Who Are Your Favorite Artists?

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have“ by Maya Angelou

You’ll often hear my rate topics or categories. I’ll hear a song in car and blurt out “This is in my Top 20 songs of all time.” Sometimes I think I’m blurting it out, but I really am silent. Trust me though – I’m forever editing and shuffling lists and playlists in my mind. I’m like a human Alexa some days in that if you ask me about one of my favorite artists, I can launch an entire catalog of their work at will. 

I have had my faves from back in the day of course while others have bubbled up over the years because of different exposure and experiences. Actors, musicians, writers, dancers, photographers, make-up moguls, and chefs are all artists to me. I appreciate what they have crafted and presented to the world. Sharing their style is a true gift. Certain artists call to me louder than others. I am in awe of their talent and am free to share it with anyone who wishes to listen! 

Based on today’s prompt which actually did ask – I will share some of my choices from a few categories. Favorite actor? I have a few that I am particularly fond of but the cream of the crop for me is Billy Crystal. He just so happens to star in my second favorite movie of all time – When Harry Met Sally. Before that though I fell in love with his wit on Saturday Night Live when he portrayed Fernando Llamas. How I would HOWL at this sketch and completely break up when I’d hear “You look marvelous” each week. It was though – Billy’s Harry Burns that made me love cinema so very much. It was written by my favorite author – Nora Ephron. 

I’d followed Nora Ephron through all of her cinematic creations of course but it was her “I Feel Bad About My Neck” (2006) which was a tell all memoir that slayed. Every page was a confession and descriptive entry into her brilliant story-telling mind. She grabs a reader and hugs you with passion and laughter all at the same time. I followed her into “I Remember Nothing” in 2010. I read forward to her other blockbusters and then went back in time to her works in 1978. I am still exploring her catalog – savoring each passage in each creation. 

Early Kiki fans will know that I started dance lessons a little before I was five years old. I continued through age 19 with formal lessons. I miss it terribly. Over the years I became mesmerized by choreography. I hear a song’s beat and will be choreographing little numbers in my head. The style that completely engaged me though was Bob Fosse. His style is beyond iconic and speaks to my love of dance that I still can’t put into words. 

If anyone is ever speaking to Ina Garten or “The Barefoot Contessa”, please let her know that she has a super-fan on Long Island. I have devoured each cookbook she’s written like long novels. I can recite ingredients and tell you what I made from each book for various family parties and occasions. My heart is with you and Jeffrey, Ina!

As for music – heavy sigh. So many of us have responded to this prompt that we love so many genres of music and are fans to oodles of artists. I cannot read music, but I swear I was a songwriter in another lifetime. I do have a ton of musicians who have touched my soul with their gifts, but it is Kenny Chesney who lives in my heart. He wrote the songs that knocked on the door to my mind. What I love the most – besides the melodies of course is the storytelling. My God -it is his ability to sit you down and tell you a story. Each song to me is a story and leaves you in a better place than where you were when the song began. 

Artists create. They perform. They challenge you. They spark embers in your mind that give light to things forgotten or things to come. Here’s hoping your favorites live within you forever just like mine will always whisper to me “thank you for welcoming me into your world”

Then and Now

Every so often, I’ll be doomscrolling through either Facebook or Instagram and a feature called “Then and Now” will pop up. It is usually a photo selected by the social media gods from a specific day a few years back. It contains a blank “now” photo offering you the chance to upload a now photo of yourselves. 

My “then” photo from September 28, 2021 was of me and my Dad in his Rehab center. I slipped one of my Spartan “finisher” shirts on him and created a post about how Daddy, like a Spartan never gives up regardless of the obstacles he comes across on the course or race. 

Daddy had no idea of what the shirt meant at the time. Honestly at that point he did not know who I was anymore. I crafted that post for me to show people that you can’t give up at any point in life. You need to keep pushing until the end. When you get to the finish line they give you a medal and a shirt. Oh and a banana. Can’t forget the banana. 

I glanced again at the prompt to update the picture with a “now” photo and just froze. 

I can’t update this. Not now. Not ever. 

Daddy crossed his finish line nearly two years ago. Dementia and a boatload of strokes ran with him those last few years. I do know that God was waiting for him with a medal to reward him for a full life and a great race. 

Wishing there was a now photo Daddy. How I wish we could smile for the camera just one more time and say cheese. Until we can , I’ll continue to remember my gazillion “then” photos with you and recall who you were and how you taught me never to give up. 

