Author: KikiFikar

It’s been well established here and throughout my life that my brain can be a bit squirrelly at times. I often compare it to the Teacup ride at Disney World or one of those multi-CD changers we had in our stereo systems back in the 1990s. Purposeful, yet constantly spinning. Occasionally skipping a track altogether.

Except for the two days I take a 5 a.m. class at the gym, my mornings begin the same way. Shower, brew coffee, play Wordle, and choose a track on the Aura app. Aura is my little corner of the meditation and mindfulness world. On those early gym mornings, I opt for something a bit peppier to accompany me on my drive. After all, nobody needs Kiki drifting into a Zen-induced coma before lifting weights.

Yesterday, I hit a milestone. 2,000 consecutive days of mindfulness tracks. If my math is correct (and that’s always a gamble), that’s approximately 5.47 years of intentionally trying to quiet the circus between my ears.

Along the way, I’ve discovered some wonderful techniques to tame overthinking, calm anxiety, and occasionally lull myself back to sleep when my brain decides that 1:37 a.m. is the perfect time to review every decision I’ve made since 1986.

The coaches are wonderful. Their voices soothe me, their words resonate, and sometimes they transport me to an entirely different level of thinking. A few of us even follow each other on social media! It’s become a lovely little community of people simply trying to find a bit of peace in a world that rarely sits still.

Has 2,000 days of mindfulness completely quieted my squirrel brain?

Absolutely not.

But these days, the squirrels occasionally sit down, sip their coffee, and enjoy the ride.

And for Kiki, that’s what I call inner peace. 😌☮️✌️

Facebook has this lovely little feature of nudging us with memories from time to time.

Milestones. Random photographs. Celebrations. Moments we thought we had forgotten. And sometimes, pictures we’ve deliberately tucked away in the filing cabinets of our minds for reasons both good and bad.

Facebook doesn’t care. It just opens the drawer, blows off the dust, and says, “Hey! Remember THIS?”

Well, thank you very much, Zuckerberg.

I don’t always catch these little trips down Memory Lane, especially during busy weeks like the one I just wrapped up.

This afternoon, I was sitting outside basking in the glorious late October sunshine after helping put the pool cover on for the season. While I do welcome fall with its crisp mornings, colorful leaves, and cozy evenings, saying arrivederci to my beloved summer can leave me feeling a little melancholy. Anyway, there I sat, scrolling through Facebook when a notification appeared.

October 21, 2012.

There it was.

A photograph of my sister Kathy and me sitting in our childhood bedroom at 36 Grant Avenue for the very last time.

My parents had purchased our home in 1969. Forty-three years later, they were preparing to sell it and move into a gated community across town. It was time to downsize, simplify, and begin another chapter of their lives. Perfectly understandable. But nobody tells you that when your parents sell your childhood home, a little piece of your own history goes on the market with it.

The room at the end of the hall had originally been mine. Kathy occupied the bedroom across from my parents’ room.
Somewhere along the way, we flip-flopped rooms and eventually shared one when our Grandpa Eastwood came to live with us for a while. Rooms were shuffled. Furniture was moved. Beds came and went.

But the walls? Oh, those walls remembered everything.

On that October day in 2012, Kathy and I sat together in our old room, looking around. We didn’t need to say much. The walls were doing enough talking for both of us.

They held decades of stories. Kathy had her own collection of course. Me? I had six additional years of material stored in those walls. Seniority has its privileges.

I looked toward the spot where my dresser and mirror once stood.

Good Lord, the HOURS I spent in front of that mirror.

In the 1980s, my bedroom doubled as a full-service hair salon. I was determined to master the French braid craze or achieve maximum altitude with my shoulder-length Long Island curls. The higher the hair, the closer to heaven. Let’s not forget the industrial quantities of hairspray required to keep that architectural masterpiece standing.

When I wasn’t masquerading as a stylist, I was performing sold-out concerts in front of that same mirror.

Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Barry Manilow.

Yes. Barry Manilow.

Kiki is a major Fanilow.

If you’d like to leave now, I completely understand.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

My microphone was a hairbrush, my audience was imaginary, and my performances were nothing short of spectacular. At least according to the artist.

I smiled as I remembered my friend Debbie sleeping over when we were little.

For my tenth birthday, I’d received a brand-new transistor radio. It came with earbuds, which, for you younger readers, were prehistoric versions of today’s wireless AirPods. Except these had wires, plugs, and an uncanny ability to betray you at the worst possible moment.

