A Paradise with Poop

It was a hot August day, and our hands were constantly in motion to swat away the persistent swarm of gnats flocking around our heads. Hopping out of the car, I nearly stepped upon a fresh mound of dog poop steaming on the ground. That alone had to be the sign of an excellent dog breeder. But the poop was the last thing on our minds. The only thing I cared about then was my future puppy. We had found the ad for puppies in the daily newspaper. My father and I had circled it with our red Sharpie and we drove off with high hopes to meet our future dog. Excitement was abounding in the car as we drove the forty minutes to Anoka. This was our second puppy attempt. The first time, my parents and I had ridden in my dad’s black Toyota to a small house on an acre of forests and prickly brambles. We had parked on a narrow dirt road outside of the house and walked up a muddy path to the small brown rambler. The sound of puppies barking melted our hearts, but the boisterous sounds of gunshots made us scamper back to the safety of our automobiles. Although thankfully the shots were not aimed at the puppies, we decided we did not want a dog that was tone deaf and jumpy. Thankfully, this place was different. Even a seven year old could spot that. The shutters were painted a fresh white, and the ground, although spotted with dog poop, was a lush green. It was the ideal suburban home. I could practically see Dick and Jane holding hands and skipping across their lawn together. I could make out Jane’s swinging braids neatly tied with a crisp red ribbon and Dick’s blond hair parted smartly to the side. My father and I started up the sidewalk and knocked on the cheery red door. Our arrival was welcomed with a ferocious barking, and we could hear the scratching of toenails (paw-nails?) as they slid across the floor. A large black snout sniffed at us through the screen and then opened, displaying a vicious set of sharp teeth. It barked and howled until a woman dragged it away to its kennel near the door.

“Please excuse Star,” the woman said as she pushed open the screen door. “She’s just a little jumpy today.” The interior of the house was just as pristine as the outside. The wooden floors glistened, and the pillows were set neatly in pairs of two on the corners of the couch. I was afraid that my muddy sneakers would disturb this serene bubble of cleanliness, so I left them in a sloppy pile by the front door. I eyed the big dog sniffing at me from her kennel. I considered myself quite the dog-whisperer at the time. I was convinced that the strong affection I felt for all dogs was mutual. I figured that they must love me as much as I loved them. So I stuck out my hand and grinned as Star sniffed it with her wet nose. I poked my finger inside the holes of the kennel and stroked her soft paw. I was completely oblivious to the fact that she could have easily bitten my finger off with one snap of the jaw. I was so intent upon smoothing the satiny brown fur on her paw that all aspects of possible danger completely disappeared. When Star was let out of her kennel, she padded over the shiny floor and gave me a slobbery kiss on the face. I watched with amusement as she then growled menacingly at my dad.  

I felt my wet cheek as we made our way down the vacuumed steps and grinned happily to myself. One slimy kiss from a dog was enough to make my day. My grin soon widened into a beaming smile as I took in what was before me. It was as if I was Charlie in the Chocolate Factory or Eve as she saw Paradise for the first time. I was ecstatic. The basement was crawling with nine roly-poly puppies, and I literally squealed with joy as a one ran up and chewed on my pant leg. The soft white carpet was scratched in spots where the little dogs played, and I could make out a few faint yellow stains on the fuzz beside the door. A large play spot was sanctioned off with a flimsy black fence and covered with newspaper. Squeaky puppy toys littered the area, and a few pillows were strewn about. It was heaven. Puppies were everywhere, tripping over their oversized paws and scratching against the couch when their ample ears flipped inside out. I watched with elation as they tumbled around the soft carpet floor, their playful yips filling the room. I looked down to find a puppy pulling at my shoelace. Another one scampered out from behind the couch and began pulling the other shoelace with its teeth. They pulled and pulled until the knot came untied and they were sent rolling to the ground, our laughter and playful yaps harmonizing in a happy unison. I watched as the two played and fought, their little black tails wagging excitedly and their tongues lapping out wildly. Every two minutes or so, one of their ears would turn inside out and I would go over and flip it back to its proper place. When the time came, it was easy to choose which puppy to bring home. I immediately leaped over to the original shoelace culprit and swung my arm around her, announcing to my dad that she was the one. And a pricey one at that. Her parents had been show dogs, and although we weren’t planning on showing her, the owner assured us that $900 was an amazing deal for a dog like her. But she was worth every penny. I proudly watched as my dad carried her up the stairs and across the glistening floors to the freshly mowed lawn outside. I grinned wildly when I learned that I would get to sit in the backseat with her. I placed her on my lap and decided then that today was definitely the happiest day of my life. My bliss was still intact even after she threw up her entire lunch on my lap during the ride home. 