Epic Baking or Cooking Fail

#Daily Post 2063

I’ve always been drawn to a chef’s world. My Mom will tell you that she’d hear laughter coming from the tv room and when she popped in to see what I was watching she’d see me sitting with a spiral notebook and pencil while watching “The Galloping Gourmet”. So began my love for the culinary world. 

I thought my mom was a master chef. I loved her cooking and could she throw a mean dinner party. Holidays were something out of the pages of Bon Appetit magazine. Ironically we were never allowed in the kitchen. I suspect Mom was afraid of the mess. Perhaps the lack of kitchen presence added to my love of wanting to create beautiful dishes. 

During the first few years we were married, my friend Di and I signed up for cooking classes through our school district’s adult education program. Di’s husband Mike was in grad school and my husband worked nights so there was lots of free time. 

We had a blast with anything from basic cooking 101 creations which was literally how to dice and chop or boiling water. Extremely elementary but I relished in each lesson. The courses expanded and after year two we were up to creating and serving quite exquisite Northern Italian dishes. We were on fire! 

One of our instructors told us about a cake decorating course which would be offered in one of the larger stores at our local mall. Two new chefs were eager to try anything so we plunked down the $35 registration fee and signed up. Each week we learned the art of making the perfect frosting and icing a cake. If you want glass like frosting on a cake – I’m your girl. I lived to ice a cake. I still have the motorized cake wheel used to spin my masterpieces.  

Each week the instructor would end class with a preview of what our final project would include. The final project? A wedding cake. I was in heaven. We were going to actually make a wedding cake. The thing is – you give me a project and I’m going full out for this thing. If I love the topic – there’s no stopping me. 

I couldn’t think about anything other than the final project. I worked all week and as I was on lunch or after dinner at home I’d be sketching cake ideas in my spiral notebook. 

We finally received our final project assignment booklet complete with a list of ingredients, recipes, list of supplies, and photos for inspiration. Who needed pictures? I had my own ideas ready to be copyrighted and shared with the world right in my single subject spiral notebook. 

I took the day off of work so that I could bake the actual cakes. We had to bake 3 cakes in tiered pans. I was up early and started the process leaving lots of prep time. My KitchenAid mixer was whirring and humming. I’d mix and pour into the buttered and floured pan. Around 11 am I realized something was wrong. Very wrong. I had used up the three boxes of cake mix and the largest bottom layer pan was not even filled. My husband ran down to the supermarket and picked up another few boxes of cake mix. 

Box six. That’s when the panic attack came. Back to the supermarket. The kitchen cabinets were filled with cake mix dust and small splatters from a mixer that was starting to organize a small union strike. I called Diana. She was reading a book and waiting for her cakes to cool. She said Ka – you aren’t done? I said done? I’m on box 13 and these things aren’t even in the oven. That’s when we realized my mistake. 

In my rush to start the project I failed to read the supply list in its entirety. We were to purchase a MINI Tiered Pan Set. Welllll then. This Martha Stewart wannabe bypassed – ok ignored – the word MINI. Yes yes. I purchased the LARGE pan set. 

The top tier of the cake was supposed to be a petite cake that just sat ever so elegantly on top of the bottom and middle tier. Symmetrically it would be the perfect topper. Not mine. My cake rose so much in the pan that it looked like Abraham Lincoln’s black hat atop this bakery monstrosity. If we were baking for let’s say a Gettysburg Address soire then maybe I could have pulled it off. Alas, I boxed up my freakish looking boxes of cakes and headed to the mall. 

The looks and stares that came my way as I set up my work station were far from kind. I might say they stuck with me much the same way trauma from early Musical Chairs  games has followed me through life. 

In the end, my biggest creation turned out to be my biggest fail. This remained tucked away in a bakery box wrapped in red string somewhere in the back of my mind. It wasn’t until the daily prompt popped up asking us to regale our biggest flop. 

Happy to say that I still love to cook and create but I gave up on baking that day. Perhaps reading comprehension contributed to my baking extinction. That is ok with me. Thanks for the chance to share this little part of Kiki’s world with laughter!   

My Name Has Been Dragged Through the Mud…

Where did your name come from?

The story goes that there was an actress in 1965 that had named her daughter Karen. I believe there was some type of Scandinavian lineage involved which spoke to my half Norwegian born mother as she was about to give birth to her first born. And so I was named Karen on that sweltering Monday in August.