One night, around 1:30 a.m., Debbie and I were sitting on the bedroom floor listening to 77-WABC.

I reached up to grab something, accidentally pulling the earbud cord out of the radio’s jack.

And suddenly…

ELTON JOHN WAS LIVE IN CONCERT AT 36 GRANT AVENUE.

I’m fairly certain the astronauts orbiting Earth could hear Sir Elton.

So could my mother who materialized in the doorway approximately 1.7 seconds later, staring down at two hysterically giggling girls with one eyebrow raised. You know the eyebrow. The universal maternal expression for “I don’t even want to know”.

Oh, how we laughed. And now, decades later, I could almost hear that laughter bouncing off the walls again.

The room had become a memory cave. Every corner held something. Every inch of space had a story waiting to be told.

I turned toward the window. Suddenly, I could almost hear my grandmother’s voice. My mother’s parents lived in Brooklyn, and we had a wonderful arrangement when I was growing up. They would come stay with us one weekend, arriving Friday evening and leaving Sunday morning. The following weekend, we’d travel into the city to visit them. Back and forth we went. Those weekends were treasures.

When Grandma and Grandpa stayed with us, I’d climb into bed beside Grandma and she’d ask me to tell her everything about my week and I mean EVERYTHING. School. Friends. Teachers. Whatever earth-shattering drama was unfolding in the life of little Kiki.

As I talked, she’d gently scratch my arm.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

I can still remember the feeling. The comfort. The warmth. The complete and utter security of being a little girl curled up beside someone who loved her unconditionally.

There are some things in life that no amount of money can buy. I’d give just about anything to feel Grandma scratching my arm one more time.

I sat there for a moment, allowing that memory to settle.

Then I looked toward the bedroom door.

Oh, the HOURS I spent behind that door with the telephone. Remember telephone cords? Not the little curly ones. I’m talking about the industrial-strength, twenty-foot variety that could stretch from one end of the house to the other and wrap around three pieces of furniture before reaching its final destination. I’d drag that phone into my bedroom, close the door, and talk to my friends for what seemed like days.

Privacy!

Or so I thought. Little did I realize that everyone in the house could hear every word, and with approximately five other telephones scattered throughout the rooms, someone could easily pick up an extension and join the conversation. Or worse. Just listen.

I wonder how many family members were secretly tuning into The Kiki Show long before I ever dreamed of writing a blog.

I looked toward the closet. Another treasure chest of memories. How many mornings had I stood in front of that closet, desperately trying to put together the perfect outfit for school? And later, for dates? Clothes tossed onto the bed. Shoes scattered across the floor. Fashion emergencies of epic proportions.

Because, naturally, the fate of my entire social life rested upon whether my jeans looked right with a particular sweater.

And then there was Alex. Our dog. A Miniature Schnauzer. During thunderstorms, that closet became his personal storm shelter. He’d retreat inside, seeking refuge from the booming thunder and flashing lightning.

Funny, isn’t it?

That little room was a safe place for all of us.

For a dog frightened by thunder.

For a teenager navigating the awkwardness of growing up.

For a little girl listening to her grandmother’s stories.

For two sisters who shared not only a bedroom but a lifetime of memories.

Eventually, Kathy and I knew it was time to leave.

I stood up and took one final look around.

The furniture was gone. The closets were empty. The familiar sounds of family life had long since faded.

It was just a room now.

Four walls. A ceiling. A window. A door.

At least that’s what someone walking into it for the first time would have seen.

But I saw something entirely different.

I saw a little girl with a transistor radio.

A teenager singing into a hairbrush.

A grandmother with gentle hands.

A dog hiding from the thunder.

Two sisters laughing.

A mother standing in the doorway with that raised eyebrow.

I saw forty-three years of life.

By then, I had long since moved out, married, purchased a home three doors down, and started raising my own family.

Three doors.

That’s how close I remained to the house where it all began. But even though I was only a few footsteps away, I knew that once I walked out of that bedroom, I would never walk into it again.

Someone else would eventually sleep there. Hang clothes in the closet. Look out that window. Make memories of their own.

And that’s exactly how it should be.

Houses are meant to be lived in. Rooms are meant to be filled with laughter, tears, dreams, and occasionally an Elton John concert at 1:30 in the morning.

Still, saying goodbye has never been one of my strong suits.

