Mobile Order For Karen

 The alarm rang at 4 a.m.

I crawled down the hall and popped into the shower. We had planned for this. Pre-op appointments. Ice packs in the freezer. Blankets fluffed and ready. I knew it would be a long day, but I was ready.

Ernie was scheduled for shoulder surgery and we needed to be at the hospital by 6 a.m. Two weeks of preparation finally brought us to this morning.

Last month he fell off the top step on the back patio trying to photograph the Northern Lights. No magical sky pictures. Just a busted shoulder that unraveled the hard-earned success of his second rotator cuff surgery ten years ago. Four pins floating around where they most certainly did not belong.

Some days we are crazed squirrels running in opposite directions looking for car keys and favorite hoodies. But today? Today we were a well-oiled machine. Quiet. Efficient. Focused. We walked out the door like a team that had studied the playbook.

The drive was short, but at 5:37 a.m. the world already felt loud. Horns honking. A couple arguing in the parking lot. Headlights cutting through the early morning gray.

I glanced over at Ernie in the passenger seat. He was tense. And that caught me.

He’s a big guy with nerves of steel. A retired Corrections Officer. A Volunteer Firefighter for over forty years. He’s seen things most of us can’t even imagine. The kind of man who runs toward chaos when everyone else runs away. But surgery? Surgery makes you hand over control. And that’s a different kind of bravery.

The hospital doors slid open and then shut behind us. Outside noise muted instantly.

Forms exchanged. ID badges clipped on. A team of nurses swept in and brought Ern back to the OR prep room. Thirty minutes later they came for me. The anesthesiologist arrived. More forms. More signatures. Finally the doctor walked in — our orthopedist for years now. We’re on a first-name basis. Not exactly a club you want to belong to, but here we are.

Then the nurses walked me back out.

Time to wait.

If there’s one thing I do well, it’s observe. I am a fierce people watcher. I talk to everyone. I listen with my whole body. And as I sat there, here’s what I saw:

Deep compassion.

Outside chaos.

Inside calm.

Every person within those walls moved with purpose but never with panic. They smiled. They touched arms gently while speaking. They made steady eye contact. No rushed glances at phones. No distracted nods. Just honest-to-goodness human interaction.

It struck me.

In a place where fear quietly sits in every chair, kindness becomes oxygen.

No one raised their voice. No one rolled their eyes. They explained things twice. They reassured. They paused. They looked you in the face like you mattered — because you did.

And it made me think — we are capable of this everywhere.

Not just in hospitals. Not just when something is broken. Not just when we are scared.

We can choose calm over chaos.

Connection over confrontation.

Kindness over noise.

Ernie was wheeled back hours later — groggy, stitched, repaired. The surgeon said it went well. Four renegade pins handled. Shoulder rebuilt again.

As we drove home, the morning felt different than it had at 5:37 a.m. Still traffic. Still horns. Still people rushing.

But inside our car?

Calm.

Sometimes healing isn’t just what happens in the operating room. Sometimes it’s what happens in the waiting room. In the quiet moments when strangers show up with compassion and remind you that humanity is still very much intact.

And maybe that’s the solid takeaway.

When the world feels loud, be the hospital hallway.

Be the steady hand.

Be the calm inside someone else’s chaos.

Because kindness — real, eye-contact, hand-on-the-arm kindness — might just be the strongest medicine we have.

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.