Kate Ryan

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.