Review of "The Backup Plan"

Blockbusters is notorious for having a terrible selection of movies. The Parent Trap? Don’t have it. Philadelphia Story? Don’t have it. A typical Tuesday night, I had walked into Blockbusters with low expectations. But, low and behold, the new release wall was stocked and brimming over with current hit comedies and updated thrillers and dramas. Gone were the previous new releases of She’s the Man (2006) and Night at the Museum (2007). My eye immediately caught the enticing cover of The Backup Plan, starring Jennifer Lopez and Alex O’Loughlin. The film is about a woman named Zoe, (played by Jennifer Lopez), who desperately wanted to get pregnant. She soon becomes pregnant from a sperm donor just before running into her future soul mate (Alex O’Loughlin). There were a few details that occurred in-between, but none so important and memorable as to include in this summary. The majority of them consisted of repetitive arguments and bickering between the two leads. At least I think that’s what I think happened. It was so unmemorable I can’t be sure.

The skepticism started even before the opening scene began. The plot left me incredulous. How could a woman, as beautiful and glamorous as Jennifer Lopez, not find anybody who was even remotely interested in her? She walks around New York City in skin-tight dresses and boots with heels rivaling Lady Gaga’s, and not one guy (or girl) stops to take a second look. Even when she is drenched by rain and her dress somehow manages to get even tighter, she is not once approached. And in New York City nonetheless. A city with roughly 8.4 million people crammed into a cramped space of 305 square miles. Not one phone number or double-take. Not once. The pure dislike for the movie started flowing when Stan (played by Alex O’Loughlin), appeared. His first few lines made me cringe and watch in disgust as he stole a cab from a woman. Quite the charmer, that one. My tolerance for him significantly decreased as the film progressed. He goes on to act like a baby in every single scene, always overreacting (or perhaps overacting?) and moving inconsequential things to the drama queen level. His cocky attitude brings the film down multiple notches. What the directors failed to do was differentiate the meanings of a mysterious and seducing man with a past from a rude, surly child. Looks like somebody forgot to check their dictionary. Stan makes every problem look like it was Zoe’s fault. He’s even bothered that she chooses to sleep with a large pillow at night for comfort and belly support. And even though he agreed to help Zoe raise her babies, he absolutely must stage a meltdown every five minutes about the strain and stress of his life. His humongous doses of selflessness and support continue to amaze me.

So all things considered, I would give this movie a one star. If not for the aggravating characters and bad casting, the movie could have had more potential. The plot could have been more interesting and the movie more watchable if the film had not dragged through every single argument a new couple experiences. Jennifer Lopez was her usual bubbly, pleasant character. She didn’t take anything away from the film, but then again, she added little. My dad walked away after witnessing thirty minutes of this movie. And even that small amount of time is actually pretty substantial considering this movie’s awfulness. My recommendation for the future? Cast Jennifer Lopez with better actors. Remember Out of Sight where she played opposite George Clooney? Turns out the girl actually can act, just maybe not as well when she is surrounded by whiney boyfriends. 

