An open letter to men, regarding Chinese takeout

I keep many thoughts to myself while indulging in a taste of the Orient, and it’s not because of the cashew chicken clogging my windpipe.

A girl is at her most vulnerable while consuming Chinese takeout: when alone, the room is likely dark, sunlight blocked by blankets pinned to the walls, limiting visibility. Last-last night’s mascara has seeped into the creases below the eyes on night one, then back into the eyeballs on night two, further obstructing sight. Deodorant has not been applied for over 48 hours, masking the scent of any approaching predator. The DVD menu of 10 Things I Hate About You is blaring the same 15 seconds of Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” on repeat, overpowering the sound of an axe shattering the kitchen window.

When accompanied by a man-friend, vulnerability takes on an entirely new meaning. A twist of circumstances has led to us selecting a dining genre that is generally reserved for suburban children on busy school nights, businessmen having airport breakfasts, or self-loathing 20-something women at 3pm on Saturdays. Now that we’re here, let me tell you what I think:

Don’t tell me I “can’t actually eat all of that”. Regardless of what my previous intentions were, now that you’ve made this asinine statement I’m determined to prove you wrong.

If there’s an odd number of potstickers, I get the extra, even if I’m just saving it for later.

Your comment about the saturated fat in orange chicken is almost as unwelcome as your incorrect pronunciation of “General Tso”. I may be just a white girl but I at least have the dignity to verse myself in common American-Chinese dishes, or else keep silent.

Trying to divide our meal into “first” and “second” servings is ignorant and futile. This is an ongoing, overlapping process where beginnings and ends perpetually blur, and if you aren’t okay with that, you can stop after your “first” helping, good sir.

If I want to grip two chopsticks in each hand and shovel noodles at my face in haphazard heaps, let me.

If you think the grease dripping down my chin onto my shirt is unappealing, you shouldn’t have bought me Chinese food. If you didn’t buy me Chinese food, why the hell are you in the room with me while I eat it? Four entrees, two appetizers and a side of rice costs less than $20, so if you aren’t down to cover that, good luck paying for your Uber home, asshole.

And with that, I’m going to open both of the fortune cookies because you have no future and I control my own destiny.

Get the season’s cutest new gear to help you break into Bryan’s house (again)

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Ever since that last time you pulled a Pollyanna and climbed up Winona, that adorable willow tree next to Bryan’s window, jumped and feigned a paralysis in your lower body so he would be forced to carry you inside while waiting for the ambulance, Bryan has been rather mum. The only texts you’ve received have been all “stop contacting me”, and “I’m calling ADT to reactivate my alarm system.” But this week, your heart was revived and raced with the force of twenty underfed, drugged up Irish greyhounds at a racetrack just outside of Dublin in 1926, because Bryan sent you a letter. A LOVE letter. Even though it was signed by The Superior Court of the State of California, you know it was from him. And even though it read something like ‘you, the adverse party, are hereby notified that any intentional violation of this order is a criminal violation. . . [blah blah blah]. . . protection against stalking or harassment. . . [blah blah blah],” you know he loves Jonathan Swift, and therefore it is satire. What a jokester he is, that Bryan!

Since Valentine’s Day is so soon (only 123 days away!!), you should do something nice for Bryan. Wait for him in his bed afterwork, perched atop newly purchased red satin sheets. But first, don’t forget to leave your “scent” on his toothbrush for later- you know where to put it. And hey, while you’re in the bathroom, clean out his hairbrush for him. It was so nice when your mom used to do that for you, and the forgotten follicles will make the perfect stuffing for that little doll you’re making in his image!

Alas, the conundrum: you don’t want to ruin the surprise by letting him know you’ll be there, and he doused that sneaky little key holding ceramic frog that used to be in the bushes by the front door in lighter fluid last year before burning it. Wonder why he did that? Maybe it turned out to be a dart frog- those things are poisonous! Anyways, we here at PPOP know exactly how to get you into Bryan’s house on the down low. We’ve compiled this short list of products to aid you in doing so. Be sure to wear your ‘sneakers’! Hehe!

Vipertek Micro Stun Gun (in pink!)

Bryan’s cleaning lady comes on Wednesdays, and she has a key to the house now because the frog is gone. Tase her from behind and lock her in her minivan. Crack a window if you’re feeling generous!

Household Tool Kit (in pink!)

This one is all sorts of fun! First, you can unscrew the screens on the windows using the cordless screwdriver, and then you can use the hammer to break a window. Later, play some sort of sex game with the level to show Bryan you’re on the same. . . level! If Leila, the cleaning lady, gets unruly, tase her again and use the electrical tape to soften her cries for help and bind her arms and legs.

