I shouldn’t have to be homeless to imagine the bitterness of winter temperatures for those who have no roof over their heads and no bed with fluffy pillows and a down comforter to keep them warm at night. I don’t have to miss meals to feel the nausea, lethargy, and distraction from not having enough nourishment in my belly.

I don’t have to experience the anxiety of pulling out a bank receipt that shows a balance that won’t (in any stretch of the imagination) be enough to cover the monthly bills, or worse, seeing a negative balance to sympathize with those who are unemployed or still struggling in the current economy. I shouldn’t have to experience cancer to empathize with someone who’s going through chemo and radiation therapy.

I don’t have to care for an elderly parent, say goodbye to a friend struck down by disease, or bury a murdered child to have my heart break, or to reach out to comfort, hug, hold, and support a family member, a friend, or a stranger who has lost someone essential to their lives.

For Americans, our season of officially giving thanks begins on the third Thursday of November, Thanksgiving. Oftentimes, with the stress of planning and preparing feasts; purchasing gifts or stressing about finding extra money to purchase gifts or going without gifts; end-of-the-year additional work and subsequently extra hours at our jobs; attending holiday school performances, work parties and social get-togethers; dealing with family dynamics or having no family at all—it can be difficult to remember that this is a time for giving.

This season, I am reminding myself to give—with consciousness and clarity, discharging my stresses and anxieties (even if temporarily), so that I may give freely and openly, without judgment or expectation.

When a friend’s stress is overwhelming, I tell myself, ‘Cut your errands short and lend an ear, turn off your phone, and pull your sleeve down over your watch face.’

Painting by Lisa Monica Nelson

When my eyes sting because they’re so tired and all I want is to get that next load of damn laundry folded and the dishes cleaned before I call it a day, and my child calls for…me, I let the laundry wait and leave the never-ending chores to remain undone a bit while longer. I go to my daughter, curl up in the bed with her, and release the day from my mind so that the only world of which I’m aware is the child right in front of me.

When a wee tiny wisp of an elderly woman spends 20 minutes mailing a package while the line at the post office extends past the door and down the steps, I tell the person in front of me that I like her intriguing coat and then we move on to how we will be spending our holidays and to whom we are mailing our packages. Finally, I simply wait my turn, mentally sending good wishes to the old woman with her cane, her hand shaking as she writes her check, her lips quivering as she tries to get her words out, and know that I, too (with luck), shall reach her age and deal with the consequences of old, old age.

This season, I remind myself to take that unwrapped gift to the local firehouse, take the end-of-the-day extra baked goods from my favorite bakery and drop it off at the food bank, and prepare to hand out lunch bags of turkey sandwiches, cucumber wedges and holiday cookies to my neighborhood homeless like my daughter, ex-husband and I used to do when we lived in Hollywood. Show people, tell them, ‘You are not alone; I see you.’

Sometimes, the whys and wherefores don’t matter, the old baggage, the open wounds. Sometimes I need to push myself past what grips me in hurt and pick up the phone, call an estranged sibling and say, simply, “I love you.” Issues don’t magically disappear, but the freely offered sentiment can open a way forward, even if just for that moment.

The odds are, if we all give, then we shall all receive.

Give with a free, loving heart, and receive in the same way. I remind myself that when someone brings me an unexpected gift—a tin of holiday cookies, a card, a phone call, or even a hug—to receive that gift with a thankfulness that seeps throughout my every inch. Don’t flick it aside with, “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” or “But, I didn’t get you anything.” Welcome his gift and his thoughtfulness. Let it fill and soothe, nurture and replenish.

We need the love and compassion of others, especially when tragedy hits so close to the holidays. Let’s not shy away from it, from the pain and loss, but embrace each other and help each other stand up. We are only alone if no one reaches out, if no one offers a hand…or if the offered hand is not taken.

Let this holiday season be a time of selfless giving, true compassion and empathy, honest love and kindness, and altruistic benevolence.

Let our humanity excel and radiate—in the way we give and receive, share and comfort, support and love our children, family, friends, and neighbors, as well as our beloved towns, cities, country…and our precious world.

Every stranger is a potential friend.

Open your heart.

Love is essential.

Copyright © Kat Ward, 2012 at Hometown-Pasadena.com

But—Oye Vey & Hallelujah—I’ve managed to upload my first novel Amy’s Own as an ebook on Smashwords.

