illustration of a man-made beehive with honey leaking out and bees flying around

Twinkle twinkle little star,
Hands inside the honey jar.
Pull them out! I hear them coming!
Swarm of bees, a big, loud humming!
Phew, they just flew in to sleep.
In their hive, they’re counting sheep.

Save the bees.


Feminine hygiene products. Feminine napkins. Sanitary napkins. Sanitary products.

Pads and tampons are given many different labels, but they serve one purpose: to soak up period blood. Red blood of the period kind. It’s a fact of life for many. Deal with it.

Crude signs are taped to many a bathroom wall, born of a hasty afterthought. The signs use outdated, condescending language, to make the reader feel as if their very biology is unclean. These signs shake an all-caps, Times New Roman finger at whomever enters the stall, seconds before they’re about to do their private duty.

illustration of public toilet and sign taped to wall with note: do not dispose of feminine hygiene products in the toilet. thank you.

No. Thank you for the constant reminder that:

  • Only hygiene products of the feminine variety end up in toilets.
  • Microsoft ClipArt tampons look like mitochondria.
  • Periods are unsanitary and unhygienic.
  • My period is (always) coming soon.

Every now and then I will avoid the line to the ladies’ room by making a detour into the deserted men’s room. The wall in the men’s room is bare. Serene, even.


On entering the supermarket, I abandoned my mom and made a detour to the in-store rental shop. We didn’t have cable, so this was where I gathered ideas for my mental watch list. The shop was often unattended so I hung out in Children’s and New Releases, flipping the boxes over and reading the descriptions. It helped if the supplemental movie stills captured just the right moments, something to make me hungry for more.

Then, along the back wall, there was the Horror section. Once bored of skimming my usual genres, I shuffled past the Horror movies, my peripheral vision doing a quick scan of the movie art. None of the films along that far wall were going into my mental list. It was just that my childish curiosity got the best of me. I had to know what these films were all about. And maybe repeated exposure to the scary imagery would dull the creep factor.

illustration of vhs boxes printed with horror titles

Avoiding the Horror section altogether might have been a wiser move. It was one thing to invent a plot line in my head based on the cover art. To satisfy my curiosity by reading the movie description…now a chilling story line and a couple choice movie stills were imprinted into my brain. I couldn’t unsee the death and suffering, caused by murderous, antique dolls or men with knives for fingers. I was already a kid with an overactive imagination. I just ended up feeding the beast.


First we had fish. Then we had hamsters. It began as one hamster. One hamster gave birth to many. And then my brother and I were forced to give them all back to the pet store.

After the hamster debacle we weren’t allowed any more pets. Somehow we managed to acquire a parakeet. It was lonely, so we got another parakeet and they became fast friends. One parakeet was eventually found dead, stuck in an odd position in the food dish. The other parakeet died soon after, presumably due to aching sorrow and loneliness.

Through all of this, I longed for a dog. I wanted a small dog, because small dogs were cute. And I was a small child myself, so I guess I wanted something in proportion to my own size.

There was no way, with my history of animal ownership, my parents were going to let me have a dog.

Preparation was in order, for the day my parents would give in. I prepped myself for becoming a proud, new dog owner by reading about them at the local library. The book section that carried a volume for each dog breed became a routine stop during my library trips. Each book was rich with photos and information on canine temperament and care. I thumbed through many of those dog books, before realizing we were definitely not getting a dog. Eventually I bought a small guide book (with my own allowance) on common dog breeds and read it cover to cover. Identifying dog breeds while I was out and about grew to be a favorite pastime.

illustration of a dog

More than 20 years later, at long last, I have a dog of my own. His name is Bear. Bear is a shelter dog, likely a schnauzer-poodle mix, rescued from the mean streets of Long Beach when he was less than a year old. He’s still got youthful energy at about six years old. I must be doing something right.


My mom showed me how to look for blemish-free produce. She taught me to look for packaged meat that had the farthest sell-by date possible. She reminded me to double-check the expiration stamp on the milk. She made a show of examining every egg in the carton.

And after my mom watched every item ring up at the register, she scanned the receipt, line by line, making sure we paid the price as displayed on the shelf sticker. She remembered the exact price of every item she put into her cart. There were many trips up to the customer service counter to dispute an incorrect charge.

It was years later when I’d realize how little my parents took home from their blue-collar jobs. My mom did all the grocery shopping so it was logical that she would be meticulous about the items on her list. I cringe thinking about my poor attitude, every time we walked back into the store to point out mismatched dollars and cents. Sometimes I served as translator for my mom and did little to hide my irritation. 

illustration of grocery store shelf with regular price tag and sale price sticker

I’m not nearly as diligent of a grocery shopper as my mom was (and still is) but I do have a strange memory for price tags.

On the rare occasion that I do question an overcharge while in the checkout line, I think of my mom. I think of the petite, Asian woman, standing at the customer service counter of a suburban, Midwestern supermarket, pointing out the mistakes on her receipt. Her daughter stands beside her and watches, a little embarrassed, but also proud of her mother’s resolve.


