My legs are comparable to that of Chun Li's.

Throughout my adolescence and early teen years, I was overweight. Not morbidly obese, but definitely not skinny like all the kids my age. My mother insisted that I wasn’t fat, I was just “built differently” than those around me.
——–
That worked for a while, but young kids can be cruel, and I was teased for my appearance throughout elementary and middle school- even being coined the undeniably clever nickname “Angelard” (you can laugh, I know, it’s funny) by some of my classmates. It also didn’t help that my twin was teeny tiny growing up, and although we’re fraternal and look nothing alike, people would often compare us: “You’re so much bigger than her!”

While I’ve surely repressed a lot of it, I still have vivid memories of leaving the mall in tears after yet another unsuccessful shopping trip. This can be attributed to the fact that not only was I about 40 pounds overweight, but that there are so few clothing options for young girls who aren’t stick thin (but that’s a whole other conversation). Take my extra spare tire(s), coupled with my braces with rubber bands, and I was one real shit-show of a 13-year-old.

[Sidebar: God, weren't braces awful? I refused to ever wear any color other than clear and I was completely anal about brushing them. And those monthly orthodontist visits when they would tighten them- so so painful. Thank goodness I survived and have straight pearly whites to show for it.]

Now my twin and I are equally buff. OK, Jackie's still a bit buffer.

My decision to lose weight was pretty anti-climactic. It wasn’t some bogus New Years resolution, it wasn’t to get boys to like me, and it wasn’t because my doctor would give me one-sheeters about “making healthy choices” after every physical. I think I woke up one day and decided that my life would be a lot easier if I just went to the gym a few times a week, and then I did. Despite popular belief, it’s actually much easier to bust ass at the gym for an hour a day than it is to sit around wishing you had the willpower to bust ass at the gym for an hour a day. So, much like every other life decision I have made, the one to lose weight was based on sheer laziness.

I’ve been an active gym goer since my freshman year of high school. Despite a few days off here and there, or one-off weeks where I was too sick or tired to get my shit together and go, I’ve basically been working out the entire time. Interestingly enough, this almost correlates perfectly with the timeline of my pot-smoking. And even though it’s been years since I lost the bulk of my weight, it’s funny how I’ll never think of myself as skinny.

It honestly feels like yesterday when I couldn’t find a pair of jeans to save my life, or when dress shopping was a nightmare. I still get surprised when I’m able to walk into an American Eagle and have the first pair of pants I try on fit me, and I’m still filled with insecurity if a boy doesn’t like me: “He must think I’m fat and ugly.” What’s funny is that even as I type this I’m thinking to myself that the only reason the AE pants fit is because their sizes run big, not because I’m in shape.

But the whole point and inspiration behind this story came last night after my workout. I was doing circuit training, and successfully pushed myself to complete an hour of pushups and situps and lunges and squats. As I stripped down to my bare essentials and hopped in the shower, I congratulated myself on a job well done: Keep it up and you can finally lose those last five pounds and be the skinny girl you’ve always wanted to be!

New York Sports Club- the bane of my existence.

I don’t know if it was the water pressure (which is amazing) or my new loofah (also amazing), but immediately after thinking the aforementioned thoughts I realized that I’ve been saying the same thing to myself for the last 10 years. And guess what? I still haven’t lost it. Am I more toned? Sure! Will I always strive to be in better shape? Absolutely! But something tells me that when I’m 50 years old, I’ll probably be standing under a shower somewhere post-workout, thinking that if I just did XY and Z I would finally rid myself of those last five pounds.

The reality is that I am who I am, and my body is what it is. I’ll never have six-pack abs, but at least my legs are super bad-ass. And while I’m sure tomorrow I’ll end up back at the gym under the same guise that if I just push myself a little harder I can look better naked, in the end I’ll always be an (in shape!) late-night-Thai-food-eating stoner. And I think I’m OK with that.

Husband and wife, mother and father, and now Buntology film critics? Check out the first installment of Rod and Rochelle’s latest feature, in which they watch and review obscure Netflix movies so you don’t have to.