I began 6 days ago by printing out their 75-page style guide because I best absorb information holding something tangible (printed material) and while sitting and reading out in my petite patio.

Note: the guide states that some people can format and upload their manuscripts in 2 hours. I understood immediately that I would not be a member of the “some” club.

It was evening in lovely South Pasadena, California. I turned on the Christmas lights that are tacked to the worn wood enclosing my patio and gave a nod to my Chinese warrior statue (an imitation of the famous Terracotta Army) that I use in place of a buddha. I sat in my much-loved, soon-to-trash old camping chair, the material having stretched and aged to the point that the seat has lowered to the perfect height for my short (not petite) legs. I read the guide with my yellow highlighter sliding along line after line, page after page. When I went to bed around 2 a.m., I was semi-understanding the dumbed-down language for non-techie beings like me and felt as though I was making progress (though with my brain being so tired by this influx and overdose of new info, I couldn’t be quite sure).

Mind-numbing Day 2: I opted for the Nuclear Method (evaporating all previous formatting from a manuscript) from the get-go as I knew I had made simple indents and centered things via the icon on the Word doc and that was repeatedly, emphatically stated in the guide as a no-no-NO! I was forced to learn about paragraph styles in detail, hyperlinks, appropriate copyright and licensing statements, “front matter,” and the typography term pilcrow. A slight PITA, but I’m happy to know this now, since I’m typing up my new work Keeping Sane, and Other Aspirations.

Mind-numbing Day 3: Downloading Adobe Digital Editions and going through the whole manuscript of Amy’s Own page by page, looking for mistakes. The hardest part was not going through the pages too quickly. I just wanted to glance and say, “That looks great! Moving on!” But I found a place where a line of dialogue jumped up to the line above. That screeched me to a halt, and I started looking at every single paragraph. I found three other times where the same thing happened (I’m assuming as a result of the Nuclear Method), so I’m glad I slowed down, even though I had to continually squash my impatience.

Mind-numbing Day 4: Bleary-eyed, stiff, and tired, I quadruple-checked everything out of absolutely heart pumping paranoid-anxious-doubtful-tense-amped up uncertainty. Then—with a deep breath, fingers crossed, swollen ankles crossed, and an excited flutter in my stomach—I clicked “publish.”

It may only be noon, but I hear a celebratory cocktail calling my name.

Note: Amy’s Own is free for download until July 13, 2012 at Smashwords. It’s a commercial drama with comedic and romantic elements. Visit Smashwords for a complete story description and access to multiple download formats. Feedback welcome (no holds barred!).

Hollywood & Appa

Last Saturday saw a march of pets that were adorable, handsome—and dressed in tutus.

One Colorado held a pet day in its courtyard and welcomed the Fun & Furry-licious, the Dressed to the Hilt, and Tricksters.

The “celebrant of kitsch pop culture” Charles Phoenix—in is his eye-popping patterned pants and light blue (not suede) shoes—MC’ed the event, and drew a lot of pet attention (see below).

Bravo!

© 2012 Kat Ward

This isn’t your ordinary doll exhibit.

No porcelain skin with bright red lips and generic features. No period ball gowns with petticoats and bloomers.

These are works of art; creative, imaginative, edgy, out-of-the-box works of art.

This style is not for everyone, but I couldn’t get enough.

What’s your reaction?

Viva La Vida Frida by Lov Struk

Florence the Flapper by Christine Benjamin

Your the One Devil by Ulla Anobile

Dorian Grey by Vega

Princess for a Day & Tristan by Sheri DeBow

Shaman by Carol Reynolds

Trudy by Keeley Benkey Reichman

Visigoth Warrior Woman by Lulu Moonwood Murakami

Maddy Calakita by Lov Struk

St. Rose of Lima (music box) by Christy Kane

Ulla & Faith (music box) by Christy Kane

Cpt Pirate Penelope by Christine Benjamin

Frank's Bride by Lov Struk

In Full Bloom by Ulla Anobile

Thanks to Sandra Mastroianni, owner of Cactus gallery. For info and pricing, visit cactusgallery.blogspot.com.

© “Cactus & Dolls” post and photos by Kat Ward

Pasadena Doo Dah Parade 2011 (Xinhua/Qi Heng)

Do you have a craving, a secret aspiration, or a hidden desire…to be Queen?

