KikiFikar

Aero Maybe

What’s the longest trip you’ve ever taken?

It was the mid-80s. I was fresh out of college. I had mile-high curly hair, a killer tan lingering from an entire summer spent at the beach and, in my hand, a plane ticket to Ixtapa, Mexico.

What could possibly go wrong?

Weeks earlier, my friend Maureen and I had spotted an ad in the back of Glamour magazine for a resort in Ixtapa. That’s how we found vacations back then, kids. There was no Expedia. No TripAdvisor. No Google reviews from Susan in Ohio complaining that the continental breakfast only had three kinds of muffins.

You flipped through a magazine, saw a picture of a palm tree and thought, Looks fabulous. Book it.

Maureen and I worked at The Big G—GEICO—before it exploded into the insurance giant it is today. Maureen was a Sales Supervisor and I was writing training manuals for Customer Service. Our regional supervisor’s husband, Morris Rosenberg, was a travel agent for a cruise line.

We told Morris we didn’t want a cruise, but could he hook us up with a resort?

A few days later, ten glossy, colorful brochures arrived at the office.

We studied them like we were choosing a new home.

Two weeks later, we were on a flight to Mexico for seven days of sun, unlimited drinks and as much fun as two New York girls in 1987 could possibly get into.

Again.

What could possibly go wrong?

The first few days are admittedly a blur. Severe sunburns. Tequila hangovers. Hair that somehow grew larger with every passing day.

It was glorious.

By Day Five, the burns had turned to tans and we were ready to resume our regularly scheduled programming.

Now, if you think I’m chatty, you should meet Maureen. This woman could charm the pants off you, interview you and somehow get you to reveal your deepest childhood trauma before you realized you had even told her your last name. She is a marvelous conversationalist.

We were early for dinner reservations one evening, so naturally we waited at the bar.

Another margarita?

Why yes. Thank you very much.

Sitting beside us was a mother and her two grown daughters. Small talk became more talk. They were from New Jersey. They all worked in New York City. Mom was a retired physician who had recently lost her husband, and her daughters had given her this trip as a gift.

They were great fun.

Twenty-one minutes later, they invited us to join them for dinner.

Naturally, we said yes.

Because who turns down a dinner invitation from complete strangers you’ve known for almost half an hour?

Somewhere around the clearing of the appetizers, we heard a roar.

Not just a noise.

A ROAR.

The loudest, deepest rumbling sound I had ever heard.

Maureen looked at me.

“Oh, that’s just the laundry cart rolling by outside.”

Que?

I rolled my eyes.

“Ladies, she’s loopy. It’s clearly a plane taking off.”

The airport was 90 minutes away.

Then the chandeliers started swaying.

Waiters suddenly appeared with our checks—even though our dinners hadn’t arrived.

“Señoritas,” they calmly explained in their best broken English. “There is an earthquake. Please exit onto the beach. You will need to walk the shoreline back to your hotel. Buenas noches.”

Que?

WHAT?

We bid adieu to Mama Doc and her flock and headed for the beach.

Very obedient travelers.

Just two New York chicks wandering along the shoreline during an earthquake in Mexico.

Completely normal.

I have no idea how long it took us to make it back to our resort, but eventually we arrived and found one of the pool bartenders.

“What is happening?”

He waved away our concern.

“As long as there is no crack in the swimming pool, everything is completely fine.”

Que?

WHAT?

Apparently, this was the Mexican Richter Scale.

No crack in the pool?

Carry on.

Our flight home was scheduled for the next day. Nobody had any information because, remember, this was 1987.

Cell phones?

What are they?

Somehow we made it to the airport the following day. How? No recollection whatsoever.

What I do remember is arriving to find—

No flights.

Because apparently an earthquake wasn’t enough excitement for one vacation.

Morris Rosenberg had booked us on AeroMexico for the trip home. Direct flight to JFK. Perfect.