Upon entering the drug store and turning the corner, I found myself staring at the shutters, stretched across the pharmacy countertop. I walked back to my car with a frustrated, dejected feeling, blaming myself for not checking the open hours before leaving the house. It was an optimistic, last-minute trip right before work, when time was most precious. 

illustration of shuttered pharmacy counter with sorry we're closed sign posted

It was foolish to be spontaneous. Traveling anywhere in Los Angeles without a plan – even on routine trips – is a gamble. Scanning online reviews from three different sites and stalking Street View for two hours before leaving the house makes simple sense.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I didn’t own a smart phone or know what the place looked like until I arrived. I received awful directions from several strangers: the gas station attendant, the customer at the gas pump next to me, the drug store employee. Eventually, I arrived to where I wanted to go, late and flustered. Why would I want to go back to that?

In getting lost, though, I was forced to “explore” and make wrong turns. I absorbed the street signs and landmarks around me. I took notice of my surroundings and committed parts my trip to memory. I was continually optimistic about the people I approached for help along the way.

Sometimes, I miss the optimism. 


illustration of two anthropomorphized buckets who are friends and who are glad they are "pails"

Galentine’s Day is officially February 13, as I learned today…but why only celebrate it on the exact day? Celebrate it any day of the year.

Happy Galentine’s Day!


The ceramics instructor demonstrated the basic steps to making a bowl on the pottery wheel, with what appeared to be minimal effort. My co-workers and I, all six of us, stood around and marveled at her skill.

Centering the clay on the wheel was the most challenging step. Once we completed a series of actions leading up to the point where the lump resembled a bowl, I surveyed my colleagues’ work. Each bowl-like configuration was unique to each other, as were our personalities:

illustration of six bowls, each on a potters wheel, each shaped differently

As beginners in this medium, we each landed somewhere on a spectrum between aggression and caution. The aggressive and eager ended up with misshapen bowls, or bowls with asymmetric, concave lines. The cautious ended up with bowls that gave the appearance of symmetry, but in actuality were made up of structurally unsound walls: thin on one side, thick on the other. I fell into the latter camp.

Before class began, I walked into the studio with much anticipation. I envisioned myself being secretly gifted enough to create a beautiful bowl on the first try, but the vision didn’t pan out. As with yoga or painting, pottery is a practice…the more I learn, the more there is to learn. 


We evolved to take the path of least resistance. We categorize everything that surrounds us because it’s easier for our brains to process broad ideas rather than zoom into minutiae. Black and white both have clear definition. Gray areas are uncertain. Gray areas contain more questions than answers.

illustration of two semi circles one black one white with hash marks and dots in between the semi circles

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs largely determine what we want to exert effort on. If foundational needs such as safety and stability are lacking, one will seek clear definition. If one’s cup is full in the areas of safety and stability, exploring the gray, great unknown is less likely to feel like a burden. 


Inside my pink backpack rested a brand new pack of Fruit Stripes gum. I was eager to hand out the fragrant, fruity sticks to a select few classmates. The happy, little zebra printed on the packaging served as my little animal gum ambassador.

The morning I brought the gum to school, though, something was off. With the gum tucked into my locker, the fruity scent wafted into my nostrils every time I approached, causing my stomach to do flip flops.

After another nauseating trip to my locker, I lined up with the rest of the first graders in preparation for our next class. A little bit of vomit rose up in my throat and out of my mouth. Gravity took care of the rest, using my right shoe as the landing pad.

My face said it all. The student behind me took one look and alerted our teacher, who sent me straight to the nurse’s office.

While sitting on the vinyl-covered bed, holding a kidney-shaped bowl, the urge to throw up came back. The nurse was occupied, chatting away with another faculty member. Seeing as she was distracted, I went to the bathroom next door. It was in use. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting loose into the shallow, plastic bowl so I made a beeline for the girls’ bathroom, a good 30 seconds away.

illustration of girls bathroom, door closed, vomit oozing out of threshold, pack of striped gum to the right of the door

As I hurried to my destination, my body took over, causing me to vomit in the main corridor where the two major wings of the school intersected. The entrance to the girls’ bathroom was several feet away. Almost there. I made it to the doorway and threw up again, right on the threshold. A passing staff member immediately came to my aid. We stepped over the puddle and entered one of the stalls where I kept puking. Where it all came from, I did not know.

The staff member guided me back to the nurse’s office where I received a look of disapproval. I overheard the nurse asking the staff member why I didn’t just use the bathroom next to her office. I was too weak to tell her that it was occupied. I was also dehydrated from multiple barf sessions. I began to feel unsure of myself. To also have doubt cast upon me by the school nurse in my time of need felt further damning.

The Fruit Stripes gum was eventually revealed as the catalyst to my vomit spree. My first grade teacher went to my locker for me and extracted the gum for disposal. Even in the absence of the offensive gum, the odor persisted. We took out all of my saturated books and papers to help the smell further dissipate. The janitor gave my locker a good spray and wipe down, after which I was able to return some of my belongings.

For awhile afterwards, I replayed a particular moment in my mind: the look of disapproval from the nurse who didn’t believe me. I was a pretty sincere little kid and had no reason to lie or manipulate the situation. My honesty was put into question and this bothered me more than the fact that I got sick all over the school hallways.