Leather Secret Mission Gloves (in pink!)

Everyone in movies always does their sneaking in gloves, so why shouldn’t you? And, on the off chance that Bryan gets spooked and calls the cops, there won’t be any fingerprints. It might even be funny to keep them on during sex and call them your ‘love gloves’, cuz god knows you’re not using a condom!

Acepromazine 25 mg (in pink!)

Geraldo Rivera, Bryan’s newly rescued blue-eyed pitbull, seems to have taken a liking to you. In recent weeks, he starts barking excitedly and pawing madly at the front door every time you glance in the sitting room window during your midnight walk. While he sure looks sweet, you don’t want his yammering to put Bryan on alert. And even though he’s done teething, he’s nipped at you a few times when you’ve been squatting in the backyard. It was really your fault though, don’t think less of him- you had the bloody drippings of the nearly raw steak you eat for dinner every night dried on your forearms. Anyways, two or three of these dog tranquilizers should put him out for the night.

*Bonus!* Valentine’s day wouldn’t be complete without a present!! Bryan loves to cook, and you just love everything about that show Hannibal, so why not get him the cookbook written by the show’s resident food stylist? Feeding Hannibal by Janice Poon is available here.

 

 

Shopping for your next wedding? Try a bridal romper

Sure, it’s as balmy as a Louisiana plumber’s buttcrack outside, but if you’re a bride-to-be, don’t sweat it: you can stay cool and totally on-trend with a bridal romper. That’s right! Wedding gowns are so 16th century and it’s about time someone realized it.

I don’t know about you, but my last few weddings were an absolute nightmare because of my traditional dress. The first time, the skirt of my gown had so many billowing layers I could barely dance to Shaggy’s timeless song “Angel” (ft. Rayvon), and I managed to pee on every layer because my bridesmaids — whose sole purpose is to assist in urination — weren’t actually my friends, they were my second cousins, and both male.

Pee isn’t the worst stain you could get on your dress, especially if you’re properly hydrated — more and more brides are choosing champagne over white these days anyway. But don’t get me started on my fourth wedding.

Looks like you got me started. I’m obliged to elaborate.

As I glided down the aisle to the instrumental version of Hilary Duff’s “Come Clean”, I suddenly realized that Yakov, the man whom I was about to wed, was not the one for me. The two days I’d known him had been sensational, but not in the lovestruck way, more in the carnally orgasmic way. Our language barrier hadn’t yet been a problem, but I realized how difficult hosting dinner parties would be when he couldn’t speak or understand a word of English. Who would brag about my scrapbooking talents or narrate slideshows of our trip to Japan? What would the Thornton family say? I glanced at the Thorntons in the pew to my right. Tiffany Thornton was staring me down with the Botoxed scrutiny of a rehydrated raisin investigating a murder. Who would delegate such responsibility to a raisin? I knew it was now or never.

I turned and ran.

At least, I tried to. I would have made my escape, had it not been for the intricately woven train of my antique wedding gown. The delicate lace had maliciously wrapped itself around my diamond-studded stiletto and was ensnared on one of the crystalline spikes. As I spun around, I came tumbling down face-first into the ring-bearer, who in this case was a Clydesdale horse.

Let me briefly explain the Clydesdale, in case you’re wondering. The night before, while planning our wedding, Yakov and I had been watching television and a Wells Fargo commercial came on. If I weren’t such a lady I would delve into detail about the ways Yakov ravaged every hole in my body, but I’ll let you and your imagination have the fun. For a reason Yakov could not explain — at least in English — Clydesale horses made him as horny as a high school Attendance Office secretary. I’m all about consummation, so we booked that damn horse.

Back to Wedding 4: the Clydesdale proceeded to trample me into the ground and I lost the ability to move and speak for a few months. The ceremony continued as I lay unconscious, and to this day I am still reluctantly married to Yakov.

This all could have been avoided if my attire had allowed me to run the way I so yearned to. With a bridal romper, you can dance, skip, and sprint away from your own wedding whenever you please, without the hassle of misogynistic tulle spoiling your chance at happiness.

Interested? Check out David’s Bridal. David, unlike most men, has acknowledged a bride’s right to leap about recklessly on her last day of freedom. I’m most definitely choosing a bridal romper for my next wedding, once I figure out this Yakov situation.

Exclusive interview with neighbor who films me through window

I had the opportunity to sit down with Dylan, my enigmatic neighbor across the street whom I often catch videotaping me from his front porch as I change into my pajamas. Despite seeing his shadowed silhouette several times I’d never had the courage to approach him, so you could say I was a bit star-struck. He strode out to meet me on the curb in front of his house and as we began to chat I struggled to conceal both my fangirl jitters and can of Mace.