Except the airline workers had decided that the very first day of their strike would also be the very day of our departure.

Of course they did.

Hours later, we were placed on another AeroMexico flight that “might” leave.

Maureen immediately renamed the airline:

Aero Maybe.

We shuffled down the counter to American Airlines, where an agent typed into a computer roughly the size of my current kitchen and eventually produced boarding passes for a 2:00 a.m. flight to Dallas.

They gave us hotel and transportation vouchers AND a free domestic flight to use within the next year.

Boom.

Done.

We had hours to kill, so we took the shuttle to the hotel across the street, showered, freshened up and then wondered what two responsible young women should do until their 2:00 a.m. flight.

Our feet took us downstairs to the bar.

Naturally.

There we found a whole group of people booked on our flight.

We had a drink.

Then two.

Then the tequila shots started.

I swear, if cell-phone cameras had existed in 1987, I would STILL be a viral TikTok video.

That hotel bar erupted into a party that rivaled anything I had witnessed in college.

Dancing on the bar.

Singing.

Swan diving into crowds of people.

Crowd surfing.

And I’m pretty sure this was before karaoke was even a thing.

My next clear memory is waking up in seat 24D beside a guy named Mike Kelley who worked in New York City.

Maureen was two rows behind me with some German businessman named Karl.

Que?

WHAT?

I looked at my watch.

The sun was coming up.

We were still on the tarmac.

It was 6:00 a.m.

Our 2:00 a.m. flight had never left.

Apparently, the plane needed a part for the air conditioner.

Then came the captain.

“Folks, our crew needs to have this part installed. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Oh my.

Four hours later?

Still on the tarmac.

No deplaning.

Just sitting there.

Finally, around 11:00 a.m., the seatbelt sign came on.

I looked toward the stewardesses—yes, they were still called stewardesses then—and watched them make the Sign of the Cross before fastening their seatbelts.

Excellent.

Very reassuring.

At that exact moment I thought:

I am not going to live to see 23.

Mike Kelley woke up with drool on his golf shirt.

Maureen and Karl were still deep in conversation.

And somehow, miraculously, we landed in Dallas.

Where another announcement awaited us.

There was no crew available to process the international passengers.

So we would continue on to Chicago.

Of course we would.

At this point, one thought finally hit me.

How will my parents know I’m alive?

Surely the earthquake had made the news back home.

There were no cell phones. No texting. No Find My Friends. No “Marked Safe on Facebook.”

Just my parents somewhere on Long Island wondering where in God’s name their daughter was while I toured the United States with Mike Kelley, Karl and Aero Maybe.

Long story longer, our plane finally arrived at JFK approximately two and a half days after our journey home had begun.

We were crispy.

Exhausted.

Beyond dehydrated.

Maureen’s father, a retired NYPD officer, picked us up at the airport. My parents met me at Maureen’s house.

And because we were young and apparently indestructible—

we went to work the next day.

When we saw our supervisor, we launched into the story.

The earthquake.

The airline strike.

The hotel-bar Olympics.

The broken airplane.

Dallas.

Chicago.

The missing two and a half days of our lives.

She stared at us blankly.

Not an ounce of sympathy.

Then, in the finest Long Island accent imaginable, she shrugged and said:

“So? So you saw a lot more of America than you wanted to. So what?”

Nearly forty years later, Maureen and I still howl over that line.

And maybe that really is the moral of the story.

Travel teaches you things. It broadens your horizons. It introduces you to new people, new cultures and new experiences. Sometimes it even introduces you to Mike Kelley in Seat 24D and a German businessman named Karl.

But most importantly, I learned that when life throws you an earthquake, an airline strike and a broken airplane all in one vacation, there is really only one important question to ask:

Is there a crack in the pool?

No?

Perfect.

Another margarita, please.

🚨 A Kiki Public Service Announcement 🚨

Well, friends. Tonight I discovered something.

