I imagine potty training a toddler is super fun for all of us, but I must say, it’s especially enjoyable for mamas like me, whose children are mommy’s girls to the fullest extent of the definition, girls who have unwaveringly decided that daddies are unfit to accompany them to the john for a front row seat of these festivities, the most sacred of moments, which in my experience, go something like this: “Potty! Potty!”

I’m sure you’ve noticed me around the halls. I know you’re curious. I am, too. You’re funny, and charming, and you’re smart (which is how I know we’ll really click). You have a lot of fantastic qualities you could bring, if you were interested, to someone like me: Fiction Fanatix, the MSU bimonthly student book club.

The concluding tweets of the seventh and final day of the Lincoln-Douglas Twitter War …

Several years ago my wife’s employer–a multi-millionaire businessman–gifted us with an evening at Atelier, an exclusive bistro catering to the trendy and peculiar tastes of the upper crust in the nation’s capital. Atelier specializes in pairing marvelous wines with superb, cryogenic cuisine prepared by a bevy of highly skilled, hypermodern New Age chefs. Cryogenic cooking, to the uninitiated, means rendered sanitary by immersing in liquid nitrogen (compressed sea fog we later decided). The waiting time for a reservation is measured in months and a well-heeled sponsor is needed since you must produce notarized evidence of substantial net worth to obtain one.

I was born attached to the Catholic Church, with no avenue of escape and little chance of loosening its stranglehold, for my mother was no ordinary woman; she was a Polish woman; neither was she an ordinary Catholic; she was Polish Catholic. As surely as corn dogs harden the arteries, Polish Catholicism, as manifest in women of my mother’s generation,hardens the brain until it becomes impervious to reason.