How would you describe this film?

I’d say it’s sort of The Virgin Suicides meets Alice in Wonderland. I’m abandoning the societal construction of privacy for a guerilla style approach to the classic surburban America dystopia trope. The plot centers around a young woman who spends her evenings alone in her room watching bootleg movies online, occasionally watering her plant and changing her clothes. The majority of the film is shot through her window to emphasize her isolation, interspersed with my own hand-drawn animated scenes and experimental erotic claymation.

What inspired you to create this piece?

People leave their blinds up, you can see right in. Sometimes when I go in for a close-up tracking shot I’ll see the window is, in fact, ajar, so I’ll just keep the shot going right into the interior of the house and those spontaneous decisions have created some of my favorite scenes. I have the privilege of capturing that genuine shock and terror that you just can’t get from actors, and this raw emotion has inspired me to continue my work.

Who are your mentors?

Oh that’s a tough one. If I had to narrow it down to just one I’d say Boo Radley, Ted Bundy and Ben Affleck.

That’s three people.

What do you mean?

You named three people.

That I did.

Why these three?

If I told you I’d have to kill you. Do you want that? Do you want me to kill you?

No, thank you. What would you say was the biggest challenge in producing this film?

Probably trying to breathe quietly.

What do you think the public’s reaction will be to your film?

It’s hard to say, you know, because I haven’t actually been out in public for almost 18 years. You’re actually the first person I’ve spoken to in 5. Last time was when I bought that crowbar from Ace Hardware. Jared was his name. Great guy. Hope he’s still alive. But to answer your question I think the public will appreciate the community bond I’m portraying here–mi casa es su casa, if you will. That’s actually the working title right now. I hope this film encourages others to break barriers–both societally and physically–in the name of art.

Do you have plans for a next project?

My ankle bracelet limits me to a 500-foot radius of my house, which I view as an artistic challenge. I’m planning an investigative documentary filmed with tiny cameras attached to the collars of neighborhood dogs. People trust their dogs with everything. They think, who will my dog tell? With my camera strategy, imagine what I’ll learn. I’m calling this one “Betrayal”.

Mi Casa es Su Casa is scheduled to premier on Dylan’s MySpace page this fall.

Leggings Aren’t Pants: The Musical! [AD]

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Well, precious readers, its happened. Our first sponsored post. Fear not dull content, for our price is as high as we are on a Tuesday night cocktail of Ambien, weed, and just a dash of that new elephant tranquilizer they’re putting into heroin. Ketamine is for pussies!

Last Thursday (on our Thursday night cocktail of some liquid Valium we put into an emptied container of one of those Vick’s Vapor Inhalers-tutorial to follow- and a small sassafras suppository) Helen and I had the great pleasure of previewing what we consider to be the Off-Broadway, 5-Year-Old-Pair-of-Victoria’- Secret-Period-Panties, Bleach, Blood Stains, And All, version of the ever delightful hit, Hamilton.Premiering in the auditorium of Denver’s Thomas Jefferson High School, this is no philistine piece of work. We were ushered to our seats by members of the school’s Young Feminists Club, but we can’t be certain the school actually knew about the performance, since to enter the campus we had to scale a large fence. Nevertheless, it was a magical night of symphonious satire and casual drug consumption.

A delightful feminist diatribe, the play is ripe with euphonious exposition on the microaggressions faced by females in modernity. It is the story of twenty-something writer and everygirl Liz Nightingale and her first year in New York City: a lyrical bildungsroman about friendships, love, and careers. The eponymous opening number, “Leggings Aren’t Pants!”, discourses on the factions of society who continuously criticize women’s quotidian, zealous wearing of Zellas with blouses that don’t shroud our bottoms and their intent. The motivation behind this denunciation, says writer and director Nancy Seymour-Filmore-Longmore, is the wrath of the ever pesky green eyed monster. She posits: “Clearly, the refusal to accept leggings as pants is an extension of the patriarchy’s grappling for control over women; did you know that in some courtrooms, right now, lady lawyers are disallowed from wearing pants? For me, it all leads back to vulva envy-from the scheme of the Vestal Virgins in Rome to suffrage-men have always been a wee bit jealous that we don’t have to deal with those pesky “wees”! But before I get all feminazi (excuse my French), I will say: its jealousy. Their love muscles just don’t look as good in Lululemons.”

