Winona Dimeo-Ediger

Please feel free to join me in sending these GOP leaders a stack of postcard versions of their hypocritical Tweets. Join the resistance, #RavsResistance.

How many times have you been slogging through your 30 minutes on the treadmill and thought, "Man, I wish I was shopping right now?" All t

Dear Winona, I’m addicted to black. Exhibit A: my closet. Am I fashionably lazy? Or is it because it just goes with everything—mainly me?

The other day I met up with my friend Paige at a coffee shop. She went to the bathroom, came back, and said, “So, the toilet paper roll was empty, and I almost didn’t put a new roll on, but then I thought, ‘Be the change you want to see in the world,’ and I changed it.” She beamed triumphantly, and I said, “Paige, you’re a hero.”

I regularly call upon personal saints for help. Really specific ones whose sainthood only exists in my own mind, but they’re very effective. Today I’d like to introduce you to a few of them; feel free to call on them as often as needed.

Basically, if you took a map of the world and put red pushpins wherever something terrible was happening, you’d find a millennial directly in the center, snapchatting.

Suffering from a severe case of the frumps? Not anymore.

There’s something that happens on social media every time a celebrity dies. After the initial shock and questions of “is it a hoax?” have abated, people start telling stories.

In 1897, a little girl named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of the Sun, asking if there was a Santa Claus.

Oh my god check out those shoes. Those are uuuuugly! They look like a lizard swallowed a horse hoof and then molted. Not cute