Jody Amable

So far, Deathly Hallows is, to me, about the divide between the living, the dead, and the living who have seen death. Harry and I are part of an exclusive club: Those under 30 who have experienced death. And when I say “experienced,” I don’t mean “witnessed.” I mean really, really felt it, all the way through.

If I let everyone off the hook for extenuating circumstances like, “He’s over 50, so he probably just doesn’t know any better,” no one’s ever going to stop calling me “sweetie.”

FINALLY someone acknowledges professional boundaries at Hogwarts.

I was waiting to finally not like a Harry Potter book, and folks, I found it. Half-Blood Prince was boring.

I couldn’t help but assume the reason these people were telling me not to say even a word to this troll was because women aren’t supposed to fight back. We’re supposed to rise above — to “not stoop to their level,” as my mom used to say.

The neighbors turned their lights off. My dog fell sound asleep. I kept reading. And at 1:03 am, I finished. All was well.

Jon Stewart, step aside. Your heir apparent has arrived.

In this time of toy-giving, I'm reflecting on the impact one doll made on me and, I'm willing to bet, a small subset of other girls, too.

According to the magazine, women need special help understanding sports. Cue the glorious, hilarious Twitter outrage.

In the aftermath of my mom passing, I've learned to reconcile our rocky relationship with the knowledge that she loved me.