This Sunday, April Fools Day—which is very appropriate—are the tryouts for the 35th Occasional Pasadena Doo Dah Parade Queen.

This “caucus” will be held at the American Legion Bar (again, very appropriate…or maybe it’s not, which is entirely appropriate!). Check-in begins at 3 p.m., with tryouts from 4:30-7, and the crowning of this year’s queen will be at 7:30.

Past Queens like Tequila Mockingbird, Naughty Mickie and Skittles will be on hand, and musical entertainment will be provided by Snotty Scotty and the Hankies, Horses on Astroturf, and the Doo Dah House Band. Cheap drinks, a smoking patio, pool, crock pot chili, and dancing all awaits those eager to tryout, support, or even heckle—which is officially endorsed.

2008 Doo Dah Queen Naughty Mickie

Potential Doo Dah Queen’s will have only a few minutes to impress the judges; entrants shouldn’t ignore how much a well-timed beer into the hands of a judge or judges may help garner votes; creativity and humor rule in this arena.

Uncle Fester: photo by Greg Foster

The Doo Dah Parade itself will be held on Saturday, April 28th, beginning at 11 a.m. on the streets of East Pasadena. The great honor of being Grand Marshall is held by retiring Pasadena Public Information Officer Ann Erdman.

“If there’s anyone who walks to the beat of her own drum and appreciates a good laugh, it’s Ann,” said Tom Coston, head of Light Bringer Project, producers of the parade since 1996. Over the years, Erdman has led marchers dressed as a flower child, a motorcycle mama, a baby in a giant high chair, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and Elvis.

So, find your inner goofy, silly and superlatively creative—you never know, you may become Queen for a day.

The 35th Occasional Pasadena Doo Dah Parade Queen Tryouts
American Legion Bar, 179 N. Vinedo St., between Walnut and Colorado Blvds.
Sunday, April 1st. Check-in at 3 p.m.; tryouts are 4:30-7 p.m.
Cost: $5 cover to the Legion’s charity, though 1st 20 Queen hopefuls get in free
Full cash bar
Trying out? Call 626.590.1134
For more info and entry forms, visit Pasadena Doo Dah Parade

LitFest Pasadena was scheduled for today, Saturday, March 17th. I have time to sit in front of my computer because even though our winter has been quite dry, a weekend storm decided to dump a lake-full of rain and plunge the temperature into the low 50′s (way too cold for us thin-skinned Southern Californians!). We have postponed the event to May 12th as the Old Farmer’s Almanac states that rain has only fallen once in the last ten years on that day, and it won’t be too close to the massive, size-of-a-little-city event that’s called the L.A. Times Festival of Books, which is in April.

Fingers crossed for date #2.

The upside is that in having a deadline for LitFest, my partners and I at Lovely pubs, our new indie publishing company, have finished our first products.

Lori Bertazzon already has her Where Are You Stuck? self-help workbook that’s selling and going strong. Her husband, Kevin Bertazzon, in addition to ISMS: A Faery Mobster Story, now has his graphic novel Too Bubbly printed which looks amazing and is laugh-out-loud funny; and I have finally finished—and printed—my novel Amy’s Own.

A paperback copy is ready with your name on it!

Amy’s Own is $14 plus shipping, which runs $6. If you have any questions, you can email me at katwardphoto(at)msn(dot)com.

I’d like to make this post longer, but my brain is fried, and not in a tasty grilled cheese kind of way.

I’ve been having the time of my life finishing the book and working on LitFest, but it’s been heaps more work than I thought it would be, and this here almost 1/2 century ol’ body of cells is not what it once was. Time is a creepin’ and a sneekin’ up on meh! So, I’m hunkering down for the rest of the weekend in hopes of recouping some essential vigor. I’ll be in touch…

Photo by Doug Knutson

An interview I conducted this week for  Hometown Pasadena.

Not surprisingly, as the son of Guatemalan parents, a L.A. native, a former Los Angeles Times bureau chief in Buenos Aires, and a weekly local columnist, Héctor Tobar’s fiction is infused with the desire to illuminate the complex layers, significance, and consequences of cultural and ethnic differences and conflict.