A Cherry Tree

One glance out the window and Fred could see that it was going to be another rainy, drizzly day.  He sighed as he watched a plump droplet of water slide down a lush green leaf and plop onto the hard ground below, splattering into tiny beads of wet rain.  On a normal day, this would be a bad sign.  It was not yet 9:00 and he was intently watching raindrops fall to the ground from his bedroom window.  But today was an exception.  Today he was not staring out of his window because he was bored; he was staring out of his window because he was waiting.
Lisa.  The name tasted sweet on his tongue like the tender mooncakes he enjoyed during the Zhongqiu Festival.  He closed his eyes and  imagined her face.  He could picture her skin, as smooth and pale as a precious pearl buried deep beneath the sand.  He could practically feel the silky strands of her glossy black hair, and he imagined his hand in her soft grasp.  Opening his eyes, Fred observed the blossoming pink cherry tree directly outside of his window.  Its bright leaves throbbed with color and fluttered in the wet spring air.  But his concentration soon faded as his eyes fell upon the small footprints embedded in the soggy brown soil.  He frantically ran down the bamboo stairs of his home and leaped across the front lawn, his dry bare feet soon wet from the dew of the morning grass.  He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the cherry tree, where they sat hidden beneath its curtain of pink blossoms.  His fingertips lightly grazed over her hair, and she looked up and smiled at him.  This is what we live for, he thought as he buried his nose in her wet fringe.  This is happiness.  He wanted to remember everything from this perfect moment, so he decided then to memorize each rapturous detail.  He locked away everything in his brain, treasuring the smell of Lisa’s hair and the prickly feeling of the wet grass sliding up his back. He looked down at her again and decided that out of all the moments in his life, this was the best.  As the sun rose up from the horizon, Fried tried as hard as he could not to blink.  He didn’t want to miss one moment of this bliss.
BAM BAM BAM! The shots rang clearly through the stale air.  Fred shivered in his thin blanket, and he wrapped it tightly around his body in an attempt for warmth. His teeth clattered with the combination of fear and cold.  His stomach, which had been empty for days, churned and twisted from the loud gunshots.  He had been hearing the sound for weeks, but the educated Mr. Zhou had yet to grow accustomed to it . Fred stared at the spot of blood adorning the gray wall in front of him. The spot danced before his sunken eyes, morphing from a bowl of rice to a pot of steaming chicken dumplings, and then finally into a juicy slice of beef.  It wasn’t until he rolled over later that he noticed a cool puddle of drool where his mouth had been.

Letters are here boys, come get your letters!  A skinny soldier stooped before Fred’s cot and handed him a small, thin envelope.  A letter?  It had been weeks since he had received his last letter from Lisa, and the hunger immediately disappeared as he snatched it from the boy’s grasp. But the excitement quickly turned to anxiety as he felt the unusually slender letter in his hands.  Anxiety turned to fear when he recognized the small, slanted letter of Lisa’s mother, Mrs. Duan.  Mrs. Duan hated him.  She would never write to him unless it was an emergency.  With his fingers trembling from a reason other than the cold, he tore open the envelope. His eyes skimmed over the stains and formal greetings to land on the words that he had hoped he would never have to see. Lisa has passed away.  The reasons as to why and when this event occurred never got a chance to pass through his mind.  A sound echoed through the room, a deep roar of misery and grief followed by choked breaths of desolation. Nothing mattered anymore.  The sounds of gunshots and the harsh snores of his bunkmate disappeared, and his hunger and cold were forgotten.  All that was left was a strong sense of nothingness, so bleak and full of despair that his finger itched for the trigger on his nightstand.  He pressed him hands deep into his forehead, his knuckles digging into his eyes. The hurt was too tremendous to bear, and he howled with fury as buried his head into the sheets of his cot. Lisa.  Lisa, Lisa, Lisa. His mind raced, searching for a happy thread of memory to distract him from his sorrow.  A cherry tree.  A cool spring morning where the dew of the grass tickled the soles of his feet.  He remembered the smoothness of her hair as he stroked it underneath their blanket of pink.  He remembered their soft hands touching as he breathed in a mixture of sweet flower blossoms and fresh morning grass. He remembered the words that escaped from his mouth as he stared into her brown almond eyes. He remembered lightly grazing the creamy blush on her cheek as he uttered those three words. I love you. And at that moment, with his face pressed against the grimy gray sheets and his hands clenched into tight white balls, he remembered happiness.   He remembered, and he was satisfied. 