Apparently, while I have been happily writing, posting and wondering where some of my usual blog buddies have been… YOUR COMMENTS HAVE BEEN SITTING IN SPAM AND PENDING FOLDERS.

Yes. Spam.

Some of you have apparently been talking to me for quite some time while I have unknowingly been ignoring you.

I AM HORRIFIED. 😂

Please know that I would never intentionally ignore a comment. Your words, stories, encouragement, laughs and love are one of my absolute favorite parts of this little corner of the internet we have created together.

So if you commented and heard nothing but crickets from Kiki, please accept my sincerest apologies. It wasn’t me. It was the folder. And I am absolutely blaming technology because well, I’m not that strong in tech.

I am slowly digging through the comment graveyard now and finding little treasures from all of you that I never knew were there.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting. Thank you for coming back. And most of all, thank you for all the loyalty and love you continue to send my way. I’m never leaving you!

Apparently some of that love just took a detour through Spam. ❤️

Carry on.

And check your folders, people. 😂

Registration…Karen Speaking

The phone rings. I answer.

“Registration…Karen speaking.”

This is the way I have started my workday since November 12, 2011.

Only my third job since college, I landed in a school district here on Long Island that educates 7,281 students as of 1:32 p.m. today. Soon to be 7,283 if the set of twins I’m waiting on ever submits their applications.

But who’s counting?

Me. I’m counting.

School started Wednesday, September 2nd—two days ago. While everyone else thinks of the first day of school as new backpacks, freshly sharpened pencils and adorable pictures on front porches, I think of it as the finish line of a marathon I have been running all summer.

I work year-round preparing for Day One and then spend every day afterward cleaning up records, accounts, addresses and the approximately 47 billion changes that come along with 7,000-plus students.

Then there’s the other part of my job.

Investigations.

Yes. Investigations.

Part of my position involves finding families who say they live in our district but actually live in another town—sometimes five minutes away and occasionally an hour away.

That part of my job is insanely gratifying but grueling. It requires meticulous documentation, attention to detail and, every now and then, a little Nancy Drew action.

When I first started this job, everything was submitted on paper.

Everything.

Parents had to prove residency, which meant a constant parade of people through my office carrying utility bills, leases, deeds, licenses and assorted paperwork that looked like it had been shoved into the glove compartment sometime during the Clinton administration.

Nine times out of ten, no copies had been made.

So off I went to the copy machine approximately 8,878 times per day.

By the time I returned, their children might be climbing on my desk or rearranging the family pictures on my wall. Occasionally, the way a parent spoke to their children—or to me—would make me wonder:

If this is how we’re behaving in public, what in God’s name is happening at home?

I digress.

In 2013, I attended a workshop showcasing something revolutionary: online registration.

Parents could upload documents from home. I could review and import everything electronically into our student management system.

Cue the angels singing.

I was a one-woman show, and I convinced the district that the benefits far outweighed the cost.

We became the first district on Long Island to implement the program.

Since then, I’ve met with representatives from about 14 other districts and convinced them to purchase it too.

No commission for Kiki.

Still waiting on that check.

But I remain very proud that we climbed aboard the S.S. Online Registration before practically everyone else.

This morning, while talking to a parent on the phone, a thought popped into my head.

How the hell do I keep all of this together?

And the truth is, sometimes I don’t know.

If you’ve been here awhile, you know I was involved in a serious car accident. The injuries from that crash affected my memory and my speed. So I quietly adapted.

I created a system.

My system.

I document everything. I check. I double-check. I leave myself breadcrumbs so nothing gets lost along the way. No one walking into my office would ever know why I do things the way I do, and that’s exactly how I want it.

Because these aren’t just files.

They’re kids.

A mistake in a student record can follow that child into a classroom, an account or another school. I never want that mistake traced back to my desk.

So I do whatever it takes.

Every deadline gets met.

Usually early.

The day before school opened this year, I sat in my car at the end of the day and took a picture of myself. I posted it on Instagram announcing that all students were officially locked and loaded for the 2026–2027 school year.