He's a little bit country.

Rochelle: Rod and I have very different tastes in movies. He’s more the action, kill, lots of noise and aliens type, and I like suspense, mystery and romance. My favorite movie is Bridges of Madison County (a moment of silence please…) while his is Live Free or Die Hard. However, we both agree that Pulp Fiction is an all-time favorite and I think he shed a “manly tear” over Marley and Me.

Rod: Yes, Pulp Fiction appeals to a wide cross-section of people. Besides, the Gimp reminds me of my Mother-in-Law Goldie.

She's a little bit rock n' roll.

Rochelle: Thanks to modern technology, and having more desktop and laptop computers than people currently living at Buntington Manor, these days we can be side-by-side each viewing whatever we like. Despite this, we do actually enjoy interacting and sharing the experience of watching a good flick together- I think that’s why we chose to be a couple. So, we devised a plan by which we pick a movie off Netflix streaming that piques both of our interests and give it the “15 minute test.”

The deal is that the movie has 15 minutes to captivate us enough to stay with it. Sometimes I like it and Rod doesn’t or vice versa and in that case we put it in the queue for a later date when we can watch it alone. (Rod: Noticing more and more lesbian-themed movies in the Rochelle queue. What’s up with that?)

The movie only stays on if we both agree that it’s a keeper.  We have found that independent movies are the best options. Even the bad ones are interesting. They rarely have large budgets so I always wonder why the big name star is doing the movie. Was he/she a friend of the director or was it a case of being totally blown away by the script? This was the case recently with the movie, What Just Happened, starring Robert DeNiro, Bruce Willis, Catherine Keener and Robin Wright Penn – to name a few.

What Just Happened (2008)

Rod: When I see De Niro’s name on the credits, I figure it’s going to be great or painful, with no in-between. Remember his performance as Al Capone in the Untouchables? Mmm, yeah. Or how about when he was Stanley Cox, in Stanley and Iris? …… Exactly.

Rochelle: This is an independent film made in 2008 and based on a novel. It’s a comedy that’s described as “witty” by Netflix. That means it’s not “stupid” funny aka Jackass movies.

Rod: There’s nothing wittier than a naked man getting tased!

Rochelle: It’s 104 minutes long which is perfect. Don’t you hate when a movie steals too much of your evening?

We gave this movie 20 minutes because we were wishy-washy at 15. So, did What Just Happened pass the test?

Indeed it did!

The film satisfied both of our tastes. We watched the whole movie and discussed it Bunty style afterward, aka argued its merits and flaws for an hour.

Do I look like somebody who should be in the work force?

Last week, the company I work for held an annual meeting to discuss our health insurance policies. After half-listening to the rep from the insurance company, I scanned the paperwork outlining the coverage and tossed it to the side of my desk. “It’s all Greek to me!” I announced to my coworkers, most of whom are older than me, who looked at me with a unique mixture of sympathy and disgust.
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The truth is, the only thing that I understand about my health insurance is that I have it, and that my co-pay is twenty dollars. Don’t even get me started on 401ks, life insurance policies and stock options. Seriously, I think I’ve had colleagues try to explain stock options to me about 40 times, and I still have no clue what they mean or what they do. Vesting? What’s vesting? Like, a tunic? I remember my first day of work when I had to fill out my W2. I sat at my desk rattling my brain, “do I put a 0 or a 1?!” until I caved and ran to a supply closet to call my mom and ask.

Out of all the useless classes I was made to take in my many years of schooling, you’d think that one of them might have covered stuff like this. I knew for a FACT that my freshman year 8:15 a.m. astronomy class was completely pointless (which is why I skipped it 10+ times), but would have so appreciated a class on filing taxes and the most efficient way to defer your student loans.

