Author: KikiFikar

There are a few accounts I follow on Instagram that genuinely make me smile. Not the perfectly curated houses or the people making a seven-course dinner on a Tuesday night while wearing a white cashmere sweater. Those people make me question my life choices.

I’m talking about the accounts that just make me feel good.

One belongs to a comedian/guy who walks around various cities wearing a very distinct—and very bold—purple smoking jacket. He strolls along, randomly stopping people and tossing compliments their way.

“You’re looking very dapper today.”

“That shirt really lights up your face and your eyes!”

“I love your style!”

Sometimes people stop, smile and engage with him. Other times they keep their heads down and continue walking, probably wondering why a man in a purple smoking jacket is talking to them.

Either way, he says it.

The other account belongs to actor Steve Guttenberg. You may remember him from the Police Academy movies and Three Men and a Baby. Steve grew up near me, so I’ve always followed his career a little more closely.

Fun fact: he hung out at our local pizzeria when he was younger, and his headshot still hangs on the wall there. I may or may not have ridden my bike there as a teenager hoping he would be be there so I could catch a glimpse of him on my way out.

I digress…

Yesterday, Steve posted a message that basically said if you have something nice on your mind, say it.

He told a story about getting off a train and noticing a guy wearing a really nice shirt. Steve almost just kept walking but thought, Why not tell him?

So he did.

“Excuse me. I just wanted to tell you that’s a really nice shirt.”

The guy looked him straight in the eye and for a second Steve thought maybe he was going to bark at him for bothering him. Instead, the man’s face lit up.

“Thank you so much! My wife bought me this shirt and I can’t wait to tell her this is the second compliment I’ve gotten on it today!”

And there it was.

A few seconds. A handful of words. And someone walked away feeling just a little bit better.

I’ve always been someone who passes along a compliment when something strikes me. I don’t really think about it. If I love your shoes, I’m probably going to tell you. If your hair looks fabulous, you’re going to hear about it. If you have a great smile, cool glasses, a beautiful dress or just something about you catches my eye, chances are I’m going to say it.

I’m not looking for anything in return. I just want to say it.

Sometimes people barely acknowledge me and keep walking. That’s okay. Other times, a simple compliment turns into a wonderful little conversation between complete strangers.

And every once in a while, something happens that reminds me exactly why I do it.

This morning I was pulling out of the parking lot at Uncle Giuseppe’s when a woman pulled into the spot next to me in what looked like a brand-new little Fiat.

I immediately noticed her and thought, Oh my God. This woman matches her car perfectly.

Hear me out.

The Fiat was this beautiful, very light gray color. The woman was tiny, perfectly put together, with this gorgeous, perfectly coiffed gray hairstyle.

She and that Fiat were a set.

She looked over at me as she got out of the car. We made eye contact. I could have smiled, backed out and gone about my day.

Instead, I rolled down my window.

“I absolutely love your car,” I said. “And I have to tell you—your whole look matches it perfectly.”

Well.

Her entire face lit up.

She put her hand to her chest and said, “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.”

Oooof.

I smiled and told her I hoped she had a wonderful day.

Then I drove away.

I have no idea who she was. I don’t know what kind of morning she had before pulling into Uncle Giuseppe’s. I don’t know what was waiting for her later in the day. And she certainly didn’t know anything about me.

For about thirty seconds, none of that mattered.

Two strangers crossed paths in a supermarket parking lot and one said something nice to the other.

That was it.

Listen, there are plenty of days when I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I can be cranky. I can be tired. I can absolutely give off a strong please don’t make me people today vibe. I am not strolling through life in a purple smoking jacket sprinkling sunshine on everyone I encounter.

But maybe that’s exactly why these little exchanges matter so much.

We spend an awful lot of time thinking things we never say.

Her hair looks beautiful.

He has a great smile.

I love that jacket.

She handled that situation so well.

That person was incredibly kind.

And then we just…keep walking.

Why?

The nice thought is already there. The words are sitting right behind our teeth. All we have to do is let them out.

Because you have absolutely no idea what someone is carrying around when they cross your path. You don’t know if they woke up feeling fabulous or if they’re barely holding the day together. You don’t know if anyone has said something kind to them lately.

And maybe your five-second compliment won’t change their life.