I walked toward the closet and gently closed its door for the last time.

Then I turned and took one final look around.

And whispered two simple words.

“Thank you.”

Thank you for forty-three years of memories.

Thank you for holding my secrets, my dreams, my laughter, and my tears.

Thank you for keeping me safe while I figured out who I was going to become.

And now, fourteen years later, Facebook has handed me that photograph again.

Two sisters. One empty bedroom. A lifetime of stories.

I sat outside in the October sunshine looking at that picture for a long time.

And I realized something.

I may have walked out of the room at the end of the hall for the very last time, but a part of me will always live there.

I don’t know about you, but there are certain social media accounts I follow that have become part of my daily routine. Some make me laugh. Some make me think. Others have me questioning humanity.

And then there are the accounts that remind me just how extraordinary ordinary people can be. A little over a year ago, I stumbled upon an Instagram account called Sailing With Phoenix.

At the time, it was a brand-new account belonging to a then 28-year-old young man named Oliver Widger, who had just quit his job as a tire salesman.

Now, most people who quit their jobs might take a little vacation, update their résumé, or spend a few days in their pajamas contemplating their next move. Not Oliver.

Oliver decided to buy a sailboat and sail across the Pacific Ocean.

With his cat.

Naturally, I was intrigued.

A few years earlier, Oliver had been diagnosed with Klippel-Feil syndrome, a rare congenital condition in which two or more vertebrae in the neck are fused together. Depending on the severity, it can create serious neurological complications, including a risk of paralysis. Yes, I had to consult the World Wide Web for that explanation. Kiki knows a few things, but rare spinal conditions aren’t exactly in my wheelhouse.

Faced with the uncertainty of what his future might hold, Oliver made a decision.
He wasn’t going to spend his life wondering what if. He was going to find out what’s next.

So he bought a sailboat, named it after his beloved cat Phoenix, and taught himself to sail.

How?

YouTube.

Yup. The same platform I consult when I can’t figure out how to assemble something from IKEA or properly shuck a clam was going to teach this guy how to navigate the Pacific Ocean.

I was hooked.

In April 2025, Oliver and Phoenix set sail from Oregon, bound for Hawaii.

And just like that, I became an unofficial member of the crew.

Every single day, I checked Instagram for updates. Some nights, when sleep eluded me, I’d find myself watching Oliver somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, talking to his phone, navigating the waves, and chatting with his cat.

It was like watching a real-life version of The Truman Show – except Truman had absolutely no idea people were watching him. Oliver knew and he was bringing us along for the ride.

I couldn’t wait to hear what this dude would say next. How was the weather? How were the waves? Was he eating? Was Phoenix behaving? Did he sleep? Was the boat okay?

Good grief. I was worrying about a complete stranger and his cat somewhere in the Pacific Ocean while sitting comfortably in my own home on Long Island.

That’s what I do, folks.

I become invested.

Oliver had family members helping him behind the scenes, and fundraising accounts were established to support his journey. I even purchased some merch.
That’s right. Kiki was financially invested in this adventure.

Friskies eventually came aboard as a sponsor, which was a pretty sweet deal for Oliver, Phoenix, and the folks who manufacture cat food.

On May 24, 2025, Oliver and Phoenix finally arrived in Hawaii. Safe. Healthy. Happy. I was absolutely thrilled.

Watching this young man accomplish something so enormous, something most people wouldn’t even consider attempting, was incredibly gratifying.

He had a dream. He had a reason. And he refused to let fear make the decision for him.

But apparently, sailing across the Pacific Ocean wasn’t quite enough for Oliver.

Oh, no.

This kid was just getting warmed up.

He decided his next adventure would be to sail around the entire world, nonstop, while raising awareness and money for the rare condition that had changed the course of his life.

Around. The. World.

Without stopping.

Excuse me?

I get annoyed when I have to drive around the block twice looking for a parking space.

Oliver sold his original sailboat and purchased another vessel better equipped for the demands of such an extraordinary voyage.

Naturally, his loyal followers, including yours truly, were glued to our phones watching him prepare the new boat. Every modification, every repair, every piece of equipment had a purpose.

And then there was Phoenix. Oh, my heart.

This time, his beloved feline companion would not be joining him. Phoenix would remain safely at home with Oliver’s brother until his return.

There is even an Instagram account called Waiting With Phoenix.

Of course I follow that one, too. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t?

