Catherine Gigante-Brown

You learn a lot about people when you live in their home. The Taylors seemed to lead a joyless, Spartan existence.

I left Cuba in 1949, when I was 11 years old. Back then, I didn't understand why my mother sent me away. I still don't.

I fumbled with my lace bra, hoping my silicone form wouldn't fall out from the left cup. I wasn't exactly ready . . . yet I was.

I realized my father was from a generation that never said those three little words. He was saying he loved me without them. But I didn't realize it then.

From New York to LA, this lady knows a good story.

After I got over the initial devastation, I pulled myself up by my big-girl panties and got on with it. Chemo was no picnic—but it was do-able.

All bets were off after 9/11. In a twisted way, it proved to me that worry was fruitless. No one ever saw the terrorist attacks coming.

I’m a firm believer that Tiny Kindnesses can change the world, one sweet, loving gesture at a time.

raunchy renaissance woman. multimedia artist. probably a slut.

Alas, I am the lone female in a house full of men. Only two men, but they take up a lot of space.