What I propose is a kind of post-grad practice run: A year long program in which you’re placed in an apartment with your friends, and you all have jobs, bills and other adult responsibilities like dusting or making doctors appointments. Except the job would be more of an internship, and the bills would just be wrapped up in loan that you’d take out with whoever was organizing this whole thing. And sometimes you’d be allowed to sleep in during the week. Hmm, I guess I just described my senior year of college, except I definitely never dusted or went to the doctor. Well, except for the pregnancy scare that one time. Man, I miss those days.

When they told me my stock options would vest, I don't think this is what they had in mind.

The only type of education I had that came close to something like this was in 5th grade. Our teacher (shout out to Mrs. LaRocca!) devoted a whole quarter of that year to the life of a fictional character named Archibald Gugenslaut. We learned how to balance Archibald’s imaginary checkbook, write Archibald’s imaginary checks, and budget Archibald’s imaginary income. Don’t ask me how to reduce a fraction, or where Czechoslovakia is on a map, but I’m reeeaally good at writing checks- and do it quite frequently!

Honestly, I’m just banking on the fact that I’ll grow up to be rich and wildly successful one day, and can hire somebody to worry about all this stuff for me. Or, the more likely option, that  I actually won’t die barren and alone, and will be forced to understand my health insurance and stock options for the sake of my family. I guess I’m OK with that, as long as there’s still no dusting involved.

1. Tube of Mentos

2. Four single rolls of toilet paper
My favorite part about this is that three out of four rolls are one brand, and the fourth is just some straggler. What do they all have in common? Most likely going to chafe my vagina.

3. Can of water chestnuts
Fucking love these things.

4. Box of instant rice, two boxes of pasta- all wheat
It’s like somebody with a gluten allergy’s worst nightmare. Because I get paid biweekly, for a week I live like a queen and for a week I live like a pauper. On weeks like the latter, I don’t eat for pleasure- I eat to fuel my body. The result? Sailor food aka tuna and some type of starch. This stuff will last me for weeks- holler!

5. Ajax
For when I run out of money for weed and booze, I can drink this and get a cheap buzz. Oh wait—this is for cleaning. Right, right, cleaning…

6. Can of olives, can of chickpeas
My mom is a vegetarian so my house is always overrun with legumes. Betcha these chickpeas will be gone by tonight (because I’ll devour them because they are DELICIOUS). Keep your eyes peeled for the inevitable picture of me wearing these olives like little caps on my finger-tips.

7. Bag of tampons
Ewww, tampons.

8. Bag of ibuprofen fashioned together with a pipe-cleaner
Can never have enough ibuprofen! Also, can use the plastic baggy for drug storage and can use the pipe-cleaner to de-clog my paraphernalia.

9. Plastic bags
To hold over my head during crowded subway rides. Just take a few deep breaths and it’ll be over soon.

Today’s edition is dedicated to the 4/5/6 subway line, which has made me late to work with its delays all goddamn week.

I’d legitimately lay in bed at night and worry that- without a license, money and friends that liked the same music as me- I’d never be able to see any of the bands I loved, and would lead a miserable unfulfilled life.

Well, that didn’t happen, and in the last 12 years I’ve gone to more concerts than I can even remember. And since my move to New York City over a year ago, my average is at an all-time high.

With hundreds of shows under my 24-year-old belt, I’ve seen a lot of good and I’ve seen a lot of bad. Read on to find out how you can avoid falling into the latter category…

1. Put your hair in a ponytail
I’m mostly talking to you, ladies, but my long-locked men are not exempt. Keep in mind that this rule does not refer to a large venue, like an amphitheater or arena. But if I had a quarter for every sweaty-ass (literally, my ass was sweating) basement or club show I’ve been to where some chick’s disgusting hair was sticking to my face while I was trying to get my skank on, I would be rich. And then I’d use that money to buy a hair-tie for whichever 16-year-old girl was standing in front of me, more concerned with style than function. Little does she know I’m chewing on her split ends. I was at a Big D and the Kids Table show once- the epitome of said sweaty-ass skankfest- and actually went so far as to politely ask the girl in front of me if she’d mind putting her hair up “because it keeps getting in my mouth,” annnddd she said no. Didn’t matter much because I eventually wiggled my way past her and onto the stage, but STILL! Rude.