His latest novel, The Barbarian Nurseries, is an incredibly dense reveal of the city of Los Angeles. Within the details of the varied sections of this metropolis, he has created a story that focuses on Araceli, a Mexican maid, who after four yours of service is suddenly thrust into the additional role of nanny when the parents, Scott and Maureen Torres-Thompson, make the executive decision (independently of one another) to give themselves a “time-out” from their suddenly taxing lives. The ensuing adventure, and clash of class and culture, reveals the abundance of deep-seated issues at play, and a mistrust and misunderstanding that can relegate society to stagnancy.

HP: How did the title Barbarian Nurseries come about, and what were you hoping to convey by this title?

 HT: It’s a play on the two meanings of the word “nursery” as a place where plants are cultivated and as a place where children are cared for and raised.

Both of these jobs are performed in the U.S. by Latino immigrants to a large degree. Mostly people from Mexico. And in talk radio and right-wing commentary, Mexico especially is considered a place of barbarism, a place without civilization; people think of it as a place dominated by drug gangs and lacking in culture, a perverse and inaccurate vision of what the country is, to be sure.

HP: How did you start writing this story, was it with this particular theme in mind? Was it a discussion you wanted to start, continue, or contribute to?

HT: I started off more than a decade ago, and wrote a first draft of a novel that was a response to the growing anti-immigration movement in the U.S. and a response to this rhetoric that sees the newly arrived immigrant as the dangerous ‘other.’

The initial inspiration came from  the protagonist of Camus’ The Stranger and from the idea of the first image in my novel: a man trying to cut his own lawn without a Mexican to do it for him.

I didn’t really want to start a discussion, as much as I wanted to write an artistic and intellectual response to the moment in which I was living as a native Californian and the son of immigrants.

H-P: Right from the start, you set up the divide and distinction between employer and employee. Could you comment on that?

HT: A big part of the novel is how social class seeps into everyday actions in the home. This is deliberate, of course. It comes from having crossed the class divide myself, or, rather, from having seen my family cross that. We come from Guatemala, a country that’s synonymous these days with service work here in L.A. My father parked cars, worked in hotels. We ascended to the middle class. At one point, I lived abroad as a writer with servants in my home. So I’ve been lucky enough to see that class divide in my own life from both sides.

H-P: Even secondary characters get back stories, even if they’re mini ones, such as the young woman of whom Araceli asks directions in the fashion district. What was the aim in doing this?

HT: I’ve been privileged to be a journalist and writer in L.A. for a long time. I’ve been to many different kinds of neighborhoods, rich and poor and in between. So I figured I had the chance to share with the reader a real tableau of the social differences and gaps and the variety of experience in the metropolis.

H-P:  We have to say, we thought the most alarming part of the book started on page 241 and lasted a mere 38 lines.

HT: Yeah, I was a reporter for a major newspaper covering crime many years ago. I saw firsthand the way the media can assemble melodramas from complex, ambiguous human events. It’s become a big industry in the years since, but the basic manipulation of the truth is the same: take complicated lives and boil them down to issues of good and evil.

H-P: Was the ending of the book, the way the three main characters head off in new directions, just the way the story came to you, or was it a conscious decision?

HT: Maureen and Scott at the end are being set up for another fall. They’ve been humiliated, and forced to lower their expectations. As for Araceli, I wanted to leave her in an in-between state, her story leading to either Mexico or to the U.S., because to me that’s what it means to be an immigrant in the U.S. This country changes you, you can’t go back home and be the same, while at the same time living here can be a fraught experience, as Araceli has learned.

H-P: From the very beginning, we were drawn into the story by your wording and the images you create with your words.

HT: Thanks so much for the kind words. Yes, I’ve spent many long years working on my prose style, trying to develop something that’s evocative and accessible. I’ve had a lot of influences, from short story writers such as Nadine Gordimer and Sandra Cisneros, to novelists like Gunter Grass and Don DeLillo. I like to think of it as reaching for a kind of accessible transcendence, if that makes any sense.

Photo by Elena Dorfman

H-P: In reference to being a writer, how do you know when a manuscript is finished?

HT: When your editor pries it from you hands. I think we are perpetual tinkerers. The real question is: when does the writer stop working on his manuscript and show it to his agent/editor? That’s hard to answer. Personally, when I feel nauseous just looking at it, I know I’m done.

H-P: Do you have a particular connection with Pasadena? We know your children attend Sequoyah School, but is there anything else?