Watching Oliver say goodbye to his furry first mate was difficult. I know how deeply our pets become part of our lives, and I could only imagine what it felt like to leave behind the one companion who had shared his first great adventure.

But I was relieved to know Phoenix would be safe, loved, and waiting for him.

Today marks Day 14 at sea for Oliver.

Fourteen days.

Alone.

On a sailboat.

In the middle of an ocean.

And here I sit, patiently waiting for today’s report.

I worry about him. I really do. Not just about the weather, the waves, or the mechanics of his boat.

I worry about the silence.

The solitude.

The sheer enormity of being alone with your thoughts for that length of time.

Could I do it?

Absolutely not.

Listen, Kiki is strong like bull. I’ve faced some pretty formidable challenges in my life. I’ve pushed myself physically, emotionally, and mentally through situations that required every ounce of strength I could muster.

But I also know my limits. Being alone in the middle of an ocean with nothing but my thoughts for company? Good Lord. My squirrel brain would stage a mutiny before we cleared the harbor. I’d be having full-blown conversations with the GPS by Day 3.

Still, I cannot help but admire this young man. His courage. His determination. His willingness to trade the familiar for the unknown. More importantly, his decision to turn a frightening medical diagnosis into an opportunity to inspire others. There’s something incredibly powerful about that.

We live in a world where negativity seems to be available in unlimited quantities. Open any social media platform and you’ll find plenty of anger, division, and people arguing over things that won’t matter five minutes from now.

Lately, I’ve been making a conscious effort to look for the good. The people who remind us that kindness, courage, and determination still exist.

So here’s what I’ve learned from Oliver Widger. You don’t have to sail around the world to find your courage. Sometimes you just have to stop allowing fear to steer the boat. We all have oceans to cross, dreams waiting to set sail, and a few storms to navigate along the way. The trick is knowing when to untie the ropes and leave the safety of the harbor.

As for Kiki? I’ll be cheering Oliver on from dry land, iced Americano in hand, Wi-Fi fully charged, and both feet planted firmly on the ground. Because somebody has to stay ashore and worry about the captain.

Smooth sailing, Oliver. I’m rooting for you. ❤️

Last night, I had the honor of once again stepping up to the microphone to emcee a leadership event sponsored by my sister’s company, E Equals Why, and Shift/Co, led by the brilliant mastermind Terri Maxwell.

We were also joined by creative coach Tracy Loring, who guided us through a powerful exercise on intuition and how we can use it to become better leaders, employees, and, quite frankly, human beings.

The room was buzzing.

Leaders. Authors. Entrepreneurs. Thinkers. Doers. People who came together not simply to listen but to participate, learn, and perhaps walk away with a slightly different perspective on what it means to lead.

And there I was. Microphone in hand. Right in my element.

For those of you who know Kiki, give me a microphone and an audience, and I’m happier than a squirrel who just discovered an espresso machine.

But I digress.

The evening centered around something called The Human Advantage.

Two words that have never been more important.

We are living in a world where artificial intelligence is advancing faster than I can finish my morning Venti Iced Americano. Technology is changing how we communicate, work, learn, and make decisions.

And while I’m fascinated by it all, I can’t help but wonder if we’re losing something precious along the way.

Our humanity.

Perhaps it was always slipping through our fingers, but lately the absence of genuine human connection feels almost palpable.

Here’s the thing.

I spent twenty-one years in the corporate world, where I earned my business chops. I’ve worked for some extraordinary people and a few who could have benefited from a leadership seminar. Or twelve.

I’ve also had the privilege of leading teams in executive roles. I’ve been on both sides of the desk. The person making decisions and the person waiting for someone else to make them.

These days, I’m an employee in the educational world. I’m part of a team rather than the person leading it.

Different chair. Different responsibilities. Same human being.

And here’s what I’ve come to realize.

Whether you’re leading the team or sitting on the team, our fundamental needs are remarkably similar.

We want to matter. We want to contribute. We want to be appreciated. We want to be seen. Heard.

Remember Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs? I certainly do. Years of college coursework drilled that pyramid into my brain. The theory, in its simplest form, suggests that human beings have fundamental needs that influence their ability to grow and reach their potential.

I’m not about to turn this blog into Psychology 101. Nobody needs a pop quiz before breakfast. But Maslow was onto something.

