…I don’t know that I’d plunk down any cash to propel myself light years into space. Although…

Five year old me thought the moon was indeed made of cheese. Swiss cheese specifically. I heard the term on the recess field in Kindergarten and the myth stuck in my head. Thankfully I’m now a girl of reason and did not let the myth grow into true belief like the earth is flat. If I’d stuck with the notion that one of the members of our Solar system was indeed crafted from cheese I may now consider a trip to the moon to pick up a few pounds of moon cheese for a Charcuterie Board creation. I love authenticity and will travel to make it happen.

Given my dislike for long airline trips I may not take well to the epic journey to the moon. I would imagine that NASA would not offer an attractive miles program or offer any good martini choices during beverage service. A Moontini might be a fabulous selection should this moon travel stuff ever blast off.

Great prompt. Great question. My answer though is a big, round, greyish no. Love you all to the moon and back. I’ll be staying here with you as we craft our next blogs together.