At the time it was not a very common name until I entered school and realized I was one of a handful of Karens. I loved my name and was proud of it. My mother would and still always calls me Ka in the best New York accent anyone can have.

Enter social media when the world began to thrive on memes, unsolicited comments, and rants. Women who complained..asked to speak to a manager for said complaints…had horrific haircuts…or just plain whined were now called “Karens”. My name became a thing. An object. I’ve even heard it used as a slur.

If you know me I am not anything like what these memes or slants portray yet the snickers and eye rolls I encounter when I give my name still amazes me.

Sometime during my college years I developed a nickname during a night of drinking. Kiki stuck and has become my go to name at times. It’s easy to remember and quite frankly not as laughable reactions I get when I introduce myself with my birth name.

What’s in a name? In my case pride except when used as a label which is miles away from who I truly am. Now I just smile and know that my name was given to me and that will never allow me to be anyone else in this world.

What profession do you admire most and why?

Daily Prompt 08/12/2025 

The question was asked “What profession do you admire most and why?”

My opening statement is that I respect all positions. Let’s face it – everything we do in life relies on a procedure or product made my somebody. The people who harvest our coffee. The engineers who develop machines to brew our coffee. The manufacturers who make coffee cups to hold the coffee. Even the dental community who develops tooth whiteners to erase the coffee stains from our teeth. Do you see where I’m going here? There are endless jobs and positions out there that affect every single aspect of our lives on a daily basis. 

The position I admire most? It is a tried and true profession of Teaching. I have loved and respected teachers throughout my entire educational career. There was only one teacher I did not care for and to be honest the only reason for not being fond of her was because of her smell. That didn’t make her a bad teacher. It just meant her odor was distracting and I couldn’t completely engage with her during the 38-minute period in middle school. I digress.

I remember each of my teachers and most of the day-to-day lessons vividly. Yes, I have somewhat of a photographic memory but how I responded to each teacher with the desire to learn is what has stayed with me over the years. There are a few teachers who stood out as my favorites because they sparked interests that ignited passions such as writing. Sitting in a sixth-grade classroom every day after lunch and listening to Mr. Dalven read excerpts from novels taught me how to listen to a writer’s voice and tone. That tone taught me story structure and how to reach an audience. Those few minutes each day shaped how I wanted to communicate with people through my own literary style. 

During my first few months of college, I came to know that 95% of my dorm were Special Education teachers Speech and Language majors. I was the lone English Literature and Business Management major. I posed the topic of switching majors to my parents during my first visit home. My Dad quickly put his hand up and said “Karen Anne – you need to consider the job market in the next few years. While it is an amazing profession, the world of Special Education is very specific. You need a much broader base – one where you will always be able to branch out in employment.” While his point at the time was valid, it was not specific enough and since he was paying the bills and I was a total rule follower – I put my head down and showed up to my Management 101 course on Monday morning. Flash forward to 2001 when my son was diagnosed with Autism. My Dad recalled our conversation one weekend and said, “I now know I misspoke”. We smiled and passed the mashed potatoes. 

My love of the teaching profession wove itself into our relationships with the kids’ teachers throughout the years. I dove into our district PTA to support this incredible pool of talent in any way I could. This led to my love of the education administration and landed me where I am today – supporting a school district. 

I truly believe that the love of teaching a child to read – to understand – to navigate – and to be a good human being is a true gift. Not everyone is cut out for it. I know this. The ones that are though shine bright in my mind. Thank you all for your decision to light up minds throughout our world.

Six Decades of Gratitude

I am a sap. Strong? You bet. Deep down though I am a romantic ball of goo who will just melt when I am met with something that touches my heart. So here I am on the verge of closing out one decade and starting another. My mind is swirling. Not with dread but with waves of gratitude. Different memories – obscure and forgotten ones are firing off in this active brain of mine reminding me that there are no chance encounters. Each and every moment has happened for a reason.

Sometimes a smell will waft into my day and I am back in my grandparents’ kitchen in Brooklyn. The potatoes are boiling on the stove and I am putting on one of my grandmother’s aprons getting ready to help mash the potatoes or sprinkle the last of the cheese on her batch of secret recipe Baked Macaroni. I miss my Grandma Flotten’s touch on my cheek and holding her hand in Bay Ridge or Bethpage telling me everything was going to be all right. 