And recently, I found myself sitting smack in the middle of my own little psychological experiment. After nearly fifteen years working in my school district, I received my very first performance appraisal. Fifteen years.

I’m happy to report that I received the highest rating across the board. Now, before anyone thinks I’m polishing a trophy for the mantel, let me explain something. I’m probably one of the most modest people you’ll ever meet. Confidence has never been my strongest suit. I can emcee a room full of strangers without blinking, yet accepting a compliment about myself can send me into an emotional game of dodgeball.

My boss, an Assistant Superintendent, sat across from me and explained how happy he was to work with me. He told me that he never had to worry about anything in the world of registration because he knew I had everything under control.

I smiled.

I thanked him.

And then he noticed something.

“You seem quiet.”

Oh boy.

Kiki was quiet.

Anyone who knows me understands that this is generally the calm before some sort of verbal weather event.

I hadn’t planned to say anything.

In fact, my brain was screaming, Just smile. Sign the paper. Get back to work.

But apparently my mouth had other plans.

“I’m invisible.”

There it was. Two words that had been sitting quietly inside me for years. I continued.

“For fifteen years, I’ve come to work every day and treated this place like my home. Because in many ways, it is. I love what I do. I care about the families. I care about the district. I take enormous pride in my work.”

I paused.

“And this is the first time anyone has actually sat down and told me how happy they are with my performance.”

His face dropped. Not because he had done anything intentionally wrong. But because I think, at that moment, he realized something.

Sometimes the people who require the least attention are the people who receive none.

I explained that I’m not needy. I don’t require constant praise, applause, or a marching band parading through the Registration Office every time I successfully enroll a student.

Although, let’s be honest, a little confetti now and then wouldn’t hurt. I simply wanted to be acknowledged.

I was a person. With a voice and feelings.

I signed my evaluation and went back to work.

The following day, the apologies began.
I appreciated them, but I gently held up my hand.

“Please don’t apologize. Just remember that I am me. I’m not the other members of this team. This is my voice. Someone else may have completely different needs, feelings, or expectations.”

And there it was.

The Human Advantage.

I didn’t have a fancy name for it when I sat in that office. I wasn’t referencing a leadership book, a psychological theory, or a corporate training module.

I was simply being human.

Fast-forward to last night.

There I was, sitting beside three extraordinary women, guiding conversations about leadership, intuition, communication, and the importance of understanding the people around us.

And that conversation in my boss’s office kept replaying in my head.

I listened to these brilliant women share their knowledge. I watched the audience lean in, nod, reflect, and participate.

And I kept coming back to one thought.

You cannot truly lead people until you make an effort to know them.

Not their job descriptions.

Not their productivity reports.

Not the numbers they generate or the boxes they check.

Them.

The person who arrives early because she takes pride in her work.

The employee who rarely complains but quietly carries more than anyone realizes.

The colleague who seems distracted because life outside the office is weighing heavily on their shoulders.

The team member who has a brilliant idea but is afraid to speak because nobody has ever asked for their opinion.

Every single person walks into a workplace carrying an entire life that doesn’t appear on an organizational chart.

And sometimes the greatest leadership skill isn’t having all the answers. It’s knowing when to stop talking and start listening.

We spend so much time teaching people how to manage, motivate, delegate, and produce results.

But how much time do we spend teaching them how to see one another?

Artificial intelligence can analyze performance. It can generate reports, identify trends, and make recommendations in seconds.

But genuine empathy? The ability to recognize that someone is struggling behind a perfectly polished smile?

The intuition to sense that the quietest person in the room might have the most important thing to say?

That’s where we humans still have something extraordinary to offer. We shouldn’t be so quick to surrender it.

I rode home on the train last night thinking about how funny life can be. One moment I’m sitting in an office wishing someone would hear my voice. The next, I’m holding a microphone, helping an entire room explore why listening to that voice matters.

Talk about coming full circle.

Maybe leadership isn’t about being the loudest person in the room, having the biggest title, or occupying the fanciest corner office.

Maybe it’s about making sure nobody in that room feels invisible. Because at the end of the day, we don’t need another algorithm to tell us how to treat one another.

We need to look up from our screens, make eye contact, ask a question, and actually listen to the answer.

And if you happen to be a leader reading this, here’s a little assignment from Kiki.

Tomorrow, find the person who quietly makes your world run a little smoother.

Look them in the eye.

Tell them you see them.

Tell them they matter.