CW Opinion Piece

In a society where being skinny and beautiful is a top priority for many women, it's hard for young girls not to feel pressured into being a slim size zero. With perfect airbrushed faces scowling on billboards and twiggy models gracefully posing in magazines, it is easy for young girls in America to aspire to have Gisele’s legs and Kate Moss’s weight. American Academy of Pediatrics found that 59 percent of girls reported dissatisfaction with their weight, and according to the Girl Scout Research Institution, one third of all girls have a distorted idea about their weight. Such distorted ideas could lead to outcomes of eating disorders or even death in girls and teenagers. America needs to step away from the unnaturally thin models and advertise a healthier body shape to the American population in order to save lives and increase confidence.

            On a recent trip to Florida to visit family, I got to chat to my young cousin about gymnastics, one of her favorite sports. After she was done informing me about the art of cartwheels and round-offs, she confessed to me that she thought her thighs were fat. I looked down at them. What she viewed as fat was toned muscle with a diameter of a pencil. She was only eight. The same summer I went jogging for cross-country with a friend. She had just gotten back from a trip abroad and was informing me about all the delicious foods that she was exposed to there. She then went on to tell me that she probably wasn’t going to eat anything for a few days so as to burn it all off. Her legs are about the width of my arms, and it’s impossible to find a pinch of fat on her body. And every day at lunch, I am surrounded by skinny girls who nibble on their fruit salads and guzzle water while looking enviously at my bagel and cookie. I spy them inspecting skinny airbrushed figures on magazines, and I constantly hear them gushing about the beauty of an emancipated model. To them, and to countless other girls in America, curve-less, bony bodies are beautiful. To make it worse, being extremely thin is encouraged by TV icons, movie stars, celebrity fitness trainers, and even food advertisements. A new pretzel ad states in bold black letters, You Can Never be too Thin. Critics are enraged, saying the ad encourages eating disorders and promotes people to feel bad about their bodies. Tyra Banks, a famous supermodel and host of the popular television show “America’s Next Top Model,” recently praised a 6’2” model whose ridiculously tiny waist prompted another judge to reference Tic Tacs and watercress for getting the model that thin. Kristen Bauer, actress of the popular TV series “True Blood,” confessed that “as long as I’m in this business, I’m going to be hungry.” Girls will see hundreds of thousands of advertisements, clips, and models in their lifetimes, and they will desire a body like them. This unhealthy craving has huge negative effects. It leads to anorexia and bulimia, and in some cases, it even leads to death. If our nation promoted real beauty and stronger, curvier, healthier body types, there would be less self-hate and more confidence in our youth and teenagers. Girls across the globe are searching for celebrities and supermodels to look up to and imitate, so if these “role-models” are advertising unhealthy body-standards, their young advocates will follow and adopt serious problems because of it.

            Women and girls everywhere are searching for a healthy body image that they can replicate. Every woman, from your eight year old cousin to your forty year old aunt have moments where they see a skinny model in a magazine and want to replicate that image onto their own bodies. More than eight million people in the United Sates have an eating disorder because of this issue. Let’s change that.