I can still remember the days at Central Boulevard Elementary School on the recess field with Debbie. We would walk miles during our lunch break just reciting lyrics to the newest songs or talking to Jean on the blacktop. That is where I developed my love of talking to people and listening to what they had to say. Then there was this nugget – I was sitting in my classroom and seeing our music teacher on a cart playing the harp being wheeled down the hallway. That was the wackiest and most obscure school memory of which I can think of. 

There are memories of middle school (or Junior High as we called it back then) in the storage bins in my head. Sadly, I don’t remember most of them. The memory gods have put up steel walls around them to protect me from the puberty monsters. I am quite sure there is a reason we will just leave everything boxed up neatly and not ready to be discussed. Let us just leave those days to the few photos that exist in the wild which include the close-up Confirmation Day pictures which highlighted the acne festival that was being held on my chin and right cheek. 

Walking through the halls of Bethpage High School will always stay with me. I often say I cannot remember if I ate dinner last night but I can still remember Janet’s locker combination from 10thgrade. Diana and I went ice skating every single week with “The Steves” and I can remember what I wore and ate each week even though it was usually a slice and a soda at Dino’s. Diana became one of the most special parts of my life and I will love her forever. A huge thank you to all who I talked to every day both inside and outside of school. I do remember our conversations and how deep some of them got. I have never put this in writing but to my Aunt Dot who lived at 95 South Third – I really miss you. You were part of my life since the day I moved into Bethpage. You were my second Mom who looked out for me and remotely raised me from your house. There was no getting past you, including the time I changed from my sneakers into my heels on the side of my garage to impress Thomas Bianco that Friday. You reported this back to the 433-6345 hotline and by the time I returned home that day in my sneakers – my mother was waiting for me with the wooden spoon in hand. We had amazing talks about everything, and I am grateful to have had you with me through so many good and tough times. David and Donald were incredibly lucky to have you as their mom. 

The day I became a Rosebud at Saint Rose changed me in ways I am still trying to process. I was free and flying on my own. I should have pushed harder but I was meant to be there with my tribe. As many of you have read before, Saint Rose is no more but how it shaped my world will always be in my blood and flowing through my veins. I am grateful to all of you who were a part of my life both then and now. 

After college came GEICO. My life became flooded with hundreds of people who walked with me each day and night for over 20 years. I am proud of the work I did there both with customers and my employees. To my coworkers though – we went through marriages, deaths, divorces, births, and a million other things in between. The big, brown building brought me Maureen who turned into a sister who held my hand through, well, everything whenever I needed her. 

These past two decades have been CRAMMED with memories because of my two gifts. I never thought I would have two children who have completed my life in ways I never imagined even when I was on my knees praying for them every day. Their path of creation or the years of infertility also led me to people I would never have talked to if I had gotten pregnant right out of the gate. The lab technicians who rubbed my back or dried my tears. The nurses who told me success stories. The doctors who even with a gruff bedside manner told me the truth about why I couldn’t conceive. I am eternally thankful for locking eyes with all of you. 

I found a way to clear my years of depression because Autism knocked on my door. The Autism gifts are a completely different blog and list of thank you notes I need to write. The path of fitness was laid out before me as I turned fifty. Behind this door was Vanessa. She reminded me of how strong I am and to never look back at anything with sadness. You are where you are right now, she tells me. That not only keeps me strong but keeps me breathing even on nights in the gym when I think I will pass out and when I am overthinking at 2:30 a.m. and my What-Ifs are circling my brain at 432 mph. 

Tomorrow morning, I will call my Mom and thank her for making the decision to start a family and welcome an 8 lb. 7 oz. chubby cherub into her world. What she and my Dad have done for me throughout these past six decades is something that I cannot begin to even speak about. Years later they gave me a little sister who has grown into not only a successful CFO but another part of my brain at times!  How I wish my Dad was here to see me turn the calendar to August 2ndbut I know he is with me every step of the way. 

In a little over 24 hours the clock will strike midnight and I will jump feet first into my sixtieth year. I am filled with love and gratitude for where I’ve been. I am filled with excitement for who I will meet and what I will do next. I will never take anything for granted as tomorrow or the next year ahead is never promised. It is meant to happen for reasons I may never understand but welcome with open arms. 

Certainly…

List 10 things you know to be absolutely certain.