Wave One complete.

I was exhausted.

And proud.

I reread that post this morning and had a thought I wasn’t expecting.

This may have been my last summer.

My last tidal wave.

My last countdown to Day One.

My last time staring down thousands of registrations and wondering how in God’s name I was going to get them all done—and then somehow getting them all done anyway.

I have some numbers to crunch when October rolls around. Early retirement may be knocking on the door.

And for the first time, I’m wondering whether I want to do this all over again next summer.

Fifteen summers is a long time.

And what a fifteen years it has been.

After Hurricane Sandy devastated our district, I sat in my dark office with families by flashlight, collecting paperwork so they could file for homeless status. Nearly half the homes in our district were affected. I listened to people tell me what they had lost and where they were sleeping that night. Some of those families have only recently finished rebuilding their homes.

I still keep in touch with many of them.

Then there are the stories on the completely opposite end of the emotional spectrum.

Ohhhh, the residency investigations.

Families who insist they absolutely, positively live at an address in our district while investigators are watching them sneak out of a completely different house early in the morning and pile into a car.

Then they sit across from us in a meeting and lie.

Straight-faced.

Absolutely committed to the performance.

Until my superintendent calmly turns the laptop around.

And there they are.

On video.

Busted.

There really should be popcorn served at those meetings.

Through hurricanes, investigations, piles of paperwork, new technology, thousands of phone calls, a pandemic, my own accident and fifteen first days of school, I’ve kept answering that phone.

“Registration…Karen speaking.”

I’ve personally registered nearly 28,000 students during my time here.

Twenty-eight thousand kids.

Twenty-eight thousand beginnings.

There is nothing glamorous about my job. Nobody applauds when the student database is correct. There is no standing ovation because every child has an ID number, an address, a schedule and a seat waiting for them on the first day of school.

That’s okay.

Because I know.

I know what it took to get them there.

Maybe I’ll do it all again next summer.

Maybe I won’t.

Maybe this really was my last great registration tidal wave.

But if it was, I think I can walk away knowing something pretty wonderful:

For fifteen years, while thousands of kids were getting ready for their first day of school, I was quietly getting ready for them.

And somewhere along the way, nearly 28,000 little names passed across my desk and into classrooms.

Not bad for a one-woman show.

For now, though, the phone is ringing.

And I’m still here.

“Registration…Karen speaking.”

Daily Prompt 2859

What’s the last movie that made you cry?

I think the answer to this question might be better answered with another question:

What movie has NOT made me cry?

Let’s face facts. Kiki is a sap.

I’m an empath. Sure, I am strong like bull, but I am also chock-full of emotions. Filled right to the brim, actually, like an emotional piñata just waiting for someone to give me one good whack.

A well-written movie can move me to tears—the happy AND the sad kind. And please. It doesn’t even have to be a movie.

I am a marketing executive’s dream.

Give me a well-written commercial with a returning soldier, an elderly couple, a lost dog or a kid surprising his mother and I am DONE. There was an old Folgers commercial where the son comes home from the Marines on Christmas morning. “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.”

Dear God.

I’ll never recover.

I don’t even drink Folgers, but apparently I’m emotionally invested in their entire family.

Sometimes these Daily Prompts show up at eerily precise moments. I’ll see something, hear something or experience something and then—BAM—WordPress comes knocking with a prompt that fits perfectly.

Such was the case this morning.

I had finished my shower, my daily meditation/inspiration track and was sipping my coffee while taking a quick stroll through Instagram. Guilty pleasure. No apologies.

An old cinema account I follow popped onto my screen.

And there it was.

The scene.

Robert Redford.

Barbra Streisand.

Hubbell and Katie.

The final scene of The Way We Were.

Their love story was never meant to be. Honestly, those two were doomed from the beginning. But still, after everything, when Katie reaches up and brushes Hubbell’s hair across his forehead in that final scene?