            

Accidental Lessons

It is still a mystery why I sign up for it every year. Somehow, sprinting through freezing ran and dashing around in hot temperatures is not at the top of my to-do list. The nauseous feeling at the end of meets and hard practices alone is enough to make me want to quit and join a speed-walking team instead. But for some terrible, beautiful reason, I find myself I filling out the registration forms each year, pulling on our groovy, psychedelic tie-dye running t-shirts, and joining the race. Although some of the most helpful lessons from cross-country have been to keep your arms down when running and breathe deeply to combat side-aches, I have also gained some more insightful wisdom from the mysteriously appealing sport. Here are five accidental lessons that I have learned from my experiences in cross-country running:

1. Once you actually talk to somebody, you’ll find that they’re not as bad as you thought they were. When I joined cross-country, I became part of a team. Many of the girls who I ran with were girls who I thought I would never connect with. I situated myself comfortably in my ignorant little junior-high bubble of similar friends. I truly believed that I would never communicate with these quiet, shy girls who feebly played their violas in Orchestra and sat in the corner during gym. But during cross-country season, a strange thing happened. I actually sat down with them and talked with them. And during this time I realized that perhaps they were not the quiet, shy girls who I initially pegged them for. I realized that I had mistaken their quiet ways for thoughtful insight, and their shyness for hidden intellect. Because of cross-country, I would have never given myself the opportunity to get to know them, and as a result, become good friends with them.
2. Your family will always be there for you. During my first year at cross-country, I never let my parents come watch my meets. I was irrationally afraid that they would be ashamed of me if I didn’t win, or that they would be disappointed if I got twentieth instead of first. But during my second year, I decided to do things differently. As much as I hated to admit it, I didn’t like seeing the parents of my friends embrace their daughters after they raced while I kept my mother and father locked up at home. So I took a chance and invited them. When I completed my race and walked off the finish line, the pure expression of pride and raw enthusiasm that marked my parents faces were the best possible thing to see. Their hugs and encouragement made the race ten times better, and being able to walk into my mom’s arms after a particularly straining 5k was the best thing in the world.
3. Eat dessert first. During my first few cross-country potlucks I made the mistake of beelining towards the breads, pastas, and salads the moment I arrived. After sitting down and practically swallowing the delicious carbohydrates whole, I would walk over to the dessert table only to find a single measly, hard, oatmeal-raisin cookie left. Over the course of many potlucks and cross-country dinners, I have learned to head over to the dessert table first thing. This way, I get my choice of chewy brownies, moist cupcakes, and soft, doughy cookies. I stock up on pastas and salads and breads of course, but why not let yourself enjoy the even more delicious things in life too?
4. Encourage as much as possible. There is nothing like hearing your teammates cheer you up the hill as you race your last mile. Their shouts of encouragement somehow propel my legs to move faster and my arms to pump harder. They know what I’m going through, and they know how much I need their support. One time I was running a race for JV, and my friend on varsity jogged beside me for 200 meters, telling me random facts to keep my mind off of the pain of racing. Those 200 meters increased my confidence and energized me to run harder. Success is so much easier to achieve when you have someone cheering you on.
5. It’s never too early to prepare. On the days of our meets, we leave from school early so as to have time to prepare and jog through the course. We get to know it’s twists and turns, it’s bumps and divots, it’s hills and ditches. We memorize each tough spot, and we store the easier parts in our brains for comfort during a race. This type of preparation helps me greatly at each meet. Being aware that a hill is coming up helps me mentally prepare for the suffering to come. It wills my body be stronger and forces my arms to pump harder. During our last meet, it seemed as if the whole course was one big hike up Everest. But my awareness of the tricky terrain helped me make better decisions and pace myself more reasonably. The knowledge of what is to come makes success more easy to grasp. 