Unofficial rule of concert-going: Don't get freaked out if this happens to your legs and feet.

2. Don’t get mad that I’m standing in front of you
I get it: You’ve been waiting here for hours and this is your favorite band and you haven’t seen them since 1996 when they played their final show at Radio City Music Hall and you’ve been holding in your pee for six hours. And I respect that. But this is a concert, and I like the band too, so don’t get so pissy when I move past you. (*Note: Exception to this rule is couples, as explained in #4.) I was at a Primus show recently, making my way closer to the front, when I heard an annoyed girl say to her friend, “why is everybody cutting us?” I’m sorry- I didn’t realize general admission actually meant assigned seating! Of course, you can’t always get to the front, and yes it’s dick to try and wiggle somebody away from the guard rail, but you better believe I’m always going to try.

3. Keep the PDA to a minimum
“You were making out during Schindler’s List?!” OK, not quite the same thing as making out during a concert, but there’s nothing more irritating than the couple that just won’t keep their paws off of each other. I get freaked out by PDA normally (re: jealousy), and I cannot STAND when a couple is taking up 2X their allotted personal space because the dude is standing behind the girl with his arms around her, cooing the most poignant part of the song into her ear. On the flip-side, I love watching the same scenario play out but with a girl who isn’t into the music and is getting pushed around way more than she’s comfortable with. You kind of see the fear and annoyance growing in her eyes, and you know it’s only a matter of time before the couple peaces out and you can swoop into their spot.

Here I am following all of the rules - standing in the front with my hair in a bun, clearly not worried about being image-conscious.

4. Don’t wear the t-shirt of the band you’re going to see
This is an age old rule of concert-going, with the theory being that if you’re going to see the band you’re obviously a fan and thus no need to display it on a t-shirt. I agree it’s slightly dorky, but A. It’s totally annoying to have to carry your merch around for the whole show (and you know you’re not going to feel like buying it once the concert is over) and B. I’d much prefer a concert filled with people unconcerned with what they’re wearing and more concerned with the music they’re seeing. Which brings me to my next point…

5. Don’t be a dick.
Even the most amazing concert will be ruined by a shitty audience. This is best exemplified at indie shows often crawling with alleged “hipsters.” Such people, writhing with the desire to fit in and look cool, will go so far as to project their feelings of insecurity onto you by being cold and unfriendly. And that’s no fun. I’ve seriously been to concerts where absolutely nobody was dancing because every person was waiting for somebody else to do it first- although I wonder how you can even dance in all that weird trendy shit. Worse than hipsters, though, are people who are just plain rude. You’re at a concert: Lighten up, get drunk and have a good time. Unless you’re at Nickelback, then kill yourself.

Ridin' dirty on the Megabus. Who the hell is this guy, anyway?

I sat down, put my headphones on and closed my eyes, hoping to only open them again once we had reached our destination.

Over three hours passed until I finally awoke. After ripping myself out of sleep paralysis- the kind where you’re cognizant of the fact that you’re drooling, but can’t seem to keep your mouth from hanging open- I realized that we were stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.

This was around the same time that the bus, now almost two hours delayed, came to a shuddering halt in the middle of the highway. Lights, engine, electricity, all completely shut off. After this happened not once, not twice, but three times with absolutely no explanation from the driver, I couldn’t help but wonder for the umpteenth time: Whose hands am I putting my life in right now?

This is not an article to bash the Megabus; I shell out at least 100 dollars a month to ride the damn thing. And despite the many horror stories I’ve heard, my experiences have generally been pretty OK.

But sometimes, like when the driver has a confrontation with a passenger outside the bus that delays the trip by 20 minutes, or when the female bus driver does a feverish headcount and reveals to us that she left somebody behind at the rest stop, you can’t help but ask yourself who these people are that you’re entrusting with your safety and well-being.