But it might change their next five minutes.

It might put a little spring in their step as they walk into Uncle Giuseppe’s.

It might make them smile when they get back into their perfectly matched little gray Fiat.

And who knows? Maybe they’ll pass that feeling along to someone else.

So if something kind pops into your head today, don’t overthink it.

Roll down the window.

Tell the stranger you love the shirt.

Compliment the hair.

Admire the car.

Just say it.

Kind words are free.

But every once in a while, you get lucky enough to see just how much they’re worth.

My drives home from the gym can make my mind act anywhere from a squirrel on espresso to getting lost in a song or plopping me right back to a night out with my friends that should really be in the Kiki Hall of Fame.

I did not have the best night at the gym this evening. No big deal. Just a chaotic class flow and a broken pinky toe just left me feeling “off”. I flew to the Jeep like it was my Batmobile and started the trek home. “No Shoes Radio” – the Kenny Chesney channel was on as usual. His live version of a song called “Out Last Night” was on. I turned it up. It’s all about going out with your friends and just letting loose.

I smiled. My mind turned the pages back. Man. There were some incredible nights out. But there was this one night. Oooof. My buddy…oooh we should change the name to protect the innocent here…my friend “Mary” and I decided to take a ride into Queens. It’s about 20 minutes from us. This “Mary” was a New York City Police officer. She was outrageously fun. We decided on a bar called Donovan’s. The bar this one night was packed. New York packed. Wall to wall people. Fun people. Getting to the bar was a challenge. After a while we had guys buying us drinks. We bought back. We wanted no part of any guys or relationships so we kept it moving. After a while – everyone looked the same. Mary said – we need a system to remember who is who. After looking in my pocketbook I came up with the perfect solution. I had been arranging my files all day at work and had a sheet of color coded stickers.

I gave them to Mary. I said let’s put a sticker on the back of every guy who bought us a drink already. That will save us some time.

Well.

Time passed. Drinks were given. Stickers were placed. That’s when we realized it was time to go when the guys started noticing the stickers on each other’s backs.

We slipped out the door before our highly sophisticated identification system turned into an official police investigation.

To this day, I still laugh at the fact that after spending all day color-coding files in an office, my brain naturally decided the best way to manage a crowded bar was…office supplies. Somewhere in Queens there may still be a handful of men wondering why they were suddenly walking around with green, yellow, and orange dots stuck to their backs.

It’s moments like these that remind me why I treasure those nights with friends. We weren’t out looking for trouble. We certainly weren’t looking for romance. We were just looking for a good laugh. Somehow, with a sheet of Avery color-coding stickers and two women who clearly shouldn’t have been put in charge of quality control, we managed to create one of those stories that still has me laughing years later.

Every now and then that Kenny Chesney song comes on, and I’m instantly transported back to that packed Queens bar. The music fades, the laughter returns, and I can’t help but think…some memories deserve to stay filed away forever.

Just maybe…not color-coded.

There are certain colors that instantly transport you back in time. For me, it’s a particular shade of bright red. The moment I see it, I’m standing in my parents’ kitchen staring at the shiny red espresso maker that replaced our old two-piece stovetop pot.

Every evening, after the dishes were washed and the kitchen sparkled, Mom would slice fresh lemon wedges while that little machine worked its magic. She and Dad would sit together, sipping tiny cups of espresso like it was the perfect ending to another ordinary day.

Somewhere along the way, I caught the coffee bug.

College introduced me to daily coffee, and before long there was an extra demitasse cup waiting for me whenever I came home. Suddenly the coffee world exploded. Fancy coffeehouses popped up on every corner, drive-thrus became a way of life, and somewhere in there my daily Starbucks stop became part of my morning commute.

“Venti Iced Americano, please.”

Coffee isn’t just a drink anymore. It’s a tiny event I look forward to every single day.

Naturally, I’m always on the hunt for my next favorite concoction.

Last week Pinterest sent me tumbling down one of its famous rabbit holes. An advertisement for Trader Joe’s Bourbon Vanilla Bean Paste caught my eye. Beep…beep…beep. Somebody back up the coffee truck. A few hundred clicks later I had a shopping list: bourbon vanilla bean paste, Starbucks Blonde Espresso, and fresh lemon peel.