HT: One of the final sections of the novel takes place in the Arroyo Seco, in that hazy area near the border between South Pasadena and Pasadena. I use the Craftsman architecture, with its Midwestern influences, as a symbol of Maureen’s desire to return to the values of openness and simplicity of her youth. Also, there are a couple of Sequoyah parents and their kids who served as inspirations for characters.

Héctor Tobar, author of The Barbarian Nurseries
He will be reading at the L.A. Central Library
Thursday, January 26th, 7 p.m.
630 W. 5th Street, L.A., lapl.org/central

As writers, we must also be business women in order to market and promote our books—and as this may not come naturally to some of us (that would be me), I thought this conference looked intriguing. I like the concept and even the words in which they promote it—very real, down to earth, welcoming and inclusive.

Actualizing Your Dream

In the 1970′s, women burned bras, marched, and raised their voices, pushing their agenda for equality and led by the likes of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug.

Economic and social constraints slowly and eventually loosened, and women (who, let’s be real, have always had to forge their own way) said, watch out world, here we come. The intervening forty years have seen women break through all sorts of glass ceilings, in all sorts of fields (bravo and cue the applause).

Yet, there is still work to be done.

To address this, Nada Jones of ltd365 will host her 2nd annual ltdLIVE:  A Conference for Entrepreneurial Women at the Pasadena Convention Center. Their mission, she says, is to “help women actualize their life’s passion through entrepreneurship and make the process inspirational, accessible and achievable.”

Lian Dolan, author of "Helen of Pasadena"

Lian Dolan, author of Helen of Pasadena, prior host of the award-winning talk show Satellite Sisters and current author of the blog and podcast The Chaos Chronicles, will be master of ceremonies.

Keynote speakers will be Kate Somerville of Skin Health Pyramid and Lee Rhodes of glassybaby (product pictured above). Miss Representation, a film by Jennifer Siebel Newsom which premiered in 2011 at the Sundance Film Festival and was broadcast on OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network), will be screened the evening before the conference with Newsom holding a Q&A afterwards. There will also be a meet-up with actress, producer and talk show host Ricki Lake.

Break-out sessions on February 1st and master class seminars on the 2nd will focus on the needs of women in every stage of business, from start-ups needing to know the tools required to begin their own business to existing enterprises that want to grow and expand. One discussion will consider what makes women approach business differently than men, and how they can use that to their advantage.

The Financial Literacy session on Wednesday morning is described as “everything you need to know about money—it’s not evil, just misunderstood,” and at the panel that follows you’ll “hear four women share the good, the bad and the ugly of how they do it.”

Finally, the ProFounder Swap & Meet event is where you can make contact with what Nada Jones believes is “your greatest existing resource—your community.”

ltdLIVE: a Conference for Entrepreneurial Woman
Wednesday and Thursday, February 1st & 2nd, 8 a.m.-6 p.m.
Tickets: $150-$225
For more info, visit ltd365LIVE.com.

© 2012 Kat Ward

“I’ve got two extra tickets to the Rose Parade. Do you and Bella want to go?”

Hmmm. This opportunity wouldn’t be putting much-needed shekels into my pocket, but neither would it be siphoning them out.

“Absolutely!” I said.

The hour was early—a 5 a.m. alarm and I needed a shower; I needed coffee. The roads were congested; it was the busiest Sunday of auto and pedestrian traffic that I’ve ever seen. Did I say it was early? Like, still dark out?

Once we were dropped off and walking towards Pasadena’s Colorado Boulevard (the main route of the parade), I kept wondering where our seats would be—looking to my left, looking down at my ticket, looking right—until my friend stopped in front of a security checkpoint where tickets were acknowledged, bags rummaged and conformists flagged through. It was like being allowed to walk the red carpet—very exclusive.

We also flagged a little humping our holiday-heavy arses up the subsequent hill, but imagine our early morning, bleary-eyed reaction when we saw that our seats were right on the street—in the front row.

After inundating my friend with much kudos, I paused; I could hear money disappearing from my pocket. I now owed her a steak dinner in return for these rockin’ seats and her generous last-minute invitation (though, if I was the second or third call she’d made, can a $23 steak become a $6 burrito?).

