Tag: dailyprompt

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.

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.

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. ☕👂

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.

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.

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.

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/