Kate Ryan

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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.

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.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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 . . .

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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.

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.