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.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.