Well…

Let’s just say my gym rest day turned into one of the most relaxing 45 minutes I’ve had in a long time. No Shoes Radio was playing in the background while blonde espresso, bourbon vanilla, and fresh lemon peel danced together in my favorite mug.

It was ridiculously simple. Completely delicious. And somehow it reminded me that the best recipes aren’t always found in cookbooks. Sometimes they’re tucked inside memories, mixed with a little curiosity, and served one beautiful cup at a time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think tomorrow morning has already placed its coffee order.

☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

Some people carefully research a project before they begin.

I am not one of those people.

My brain has a wonderful little habit. It gets an idea, convinces me it’s brilliant, and before common sense has a chance to weigh in, I’m already halfway to the store with my wallet in hand.

Today’s adventure began with a craving.

Not just any craving. I wanted fresh Cherry Stone clams on the half shell with a generous squeeze of lemon. I could practically taste the salty goodness. Into the Jeep I went and off to the market where I proudly purchased a dozen beautiful clams.

Look at me… practically a New England seafood expert.

Back home I dug through the kitchen drawer until I found the clamming knife that had apparently been waiting years for its moment in the spotlight.

There was just one tiny problem.

I had never shucked a clam in my entire life.

No matter. YouTube has raised half of America at this point, so I found a video, watched a guy casually pop open clam after clam like he was opening birthday cards, and figured I’d be right there with him.

I was not.

Those clams fought back like they had signed UFC fighting contract. Every single one was a wrestling match. I poked. I pried. I twisted. I questioned my life choices. Somewhere around clam number four I started talking to them. By clam number six I think they were winning.

Eventually I managed to shuck seven of the twelve.

By then I wasn’t hungry anymore.

Apparently wrestling shellfish for an hour is an excellent appetite suppressant. Hey maybe I’m on to something?

This isn’t the first time my enthusiasm has outrun my abilities, and I suspect it won’t be the last. My life seems to consist of jumping into the deep end first and asking questions somewhere around the middle of the pool. Sometimes it works out beautifully. Sometimes I end up with sore hands, a kitchen that looks like a seafood crime scene, and seven perfectly good clams that took every ounce of determination I possessed.

I don’t know why my brain works this way. It never says, “Maybe buy six already shucked clams.” No, it says, “Let’s become a shellfish expert by lunchtime.”

Still… I’d probably do it all over again.

Because every once in a while those crazy little ideas become great stories. And if nothing else, I can now officially add “amateur clam shucker” to a résumé that absolutely no one asked to see.

Back in 1984, Saturday Night Live wasn’t just a television show—it was an event. I planned my Saturday nights around it. That cast was pure magic, but my favorite was always Billy Crystal.

Every character he created was hilarious, but none made me laugh harder than Fernando Lamas, the overly charming host of Fernando’s Hideaway. Picture a swanky 1960s lounge with tufted black leather booths where Fernando would interview celebrities. He’d shower his guests with compliments, barely listen to a word they said, and then flash that grin before delivering his unforgettable catchphrase:

“You look marvelous, dahling.”

It was ridiculous. It was brilliant. And to this day, when I need a good laugh, I still find myself watching those old clips on YouTube.

Tonight, though, Fernando unexpectedly made an appearance.

I found myself sitting in a director’s chair in front of about fifty people on the seventeenth floor of a New York City gallery with a microphone in my hand. My sister was hosting another Leadership Salon to celebrate her new book, and she had asked me to emcee the evening.

I was honored…and if I’m being truthful…a little jittery.

I reviewed the evening’s agenda, studied my conversation cues, and silently wondered if I could pull this off. Then I reminded myself that this wasn’t about me. It was about Kathy, her message, and the years of wisdom she had poured into helping people become better leaders.

And then, out of nowhere, Fernando showed up in my head.

Suddenly I wasn’t sitting in a director’s chair beside my sister. I was back in Fernando’s Hideaway, tucked into one of those famous black leather booths with my guest beside me. I looked over at Kathy and had to stop myself from blurting out, “Kathy…you look marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

Just like that, the nerves disappeared.