A Puppet Without Strings

Soggy leaves covered the damp ground, and I listened to the soft thump of my feet as they hit the cool dirt. The air was crisp, and small spots of sun shone though onto the muddy path. The sky was protected from our view with a thick curtain of red and yellow leaves. When we glimpsed up, it was like staring into a kaleidoscope of fresh autumn colors. It was the last mile of the race. Shallow breaths encircled me, and even without turning I could picture the small beads of sweat trickling down the red faces of my fellow runners. Thump thump, thump thump. The sound of stomping feet drifted through the woods, echoing through the trees in a haunting melody of pain and sweat. I kept my eyes focused on my teammate ahead of me, watching the strain of her muscles as she pounded up the hill. One more mile, I told myself. One more mile and you’ll be done. One more mile and you can go home and drown in Chinese takeout and chocolate chip cookies. Thump thump, thump thump. I surged ahead, the cool autumn breeze caressing my cheek. The tingle of the brisk wind was exhilarating, and my feet trotted along with ease. I felt as if nothing could stop me, nothing could take away the beauty of the race and mangle it into the usual mess of pain that was the last mile. I felt strong and confident, and I could hear the serene whisper of the leaves whispering above my head.

I distinctly remember when it happened. I was finishing the fourth hill of the course when a sharp pain penetrated my side. It was as if a dull knife was trying to tear its way out of my ribs and cut a mangled line through my flesh. I had never had a side ache so painful, especially never in a race. It made the approaching hill look like Everest, and the panting girls around me changed into rabid monsters. Every second the trees became a little blurrier and the ground seemed to shake a little more with each step. My stomach bounced inside my torso and the knife ricocheted about my ribs as I came down the hill and onto the crowded field of onlookers. The tranquility of the lush forest immediately evaporated as I took my first step of the last half mile. Flashing cameras. Bellowing parents. A vuvuzela. Screaming teammates. I looked over my shoulder. Girls clad in sweaty tank tops and running shorts proudly displaying their team names in flashy colors clobbered behind me, mouths open, gasping like a fish drowning in air. The finish line seemed miles away, and I realized with a supreme annoyance in myself that I couldn’t do it. The pain in my side was like the string directing a puppet, and I slowed down to satisfy its needs. I saw a cheering teammate standing under a tree, the cool shade pooling around her feet. I started to pull over; the grass beyond the orange cones suddenly seemed very inviting.

“No!” she shouted. “You have to keep running! You’re almost there!”

But I couldn’t. The constant ache in my side was pushing forwards as if wishing to come out through my mouth. Lovely. I gripped my side in pain and wished that I could be transported to the Chinese leftovers and chocolate chip cookies. I couldn’t do it.

“I have to stop,” I insisted. “I’m going to throw up!”

But she continued to persist. Her short brown hair flopped wildly around her face as she yelled and encouraged, her face wrinkling with passion and her hands moving furiously in the direction of the finish.

“I know you can do this,” she attested. The confidence in her voice shone clearly, and I picked up my feet. I knew than what I had to do. I knew that I had to fight. There were twelve girls ahead of me, so I pumped my arms and kicked my legs. Rounding the hill, I could see the colorful specks that were the finish markers. With each step, I felt stronger. Power surged through my legs, and I felt like flying. The cheering teammates and screaming coaches all disappeared as I drew closer, and I looked down to see the white finish line flashing out underneath my feet. I had done it. The high of the race had faded, and the realization that it was all over came to me in the form of stinging lungs and collapsing legs. My knees shook as the volunteers grabbed my number and I shuffled off out of the shoot. My teammates ran to greet me. I could spot them from a mile away with their flashing green shirts and swinging ponytails. The embrace of sweaty, skinny arms and screams of excitement encircled me.

“You were great!” my teammates cheered.

“You passed her in the last second!” they bellowed.

But I smiled and shrugged past them. There was someone else I had to see. I spotted the short brown hair bobbing against the green of the grass immediately. I saw her megawatt smile as I approached. I felt the warmth of her embrace as she hugged me. And I felt the radiance of her support as she congratulated me. Without her words of encouragement, I would be back at the two-mile mark, panting and gasping with defeat. Her wisdom had carried me the last half mile, my feet floating atop her words of encouragement and my success resting atop her confidence. I grabbed her hand, and with a few other teammates in tow we jumped high in the air, our hands raised to the sky in victory.