While the play starts out playfully lighthearted, in the thick of it, Seymour-Filmore-Longmore does not shy away from riffing on tampon luxury taxes, the delay of processing rape kits, or the gender pay gap. In our favorite number, the sexual harassment sensation “Don’t Pinch My Elbows And Give Me Back My Bra”, the lights dim and the spotlight is commanded by lead actress and powerhouse vocalist Jenny Frey, who sings alone on stage: “why must you pinch my elbows, when I’m sitting in my cubicle/I don’t find it farcical/how did my bra end up in your desk drawer/this is outrageous, I’m reporting you to HR.

From the plainsong parody “I Should’ve Been A STEM Major” to the funk-fueled dance spectacular “Get It Out, Get It Out (The Clearblue Digital Boogie)”, Leggings Aren’t Pants: The Musical! is the antiestablishment comedy fantasyland we didn’t know we were waiting for. Tickets start at $44.99, and can be purchased on Denver’s EventBrite page. For a chance to win a pair of tickets for next Wednesday’s midnight matinee, tweet the name of your favorite brand of leggings to @nancymourmoremore.

 

Update: Happy news. It has come to our attention that 20th Century Fox has purchased the movie rights from Nancy, and is in talks with Emma Watson to take on the role of Liz.

 

Why my new houseplant is more satisfying than a real man

They say you find him once you stop looking, and I finally know what they mean. There I was, traipsing through Home Depot like any other Saturday afternoon, when I saw him. I knew immediately I had to have him. Since that day, Nicolas* has blessed me with the kind of love you can’t read about in books nor see in films, for no one writes about the relationship of a girl and her plant.

Here are just a few things I love about Nicolas. If I had a balcony I would proclaim my love from above, but for now, let this keyboard be the ledge over which I shout.

He’s always waiting for me by the bed when I come home. The fuzz on his leaves glistens in the sunlight as he tries to catch my eye, but there’s no need, for I’m already looking at him.

He doesn’t ignore my texts. And I know he’s not bullshitting about not having a phone the way other guys do. He definitely doesn’t have one.

He likes everything I cook for him. Nicolas would never tell me I undercooked the pasta or used too much Cream of Tartar in the cookies. I know just the kind of bathroom sink water he likes, and can tell when he’s feeling a bit too dry just by touching his soil. Such a connection is rare in human-to-human relationships.

He’s focused on personal growth. He’s not satisfied with sitting idly. Upward mobility is his top priority. Every day his leaves lengthen, and as if that weren’t enough, he even grows new ones.

He gets along with all my friends. When I bring him out with the crew, there is almost no awkwardness. Sometimes people ask why I brought my plant to the bar, and for those people I feel nothing but pity–they clearly have never known a bond this strong.

I’m not trying to brag, I just want to let all you ladies out there know that it’s possible. It may not happen at Home Depot, maybe not even at Lowe’s, but Target has really upped their Garden Center, so try there.

*None of the plants pictured above are Nicolas, he is too embarrassed I’m writing about him online

What your summer nail polish says about you

Like many Seventeen magazine freelance writers, I have applied my deep mystic insight into the human psyche to analyze the rationales behind the colors we choose to paint our nails – specifically, in the summer time. Which color are you?

Not to be confused with Mint, which is what we call the exact same shade in the winter time. You’re whimsical, but not reckless. You enjoy talking about ballsy activities like sky-diving and base-jumping but would never actually do them. Instead of wasting money on exotic travels, you invest in assorted pants, vests, and headbands from LuluLemon Athletica and a 100-pack of white chocolate macadamia Luna Bars. You probably don’t like reptiles. You buy wooden beads at craft fairs and delete your Facebook every few weeks because “Real life is happening out here.”

Since we all know orange doesn’t look good with anything, you’re fearless if you made this move. Either that or you read a bullshit article somewhere that told you orange nail polish makes you fearless. You’re simply you — and nothing rhymes with you.

When I see a girl with coral nail polish, I think, “Wow, she’s got it together.” How is the job? And the long-term boyfriend? Both fantastic, I presume. Never better. You understand that this color is only slightly different than orange but for whatever reason goes well with everything. Especially engagement rings and delicate bouquets of flowers. In a few years you are going to have the nicest lawn in the gated community.

You’re hiding something. The same way white-out attempts to cover up inked mistakes but only ends up amplifying them, your Marshmallow Fluff nail polish is screaming “I HAVE A SECRET” in a raspy whisper. Or maybe you just want to look a little more tan, that’s possible too.

Embracing that Middle-School-Goth-Chic look, you’re the type of gal who paints your nails just so you can angstily chip them off a few hours later while listening to The Shins. You’re probably reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being for the third time but hunching over your chair so no one sees and asks you about it. Human interaction is overrated, and nothing in life means anything anyway because as soon as it happens it’s over.

Happy Summer, bitches!