The conversation became exactly that—a conversation. I interviewed Kathy about why she wrote the book and how our dad influenced the leader she became. She later welcomed two fellow CEOs to discuss the human side of leadership in an age increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence. The audience leaned in, asked thoughtful questions, and became part of the discussion. The entire evening simply flowed.

Afterward, I had the chance to meet so many wonderful people. Some were just beginning their careers. Others were preparing to close one chapter and head off to retirement in Florida. Different ages. Different professions. Different journeys. Yet every conversation was warm, genuine, and memorable.

Watching my sister share her heart and her experience with that room filled me with enormous pride. Her message isn’t just for corporate America. It’s for every organization, every team, every family, and every person who has the privilege of influencing someone else’s life.

And somewhere along the way, I realized Fernando had taught me something I never expected. Sometimes confidence doesn’t arrive because you’ve rehearsed enough or because the butterflies disappear. Sometimes it comes from finding one familiar thought that makes you smile, reminds you not to take yourself too seriously, and allows your authentic self to take over.

So thank you, Billy Crystal. Thank you, Fernando, for years of laughter…and for unknowingly sitting beside me in that director’s chair. You didn’t just make me laugh all those years ago.

You helped me remember that the very best hosts aren’t the ones with the perfect questions or the cleverest lines. They’re the ones who make someone else feel comfortable enough to tell their story.

And Kathy…

You looked marvelous, dahling. Absolutely marvelous.

******The image included in this 07/22/2026 blog was created with Chat GPT for entertainment purposes only.*****************

Daily Prompt 2820

By now you know that I grew up without the World Wide Web. The closest I came to surfing the internet was learning how to use the microfiche machine at the Bethpage Public Library back in the early 1970s.

We also had a full set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, which I believe my parents acquired by opening an account at Reliance Federal Bank in town. If we needed to research something for school or settle a family debate, we pulled the appropriate volume off the shelf and flipped through those meticulously alphabetized pages. If the answer wasn’t there, we hopped on our bikes and pedaled across town to the library.

That was our search engine.

I don’t have to tell you how dramatically the world changed once the internet arrived. I dove headfirst into those technological waters and, quite frankly, haven’t come up for air since. In the immortal words of Jimmy Buffett, “I used to rule my world from a pay phone…” These days? I pretty much rule mine from my cell phone.

Our phones have become modern-day encyclopedias that fit in our pockets. There is virtually nothing you can’t learn online. Apple even coined one of its most memorable slogans back in 2009: “There’s an app for that.” They weren’t kidding. You can fix things, cook things, exercise, learn a language, decorate a house, diagnose why your hydrangeas are sulking, and probably teach a goat to tap dance if you’re willing to search long enough.

I don’t even know what generation I officially belong to anymore. Am I Gen X? Gen Z? Gen XYZ? Hold on…let me Google it.

My parents, born in 1939 and 1940, were introduced to the internet later in life. They were/are incredibly smart people, but this whole technology thing? Well…let’s just say my sister and I became the family IT department.

The calls came at all hours.

“Karen Anne…something’s wrong with the computer.”

One afternoon I drove over to my parents’ condo to find my dad in a complete tizzy.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It just isn’t working.”

I glanced at the computer tower. There, glowing quietly, was the blue power button.

I pressed it.

The computer sprang to life.

My father looked at me as though I had just performed open-heart surgery.

He called me a miracle worker.

I grabbed my keys, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I learned from the best, Daddy.”

Then I giggled all the way home.

From that point on, my lessons became simple.

“When in doubt…Google it.”

I explained that if you typed almost any question into Google, you’d probably find your answer within the first few results. Once they mastered Googling, they graduated to YouTube.

Our next family curriculum included searching for instructional videos, saving them, forwarding them, and discovering that there really was a video for just about everything.

It was a glorious new chapter.

The very people who had once sent me downstairs to the encyclopedias and across town to the library were now being taught by their oldest daughter how to navigate the digital world.

I’m happy to report that Mom has become quite the student. She’s currently designing her new bathroom using ideas, photos, and apps she’s finding entirely on her own. I couldn’t be prouder.