And for heaven’s sake, don’t wait fifteen years to do it.

The marquee outside the Imperial Theatre in New York City had a message that stopped me in my tracks.

“Welcome Home.”

Three simple words. And by the end of the evening, I would understand just how powerful those words could be.

Tonight, Jules and I settled into Row T, seats 110 and 111, to watch my all-time favorite actor, Billy Crystal, perform his one-man show, 860.

Now, if you’ve been following Kiki’s tales from Suburbia for any length of time, you know that Billy Crystal and I go way back.

Well, technically, Billy doesn’t know that.

But we’ve had a relationship for decades. He just hasn’t been formally notified.

From his early days on Saturday Night Live to his unforgettable movies, his brilliant Oscar hosting gigs, and, of course, my beloved Fernando’s Hideaway, Billy has been making me laugh for most of my adult life.

And tonight? Tonight was different.

This wasn’t Billy Crystal the comedian, the actor, or the Hollywood legend.

This was Billy Crystal the husband. The father. The grandfather. The friend. And perhaps most poignantly, the little boy who never forgot where he came from.

The show’s title, 860, represents the house number of the Crystal family’s beloved home in Pacific Palisades, California. A home filled with decades of memories, laughter, celebrations, friendships, and the ordinary moments that eventually become the extraordinary fabric of our lives.

In January 2025, the devastating Palisades wildfires destroyed that home.

Gone.

In a matter of hours, a lifetime of possessions and treasured memories were reduced to ashes.

For 90 minutes, Jules and I had the extraordinary privilege of listening to Billy recount the events surrounding the fire while weaving together stories from his remarkable career.

And somehow, in true Billy Crystal fashion, he managed to take an audience from gut-wrenching sadness to hysterical laughter and back again.

I laughed. I cried. I laughed while crying.

Frankly, my tear ducts should have received their own billing in the Playbill.

But here’s what struck me most.

There I was, sitting mere feet away from someone who had entertained me for decades. Someone whose movies I’ve watched countless times. Someone whose characters and famous lines have become part of my everyday vocabulary.

And yet, the enormous theater somehow disappeared.

It felt as though Billy had pulled up a chair in my living room, poured himself a cup of coffee, and started telling Jules and me stories.

Just the three of us.

Okay, fine. There were several hundred other people in the room, but they were merely supporting cast members in my personal evening with Billy.

I listened, absolutely mesmerized, as he shared how Fernando came to life. How he worked with my idol, the incomparable Nora Ephron. How an unlikely and beautiful friendship developed between him and Muhammad Ali. How hosting the Academy Awards became another extraordinary chapter in his career.

These weren’t simply Hollywood stories.
They were pieces of his life.
Little windows into the experiences that shaped the man behind the laughter.

And then there were the moments when his voice cracked.

When he spoke about losing his dear friend Robin Williams, the pain was palpable. When he reflected on the loss of his best friend, Rob Reiner, the emotion in the room was almost tangible.

Suddenly, the man who had made millions of people laugh was standing before us simply being human.

Vulnerable. Heartbroken. Grateful.

And isn’t that something?

We spend so much time admiring people for what they accomplish that we sometimes forget they experience the very same things we do.

They love. They lose. They grieve. They remember.

And sometimes they stand in front of a theater full of strangers and allow themselves to be seen without the protective armor of fame.

That takes courage.

I kept thinking about the house at 860. About the photographs, the keepsakes, the scripts, the awards, the little treasures collected over a lifetime. Things that might mean absolutely nothing to someone else but represent an entire chapter of your existence.

I thought about my own home. The drawers filled with photographs. The things I’ve saved that my children will someday look at and wonder, “Why on earth did Mom keep THIS?”

Because, kids, there’s a story attached to it.

There’s always a story.

And that’s what Billy gave us tonight.

Not a performance about a house.

It was a love letter to his life.

A reminder that the walls of a home may hold our possessions, but the people inside those walls hold our hearts.

When the evening ended, I found myself looking at those words again.

Welcome Home.

At first, I thought they were simply welcoming Billy back to the New York stage.

But now I think they meant something much bigger.

Home isn’t always an address. Sometimes it’s a memory. A familiar voice. A person who makes you laugh when you desperately need it. A story that transports you back to a moment you thought you’d forgotten.

And sometimes, home is a theater in Manhattan, sitting beside your daughter, listening to a man you’ve admired for decades remind you that even when everything you own is gone, the stories remain.