In the last year I have probably ridden the Megabus two weekends out of the month on average. That’s 48 Megabus rides, which equates to about 170 hours. If I’ve done my math correctly, and I probably haven’t, that’s 10,200 minutes of my life that I will never get back. [Editor's note: Since this article was first written +/- 20 more hours.]

Google image searched "megabus" and found way too many pictures of it engulfed in flames.

In those 170 hours I’ve learned a lot about the Megabus, those that ride it, and those that drive it.

I’ve learned that the bumpiest bus ride is always the one leaving from South Station to Penn Station. I’ve learned that Tim, the New York City to Albany driver, was born and raised in Brooklyn, and has a self-described road rage problem, but judging by the way he hams it up on the intercom one might think he was just another failed actor in the city hoping to get discovered for his bus-driving comedy routine. (Too bad all the bigwigs are riding Amtrak.) I’ve learned that the best way to make friends on the bus is to sit at the family-style tables in the front, and the worst way to make friends is by laying across the low-rider seats in the back with your eyes closed and your feet dangling off the edge and into the aisle.

But for every one of my Megabus learnings, it seems I am also left with more questions. Most of which happen while I’m slipping in an out of consciousness on another 4.5 hour trip from Boston back to NYC. Some of these include:

-Has anybody ever paid just a dollar?
-Who the fuck is that dude in the plastic train conductor hat? WHO IS HE?!
-I wonder what would happen if I just lit up a joint right now?
-I really want to pee, but if I get up and try to walk down the stairs to the bathroom while the bus is in motion, I’ll definitely fall and crack my skull.
-Why are we stopping!??!
-I wonder if sitting at the bottom of the double-decker bus will help or hurt my chances of surviving when we inevitably crash.
-The bus is full, you are not going to be able to sit next to each other- get over it. Now sit down and shut up and get off your cell phone before I stab you to death.

I have also witnessed not one, but TWO fights on the Megabus. And not between drivers- between a driver and a passenger: Exhibit A, Exhibit B.

The Megabus also provides riders with an informational video narrated by a pretty, shit-eating grinned blonde woman, who tells passengers to: “Please keep talking, cell phone use and laughter to a minimum.” Laughter? I can’t think of anything that happens on a Megabus that would be funny enough where I’d actually put the work into making a noise audible to any other human. Except sometimes (see pic to the left).

Now that I think about it, I’m actually confusing the Megabus video lady with the Delta video lady. You know, the one who wildly grins as she tells you how to correctly put on your oxygen mask in case of sudden pressure drops in the cabin, and that “most” seats cushions can be used as flotation devices. Most?!

Ironically, the only real near-death experience I’ve had on a bus didn’t even happen on a Megabus. It happened on the Worldwide Bus, a relatively new line that takes you from NYC to Newton, Mass., and even gives you a complimentary bottle of water. Don’t know whose bright idea it was to design a bus with a stick-shift, cause from the moment the engine revved and the bus-driver made his way out of the crowded city, we started stalling out. Up an incline on the Upper West Side stuck in traffic at a red light, and all the way down the Henry Hudson Parkway – stall stall stall.

As I chugged my free water (if I’m going to die in a bus accident at least I can die hydrated!) and forced myself to fall asleep, I couldn’t help but long for the strangely comforting – albeit hostile – Megabus ride.

Hey, at least it has seat-belts.

Seen here are three vogue-ing goats. Hmm, "The Vogue-ing Goats" would be a cool name for a punk rock or ska band.	Since Uncle Pete's sex offender charge, he spends most of his time working at Whitney's Farm in the pig barn. Come to think of it, he does spend an awful lot of time in there...
Maddd pumpkins, shorty.	I hollowed out the pumpkin and my friend did all of the carving. I'm a lefty, I don't trust myself with that sh*t.
The result? A snaggle-toothed, cross-eyed pumpkin. Still pretty hawt, though.	SpOooOoOooOky!

Happy Halloween from your friends at Buntology!