Kate Ryan

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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

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.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

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 . . .

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.

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