Kate Ryan

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 . . .

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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.

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

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

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.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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

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

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