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.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.