Watching all of this unfold has made me realize something. During my lifetime, learning didn’t become easier—it became more accessible. We traded card catalogs for search bars, encyclopedias for smartphones, and waiting days for answers for finding them in seconds. But the real lesson hasn’t changed one bit. Curiosity is still the engine. Whether we were turning brittle pages in Volume G of the Britannica or asking Google a question at two o’clock in the morning, the joy has always been the same. We simply never stopped learning. We just found faster, smarter, and sometimes far more entertaining ways to get there.

Talk about the fire service for more than five minutes and one thing becomes crystal clear: these are people who willingly run toward burning buildings while the rest of us are running away.

Volunteer firefighters. Career firefighters. Police officers. Vice presidents of banks. Auto body shop owners. School custodians. Restaurant owners. Electricians. Teachers. Moms. Dads. Every profession imaginable is represented in those firehouse bays. I live with two men who have given their lives to our local department. My husband has served for over 40 years and our son is an Honorary member.

The pager goes off and everything else stops.

Family dinners are left half-eaten. Backyard barbecues suddenly have an empty chair. Birthday parties, holidays, anniversaries, warm beds in the middle of the night—it doesn’t matter. They answer the call because someone, somewhere, needs help.
It’s a life built on selflessness, responsibility, and kindness.

Last night we attended our volunteer fire department’s annual Installation Dinner. It’s an evening where new officers are sworn in, accomplishments are celebrated, medals are awarded to firefighters who went above and beyond the call of duty, and those who made the ultimate sacrifice or have gone on to Heaven are remembered with tremendous respect.

After the speeches, applause, and congratulations settled down, dinner was served. Then, without warning, the sound of chairs scraping across the floor broke through the room.

Silence.

One of the firefighters had begun choking while eating his dinner.

His company member sitting across from him calmly stood up, walked behind him, performed the Heimlich maneuver, and within moments the obstruction was cleared.

About five minutes later?

Everyone—including the firefighter who had just been saved—sat back down and finished dinner.

It was what I like to call a classic “please pass the mashed potatoes” moment.

Business as usual for these everyday heroes.

Last night’s emergency just happened to involve one of their own.

Later in the evening I watched Jake out on the dance floor laughing with his buddies. I looked around the room and couldn’t help but smile. Familiar faces smiled back. Some waved from across the room. Some blew kisses. Others walked over with hugs and stories about vacations, parties, practical jokes, and memories we’ve shared over decades.

I realized once again how incredibly fortunate I am to have landed in this family of heroes.

Then I felt a tap on my right shoulder.

Standing there was a friend I’ve known since grade school.

He joined our volunteer department as a teenager and eventually rose to the rank of Chief, all while serving as a career firefighter with the FDNY.

On September 11, 2001, he was one of the thousands of firefighters who responded to the Twin Towers.

In the days that followed, two of our close friends who were FDNY firefighters were missing. We couldn’t reach them. We were frantic.

Thankfully, Richie and another friend were eventually found alive.

Our friend Brian never came home.

The night after the attacks, I sat down and wrote Richie a letter.

I honestly hadn’t thought much about it over the years.

Last night, nearly twenty-five years later, Richie hugged me and told me he still remembers that letter. He said it reminded him of the overwhelming love and support he felt from our fire department family during the darkest days of his life. Whenever he felt like giving up, those words reminded him that he wasn’t carrying the weight alone.

Even now, retired and living in Florida, he still thinks about that letter and what it represented.

Not just words.

Family.

We clinked our glasses together and toasted the friends we’ve lost, the friends who remain, and the family this fire service creates.

It’s a bond that doesn’t retire. It doesn’t move away. It doesn’t disappear with time.

The next time you hear sirens echoing down your street or see flashing red lights racing toward someone else’s emergency, pause for just a moment. Let it sink in. Inside those trucks are people who have left behind half-finished dinners, sleeping children, quiet conversations, and ordinary moments they may never get back. They go anyway. Every time.

Most of us will never know their names. We won’t hear their stories. We won’t see the weight they carry long after the sirens fade.

They don’t ask us to.

They simply answer the call.

And after witnessing moments like last night—from saving one of their own over dinner to carrying the memories of September 11 nearly a quarter century later—I’m reminded that heroism isn’t loud. It isn’t performed for recognition. It lives in the quiet decisions, the steady hands, the unwavering presence when it matters most.

It lives in family.

In loyalty that never fades.

In love that shows up, again and again, no matter the cost.