Billy, thank you for opening your heart, sharing your memories, and reminding us that laughter and tears can occupy the very same seat.

As for me? I walked into that theater expecting an evening with a comedy legend.

I walked out feeling like I’d spent 90 minutes with an old friend.

And Billy, if you’re reading this, the invitation stands. Come on over. I’ll make the espresso. You bring the stories.

You look MAHVELOUS, dahling.

And tonight?

So did life.

— Kiki ❤️

The clock on my Jeep dashboard read 4:36 a.m.

There I sat at a red light, waiting to make a left turn toward the gym. The roads were practically deserted, as they should be at that ungodly hour. Most normal people were still tucked into their beds, dreaming sweet dreams, while Kiki was preparing to voluntarily lift heavy objects and question her life choices.

Suddenly, a massive tractor-trailer carrying enormous cement highway dividers came chugging through the intersection.

I watched this beast of a vehicle lumber past me and thought, Can you imagine driving that thing all over town?

And just like that, my squirrel brain took the wheel.

🎵 Who are the people in your neighborhood🎵

Remember that catchy little tune from Sesame Street?

For those of us who grew up with Big Bird, Bert, Ernie, and the gang, that song was practically a childhood anthem. It introduced us to all the wonderful people who worked in our communities. The firefighters. The teachers. The doctors. The mail carriers. The bakers.

The baristas.

Well, okay. That last one might be a more recent addition. Sesame Street was around long before Starbucks became a mandatory stop on Kiki’s morning commute.

But you get the idea.

As I sat there humming away, I started thinking about the extraordinary number of people whose jobs make our ordinary days possible.

Think about it.

I wake up in the morning and brush my teeth. Somewhere, someone went to work to manufacture my toothbrush. Another person helped develop my favorite toothpaste. Someone designed the packaging, someone operated the machinery, someone loaded the boxes onto a truck, and another person stocked the shelves where I eventually purchased it.

All that before I’ve even rinsed and spit.

I hop into my Jeep. That beautiful machine didn’t just magically appear in my driveway. Engineers designed it. Factory workers assembled it. Technicians tested it. Thousands of people contributed to the parts that make it run.

I pull out onto roads designed, paved, painted, repaired, plowed, and maintained by people I’ll probably never meet.

Including, apparently, the fellow transporting half a highway through my intersection at 4:36 in the morning.

God bless him. Better him than me.

I arrive at the gym. Someone unlocked the doors, turned on the lights, cleaned the equipment, programmed the workout, and made sure there were enough dumbbells available for us to torture ourselves before sunrise.

And let’s not forget the person who manufactured those dumbbells.

I’d like a word with that individual.

After my workout, I head to Starbucks, where my beloved Venti Iced Americano awaits. But before that glorious cup of caffeinated happiness reaches my hand, consider how many people have already been involved.

Coffee farmers. Harvesters. Roasters. Truck drivers. Warehouse workers. Equipment manufacturers. And finally, my favorite baristas, who somehow manage to smile at me while preparing approximately 4,000 variations of coffee for people who haven’t yet learned how to speak in complete sentences.

The whole operation is nothing short of miraculous. And we’re barely past breakfast.

I arrive at work in a school district where thousands of children begin their day. Think of the people who make THAT happen.

Bus drivers. Teachers. Custodians. Cafeteria workers. Nurses. Secretaries. Administrators. Maintenance crews. Technology specialists.

And yes, the lovely people in Registration who make sure those little darlings actually belong in the district in the first place.

Now multiply this by every school, hospital, grocery store, restaurant, airport, construction site, and office building across the country.

My goodness. It’s a wonder my squirrel brain hasn’t short-circuited.

What fascinates me most is how interconnected we all are.

The truck driver depends on the mechanic. The mechanic depends on the parts manufacturer. The manufacturer depends on the delivery company. The delivery company depends on the people maintaining the roads.

Round and round we go.

An enormous, complicated, beautifully choreographed production involving millions of people who will never know one another’s names.

And here’s the part that really struck me.

Most of these people go about their jobs without applause, recognition, or even a simple thank-you.

The sanitation worker who empties our trash before dawn. The overnight nurse who comforts a frightened patient. The utility worker who restores electricity during a storm. The supermarket employee who stocks the shelves while the rest of us sleep.

We rarely think about them until something goes wrong.