I’ll count backwards although my things are in no particular order…

10. Wearing black is home to me.

9. Twinkling Christmas lights act like a Time Machine to me. I can be transported back to Christmases past with just one look.

8. Feet are very strange yet they are essential.

7. I cannot ice skate well.

6. I love corn but corn does not love me back.

5. The right amount of pillows and blankets can change my world.

4. Long Island and New York City bagels are like no other bagels in this world.

3. Genuine eye contact during a conversation uplifts me to another level of human connection.

2. My gut instincts about someone never lie.

And the last one…I never talk about politics in my blogs but I can say with confidence – I have always been proud to be an American regardless of who sits in a White House.

What’s your go-to comfort food?

I could sit here and give my stock answer of a rare burger topped with blue cheese slices and a tomato piled on a grilled Brioche bun accompanied by a Dirty Martini. While this is one of my favorite things to enjoy from time to time, it really doesn’t describe my most basic comfort food.

The soft-boiled egg. The eleven minute perfectly cooked soft-boiled egg. Served up in a very beautifully painted vintage porcelain egg cup. An ever so tiny, yet perfect pinch of sea salt on the freshly cracked opened egg. The first plunge past the white into the egg with the miniature egg spoon just soothes me while the slice of whole grain bread sends heavenly toast smells across the floor.

The soft-boiled egg.

Perfection.

Comfort.

The What Ifs Were Strong At 5:15 This Morning

I’ve been fighting the notion of that I never reached my original goals from my early years. Beating myself up over not applying to Notre Dame. Not having a glass enclosed corner office while building my empire from the ground up. Constantly criticizing myself for not “making it”. Oh yeah? 

Well if I had those things I’d have never be sitting here at house 87 about to take a shower to head to a job that I secretly love. It’s only the second position I’ve held since college. I wouldn’t be staring at the bathroom wall in the house we scraped to save for and made ours. I wouldn’t be thinking about everyone’s daily schedules and what to have for dinner. I wouldn’t be in love with my two kids who I waited ten years to have and hold. My dog wouldn’t be guarding the door like a bouncer outside a rockstar’s dressing room. And…I certainly wouldn’t be so positively grateful to be on the brink of turning 60.

Oh come on now –  I still have dreams of what I want to do and where to go. The dreams are so specific that I can smell the fresh paint on the walls of my beach house. That specific. Am I happy my life didn’t take a different turn? The answer is yes. I landed just where I was needed to be at precisely the right times. Twists. Turns. Bad decisions that turned into incredible lessons.

What if I’d never ended up here? The truth is – I never want to find out.

Place the O2 Mask Over Your Face First…

How do you practice self-care?

I would always be mesmerized by the flight attendants at an early age. The safety demonstrations though always left me perplexed. We were instructed to place the oxygen mask on ourselves first before helping others with theirs. I told my parents on an early flight that this was very selfish. I wanted to help others first. I missed the concept that I can’t help others unless I was breathing and whole. I suppose this wrote the template for my life. I grew up as an empath who would do anything for those I loved. My needs came second – if at all.

Self care was laden with guilt. You didn’t sit down to relax unless everything was done in the house. As a result I found that I couldn’t let go unless I was given permission.

Fast forward to the days when my kids finally arrived. It was a 24/7/365 marathon on taking care of two cherubs and a household. It’s what I did and I loved it. No questions asked. I threw myself into their worlds. School functions, sports, activities, scouts. Throw in the world of the PTA mom just for fun and to suck up all of my time.

Me time? What was that? I was 102 pounds heavier than my former self in college. I didn’t recognize myself either physically or mentally.

Through a PTA function I visited a Boot Camp gym with the intent to bring a new family fitness initiative to our district. What happened that night led to now years of taking care of someone I never expected – me.

One class turned into three and a year later I was taking seven classes a week. I dropped 63 pounds and was suddenly running obstacle course races all over the country.

The physical me needed a friend so we found a spirituality friend. We embarked on a new journey. We woke up at 5 am, meditated (today I completed a 1,514 day streak of meditation), packed my meal prepped breakfasts and lunches, headed to work, home to change, and then hit the gym.

Now 11 years later my self care sits in first class with me each day. I know what I need and I’m not afraid to ask for it. While I’m admittedly a bit addicted to the beauty regimen part of self care – the rest of the self care movement is here to stay. I’m now quite comfortable with putting my mask on first. You cannot help anyone in this world without allowing yourself to breathe and know who you are. That is the best self care of all.