Our two girls went up to their fourth row seats (backrests; thumbs up) while my friend and I set up camp right across from the main grandstand and the t.v. announcers. If you watch the replay of the parade on t.v. and see the big brown Norton Simon Museum in the background; if you use your remote to go frame-by-frame; and if you have a seriously expensive high definition television, you can periodically pick out my daughter’s pink jacket and my blinding white shirt with a black blob up where my eye should be which is my camera. There it is for all to see: My 15 Minutes of Fame (it actually adds up to a total of approximately 4.23 minutes, but who’s counting?).

So, with our feet on the street, the rising sun to our left and the swiftly moving parade to our right, I finally had my first Rose Parade experience. Well, no—all right—my first time was about six years ago when it rained during the parade for the first time in fifty years. We were up off a side street at the very end of the parade route behind masses of early arrivals. Though the floats were incredible, with our rain-soaked shoes, the raw and chilly air, and our distressed (okay, persistently whiny) friend’s child who only wanted to go home, the experience was not one for the books—so nah, I’m not counting that one.

This year’s event was held on a cloudless day, the temperature rising quickly from “pretty damn chilly” to “yes, we’re all getting burned only on the left side our of faces cuz our heads are looking right towards the oncoming floats”. But being so up close and personal was mesmerizing. The choice of Grand Marshall, J.R. Martinez, an Iraqi vet who suffered burns over 40% of his body and that disfigured his face, was inspiring, and I’m sure he rode the tide of our collective emotions for the entire 5 1/2 mile parade route. Two hours flew by. Amazingly, my camera battery held out despite the 712 images I shot; that evening, it took me a second or two to connect the dots when I realized how stiff and sore my shoulders and arms were.

As the official Rose Parade float came towards us and unknown persons announced “That’s all folks! Thanks for coming!” the stands began to quickly empty—about 10,000 people in need of a potty break.

But then, lo and behold, another parade came along. Yes, it was pushed to one side by the uniformed sherriffs and didn’t have fancy floats or a gazillion tubas, but the signage was compelling. “Occupy” had arrived. I thought, Now we’re talking!

Well, the second they could be seen by the grandstand occupants a rain of boos were hurled down upon them and I thought, the 99% is booing the 99%!

So, of course, I climbed up onto my seat and started clapping and hooting and hollering my support (much to my daughter’s chagrin). This parade was not to be dismissed. I forced my now rebellious burning muscles to raise my camera once again and began snapping shots. Sure, some of the marchers looked a tad on the fringe, maybe a meal or three short, a car away from calling a box a home, a week or so away from a hot shower, but as far as I can figure that doesn’t exclude them from being part of the 99%.

The vast majority of the marchers looked like people you see all day as you go around running errands, stopping in shops, asking for assistance, and exchanging pleasantries. They were White, Black, Latino, and Asian. They were Lacoste wearing conservative-types; overweight suburban mom-types; very thin suburban, tight yoga leggings, mother-types; groovy haircut, rockin’ leather jacket creative-types; neatly groomed, button-down shirt tucked in grandfather-types—America’s melting pot—all right there as you please.

I jumped down to walk into the crowd for a few more shots and walked right up on the last “floats” of the parade—riot police riding shotgun on their armored vehicle. Now, they received a HUGE round of applause from the crowd still in the bleachers. Once again, I’d like to point out that the 99% were responding to the 99%—simply another category within the 99%. Because the last I heard, cops (short for constable on patrol; not a slur) aren’t millionaires. I think it’s safe to say that more than a few officers have lost a home to foreclosure in the last five years, are worried about having to declare bankruptcy because of exorbitant health care costs despite having insurance, or saw their savings or pensions wiped out during the financial collapse.

Happily, the officers didn’t look interested in having any sort of a confrontation—their two vehicles simply slogged behind the pack in the background.

It was rather odd, though, to see one segment of the 99% booing another segment of the 99% which was being followed by yet another segment of the 99%.

The last segment was simply ignoring us all, clear in the knowledge that they had a mile to trek to get to their car and they were busy calculating the time it would take to stand in line at the nearest porta-potty versus kicking it into high gear, making it to the car, then sitting in a traffic jam of 1,000′s, all before they could relieve themselves in the comfort of their own commode.

My personal posse (a percentage of the 99% that’s such a speck I can’t even begin to calculate that in my non-mathematical mind) stood patiently by, letting me enjoy the moment—and for that I love them 100%.

* And my friend’s getting the dinner of her choice.

© Kat Ward 2012