The garbage doesn’t get picked up. The power goes out. The roads aren’t plowed. The coffee shop is closed.

Suddenly, the people we barely noticed become the people we desperately need.

I think Sesame Street was onto something much bigger than teaching a bunch of preschoolers about different occupations.

It was teaching us that everybody has a place. Everybody contributes. And every single job, no matter how big or small it might seem, plays a part in keeping this crazy world spinning.

There’s something rather beautiful about that.

All these years later, I’m still learning lessons from a bunch of Muppets.

Who knew?

By the time the traffic light turned green, I’d mentally traveled through factories, farms, warehouses, hospitals, highways, and coffee plantations.

All because one man was hauling cement dividers through town before sunrise.

I made my left turn, headed toward the gym, and smiled.

So here’s to the people in our neighborhood. The ones we know, the ones we don’t, and the ones who make our lives run a little more smoothly every single day.

And to the gentleman driving that enormous tractor-trailer at 4:36 a.m.?

Thank you for doing your part.

🎵 They’re the people that you meet when you’re walking down the street… 🎵

Or, in my case, the people who send my squirrel brain on a 47-mile detour before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee.

Beep beep. Kiki’s got places to be.

I’m beginning to think marketing people know me personally.

Not know me know me. They’re not sitting around a conference table saying, “Okay, what can we do to Kiki today?”

But they know my type.

Somewhere along the way, someone figured out that if you put a catchy little jingle into a commercial and play it enough times, I will not only remember it—I will eventually perform it.

Case in point: ZipRecruiter.

“Build your team, build it sooner…”

I don’t just hum this little ditty.

Oh no.

I sing it like I’m performing LIVE at Met Stadium.

There are imaginary backup singers. Possibly a wind machine. If I’m alone in the Jeep, there may even be choreography.

These people have gotten inside my head.

Marketing experts have known about people like me forever. Plant one tiny microscopic earworm in Kiki’s brain, water it with repeated commercial breaks, and before you know it, I’m giving a sold-out performance at a red light.

And this is nothing new.

Think about how many advertising campaigns have taken up permanent residence in our brains over the years.

“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.”

“Time to make the donuts.”

“Can you hear me now?”

“Where’s the beef?”

I’m willing to bet you just heard every single one of those in the exact voice in which they were originally delivered.

That, my friends, is marketing genius.

Some of these jingles and catchphrases became so ingrained in our lives that they actually worked their way into our everyday vocabulary. They stopped being commercials and became little pieces of family history.

Such was the case at Chez Eastwood.

In 1985, Wendy’s aired a commercial featuring a Soviet fashion show. The premise was hysterical. Every “outfit” coming down the runway was essentially the same drab garment, while a stern announcer introduced each fabulous new look.

“Dayvear.”

“Eveninkvear.”

“Svimvear.”

Same outfit.

Different occasion.

Teenage Kiki HOWLED.

But the pièce de résistance was the approving declaration:

“Very nice.”

My father loved it as much as I did.

And just like that, Wendy’s entered the Eastwood family vocabulary.

If Dad approved of something?

“Very nice.”

Except it was never simply very nice. It had to be delivered in the Soviet accent.

New outfit from the mall?

“Dayvear.”

Going out that night?

“Eveninkvear.”

Bathing suit?

You already know.

“Svimvear.”

We would fall apart laughing.

Decades passed. The commercial disappeared. Wendy’s moved on to other campaigns. We all got older.

But those words stayed.

Toward the end of my dad’s life, when so many memories had begun slipping away from him, I would occasionally reach into our old family bag of tricks.

“Dayvear.”

Or I’d give him a perfectly timed—

“Very nice.”

And every once in a while, something almost miraculous would happen.

Dad would look straight into my eyes.

And laugh.

He didn’t always remember me.

But somewhere deep inside his mind, tucked between a lifetime of memories that were becoming harder and harder for him to reach, there was still a ridiculous Wendy’s commercial from 1985.

And there we were again.

Back at 36 Grant Avenue.

Dad and me. Belly laughing.

That is the real genius of a great commercial. The marketing people think they’re selling us hamburgers, antacids, phone service and jobs.

But sometimes, without anyone realizing it, they’re also giving us little pieces of language that attach themselves to moments, people and places we love.

Forty years later, I couldn’t tell you what I ordered at Wendy’s in 1985.

But I can still hear my dad.

“Very nice.”

And you know what?

Very nice, indeed.