Holy Mother of God.

I lose it.

And I don’t just cry. Oh no. Amateur hour.

I recite the lines.

With inflection.

I am IN the scene. I may as well be sitting in a director’s chair just off camera wearing a headset and yelling instructions through a megaphone.

“Okay, Barbra…reach for the hair…beautiful…Robert, give me wistful…WISTFUL! Annnnd…CUE THE TEARS!”

The dialogue ends.

Cue Babs singing The Way We Were.

And Kiki is officially goo.

A big puddle of emotional goo sitting there with her morning coffee, sobbing over two fictional people whose relationship ended more than 50 years ago.

Such was the case this morning. As I tried to sop up the puddles forming under my eyes, I opened Jetpack/WordPress and Daily Prompt 2859 sprang to life:

What is the last movie that made you cry?

How apropos.

There have certainly been plenty of movies that have touched my soul over the years, but The Way We Were was one of the first—besides Old Yeller, which frankly should have come with a childhood trauma warning—that taught me just how deeply a movie could reach inside you.

So, what was the last movie that made me cry?

Apparently one I’ve already cried over about 847 times. Pass the Kleenex.

“Your girl is lovely Hubbell”

Just Say It

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.

Those Eyes Know Everything

Share a photo of your pet and tell us one thing that makes them uniquely them.

Phoebe is an old soul.

I don’t mean that in the “she likes to nap a lot” kind of way. Although, let’s face it, she certainly doesn’t turn down a good nap. I mean there is something behind those beautiful eyes that makes me believe she has been here before. Possibly several times. And I’m pretty sure in at least one of those lives she was a therapist.

Phoebe has never been a lap dog. She has boundaries. She does, however, need to be next to you at all times. There is a difference. If I move from one room to another, Phoebe moves. If I sit down, she settles nearby. Close enough to know exactly what is happening, but far enough away to maintain her independence.

And then there are the conversations.

Somehow Phoebe inserts herself into them like a treasured old friend. She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t bark. She just…joins us. She looks from one person to the next, listening so intently that I sometimes forget she has absolutely no idea what we are saying.

Or does she?

Because those eyes. Those beautiful, soulful eyes can look straight through you. Tell Phoebe something and she will stare back as if she understands every single word. Your good days. Your bad days. Your worries. Your secrets. She takes it all in and, thankfully, has never repeated a thing.

She is fiercely protective of the people she loves. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons she and I understand each other so well. We love hard. We protect harder. And we like to keep our people close.

She is our shadow. Our protector. Our confidante. Our treasured friend.
And sometimes, when those beautiful brown eyes lock onto mine, I swear she isn’t looking at me at all. She’s looking right into my soul. And somehow, I think she knows exactly what she sees. ❤️

Out Last Night

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.

The Story on My Walls

What’s your home decoration style?

My decorating style is probably best described as “If it makes me smile, it gets a spot.”

I love old things that look like they’ve lived a life before finding their way to me. Oversized clocks. Distressed wood. Vintage-looking signs with words that remind me who I want to be. Warm lamps that make a room feel like someone is always home.

Then I sprinkle in pieces that tell my story.

A vase overflowing with hydrangeas because fresh flowers make an ordinary Tuesday feel special. A Hamilton book because some stories deserve a permanent place in the room. And yes…a sign that simply says FABULOUS because sometimes we all need a little reminder – plus it’s my fave word.

I don’t worry much about whether something is trendy. Trends come and go faster than my Amazon deliveries. Home should feel like a collection of your favorite memories, not a page torn from a furniture catalog.

When people walk into my house, I don’t want them to notice the furniture first. I want them to feel comfortable. I want them to see little pieces of my family, my personality, and the things that make me laugh, think, and appreciate life.

Maybe that’s my decorating style after all.

Not farmhouse. Not rustic. Not vintage.

Just…me.

A Mug Full of Happiness

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.

☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

How Hard Could It Be?

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.