Kate Ryan

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?