Kate Ryan

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.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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 . . .