beanie baby worm blog

I rounded out my first week at my first official full-time job out of college. I had just gotten inside and was trying to take my black boots off without undoing the zipper. I was in a hurry—home sweet home. Simultaneously, I tried to hike up the leather strap of my work-appropriate tote bag so it wouldn’t slide off my shoulder. As I finally gave up and leaned down to unzip my boot, my eyes were drawn upwards as I yanked my purse back up with the other hand. They caught on a photo frame of me as a fourth grader on the door. It was in a flimsy white frame, decorated with some foam stickers of assorted colors, in the shape of stars and snowflakes, studded with plastic gemstone stickers. I remember gluing weak magnet strips to the back while making it in class. Then I waited my turn to pose in front of the projected image of a waterfall for my teacher to snap a picture and mutter "next” to the next kid in line. We stuck those photos to the then-dry frames and brought them home. I’ve

It’s my dad’s birthday today, just a few days after mine. Last year, I wrote a short piece about him, so I’m keeping up with the tradition. My dad is the sole reason for my blog and Instagram empire. He’s the one who brought me and my siblings to max out his library card as kids, encouraged me to start a blog for my writing as a teenager who was afraid of what my classmates thought of me, suggested I apply to a creative writing program when applying for colleges. He still tells me with a straight face to just write a New York Times bestseller and quit my future job. He’s the one who thrifted my siblings and I’s books before we even knew what thrifting was, phoning us to see if we had the so-and-so A-Z Mystery book or a certain copy of The Magic Tree House when we were kids. "Yes, we have  The White Wolf ." Sometimes at the dinner table, he’ll fondly recall his schoolboy days, reminiscing about how he was the chubby kid with glasses who read a lot. There was this one time in

 It's my birthday today. Rather than ruminating on this event, I’ve been thinking about what to do with myself after I graduate with my bachelor’s in just a few weeks. Change comes with busy-ness: packing, paperwork, tying up loose ends. The concept of no assignments and midterms to worry about, no more classes to rush to, and no plethora of social events to fill my weekends is alien to me. Instead, there will be meetings with my manager, Microsoft Excel, morning commutes to the office, and long walks after dinner. Maybe movies and books. The horizon of my life stretches, flickering and shifting before my eyes like a mirage. When I read Lord of the Flies two years ago, mirage was a recurring word that continually stuck out to me. I feel like Ralph lately, disillusioned, overwhelmed, confused by the senseless behavior and workings of human beings.  My dad asked me what my dreams are when we were on the phone last month. I was wearing my pajamas and standing in the parking lot next t

The Manicurist’s Daughter came into my life at the perfect time. I had just come home from traveling overseas for a week, and being there for my family as we navigated some health issues my grandpa is going through. He helped raise me in a lot of ways, I will always be “baby” to him, the nickname he still calls me at times, albeit less frequently. I am still unable to completely articulate the grief I felt into words, the frustration and pain and acceptance or lack thereof is something that I know has changed who I am and how I experience life. It was almost difficult for me to believe that the pain I was feeling is universal, that everyone must come face to face with health issues, death, suffering of loved ones or oneself at one point or another in their life. I suppose experiencing heartbreak is similar, it is unimaginable how you navigated life before. It’s not exactly regret (i.e. “I wish I never had to feel this way”), but almost a more nuanced understanding of the world, our pa

"Two words from him, and I had seen my pouting apathy change into I’ll play anything for you till you ask me to stop, till it’s time for lunch, till the skin on my fingers wears off layer after layer, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word, I liked you from day one, and even when you’ll return ice for my renewed offers of friendship, I’ll never forget that this conversation occurred between us and that there are easy ways to bring back summer in the snowstorm." This was the line from Call Me by Your Name that came to mind when I saw a bunch of the yellow flowers I used to call sour grass as a kid growing straight out of the recently redone brick floors of my parents’ backyard. Now I know that they are technically called sorrels (thank you, Google). My third post ever on my Instagram account shared some of my favorite quotes from the book. Spring has barely begun, a few sunny days here and there, and I’m already fantasizing about summ

This was everything I was expecting and hoping for. I read Three Women earlier this year, and knew immediately that Taddeo would continue to shock me, make me contemplate, sit in uncomfortable feelings. Her writing is unflinching, non-judging. She truly gives her narrators space to truly show who they are, baring themselves for the world to see, whether they like it or not. I knew I had to read Animal , which is fiction while Three Women was a narrative nonfiction book.  This gives everything that My Year of Rest and Relaxation thinks it gives. The narrator is what I imagine to be the final boss of female anguish, rage, pain. This novel even argues that female rage at its core is nothing more than pain gone unnoticed, frustration gone ignored, trauma gone sour. I wanted to read about female rage, and was presented with that and so much more. This novel’s plot is nonlinear, it jumps from memory to present and vice versa, from stating events to deep reflections, playing with these diff

I read these at separate times, however they read as a direct continuation of one another because they’re essay collections with similar themes of being a woman and just recalling some of Ephron’s career and life. I found the essays charming, easy to read, and fast-paced. She’s witty, relatable, and ultimately I really respect her and her work, such as writing the movies Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail which I’ve watched with my family. I’m not a huge fan of romcoms, but I admire strong career-driven women and I feel that Ephron embodies that girl boss energy. But what do I know? I has no intention of picking up I Feel Bad About My Neck , because I read I Remember Nothing late last year and wasn't particularly affected or impacted, despite finding it mildly entertaining while reading. I didn’t DNF, which I would’ve done if I didn’t care for it at all. But I was doing some editing for my school’s literary magazine, and the contributor I worked with wrote about when she w