Why you ask? Well, apparently Sallie Mae wants to start charging me $600 a month for my student loans, and after a long, confusing and extremely unhelpful phone call with a woman who ultimately “transferred me to another department” but actually just hung up on me, I cannot defer it. Really? Even if I don’t have a job? Because I like, don’t have a job. Isn’t there some rule that if you are collecting unemployment you shouldn’t have to pay student loans, because in a way the system kind of failed you?

This is just one of the million Sallie Mae sob stories that I’ve heard from my generation. So many of my friends went to school, took out loans, and now are stuck trying to pay off massive debts in a shitty economy with hardly any jobs. How are we supposed to pay these things off?! This is just another reason why there is no “middle class” left in America. The population is now divided into “people that don’t have student loan debt” and “people that have student loan debt.” The country tells us that if we put in the work, get a college degree, we can get a job that will ultimately allow us to pay said debts off and will have made the experience worth it. But the country didn’t hold up its end of the bargain, and instead of graduating and working toward a real career that you care about, my generation is forced to work to pay loans. Right out of the graduation gate we are at a disadvantage, which just allows those who have no debts to flourish, creating an even wider gap in our class system.

I just want Oprah to give me a car so I can sell it and pay off my student loan debt.

I did everything right: I went to school, didn’t get arrested, got a college degree, pay my rent. I even moved from Manhattan to Queens! I fulfilled my end of the bargain, and now the country is supposed to fulfill theirs. But instead, I’m stuck with thousands of overwhelming dollars of debt, no job, and am forced to torrent episodes of Mad Men because I can’t even afford cable.

The folks working the customer service line at Sallie Mae are consistently rude and unhelpful. That is, if you can understand them. Half of the time their accents are so thick I have no clue what they’re saying, and they don’t seem to have a clue what I’m saying. And before you get all “DAS RACIST!” on me, I could care less if somebody has a thick Middle-Eastern accent, but only when they aren’t making massive decisions about my financial future. Nothing personal, “Joe Brown” (something tells me that’s not your birth name), but I have no idea what you are talking about. Of course, even if somebody doesn’t have an accent that still doesn’t mean I have a clue what they’re saying. When I called yesterday the woman was using terms I didn’t understand, had no clue. Was there a glossary or manual that I missed when filling out these loans? Was there required reading? Of course, my confusion only leads to frustration, and instead of gently explaining it to me on the phone as a good customer service agent would do, the lady gets equally frustrated and bitchy.

So what is one to do when they literally cannot pay their student loans? Well, I turned to the Sallie Mae FAQ section to find out:

You’d think they’d want to make it easy to set up a low monthly payment plan, because like the bloodsucking credit card companies they want to collect interest off you for life. But instead, due to some “terms” aka what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about-lady, they force you to pay each loan off in massive, insurmountable chunks.

So as it stands right now I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t have the money to pay $600 a month in student loans, and even if I did it would still take *looks down at watch* 500 years for me to pay them off. And as much as my parents wish they could, they can’t either. Maybe a relative will croak this year but even then I suspect that in my uncle’s will he’s donated all of his liquid assets to the German Shepard Foundation. My only hope is to keep buying these dollar scratch tickets, cashing them in with my dollar winnings, and eventually I will hit it big.

In summation: Fuck you Sallie Mae, fuck your rude and consistently unhelpful customer service team, and fuck this loan. I’m not paying this bill. Fuck you.

As any good Astorian knows, Sanfords is the go to spot for those roll-out-of-bed-Sundays when you’re still a little drunk and wanting to shirk your responsibilities for the afternoon, so we knew there’d be a long wait.  Keep in mind, the only time of day these dudes will not accept reservations is for their 10am-4pm brunch slot (which seems weird because it’s like, when else would you need to make a rezzie there). Nevertheless, our solution to the 35-40 minute wait was to grab boozy breakfast drinks next door at Broadway Station, a bar that’s desperately trying to steal customers from Sanfords with their $15 brunch/bottomless drink special. While the food kind of blows, the bloody marys were exquisite.

TILLY: The bar staff at Broadway Station weren’t very attentive, though. I feel like they know the only customers they get on a weekend are the Sanfords wait list so they take their sweet ass time getting you your check so you miss your name being called and resign to eating a shitty meal at their establishment. I see right through you, you poaching cockknobbers!

COLIN: It’s hard to follow the word “cockknobbers,” but insert gay joke here. So it does feel a bit like Sanfords has the market cornered on Brunch Places in Astoria That Make You Wait Outside Like a Common Manhattanite. And Broadway Station is like one of those little fish that swim alongside sharks eating the scraps they leave behind. Which I guess makes us krill. But determined krill. We were not going to end up at the Halal Chinese place down the street, having moo goo gai pan and grape soda for brunch. So we worked the system, and the system worked! Broadway Station is definitely no competition in any respect to Sanfords, but you can either dawdle outside of Chirping Chicken under the rapey gaze of the grill cook, or you can knock back a couple cloudy mimosas in a snoozy sports bar till it’s time to eat.

ANGELA: By the time we got seated at Sanfords, Colin and I were already two drinks deep each, while Tilly – the apparent non-lush of the group –  had only drank one. Luckily, I decided to switch to screwdrivers once we started eating because with this GERD I can only handle 1-2 bloodies before my esophagus starts going all “Black Swan” on me. Oh, I say “lucky” because the bloodies at Sanfords were pretty fucking gnarly and straight from a mix.

TILLY: Now I feel like I need to defend my lush-iousness. We had a big night the night before, I may have still been drunk at brunch. I was drinking mimosas, the brunch drink of self-proclaimed fancy pants everywhere. You really can’t go wrong with that choice unless someone is using Sunny D instead of OranGINA (anyone else giggle like a 6-year-old when they see that bottle?)

COLIN: I’ll tell you the same thing I told my therapist: I can’t explain my drinking, I can barely remember it.

ANGELA: While the menu is chock full o’ deliciousness – the bistro burger, the french toast panini, the award-winning bbq pulled pork – I tried something new that day: crab cake eggs benedict  The regular is super tasty, and I know Tilly is a fan of the florentine. The verdict? Amazeballs.

TILLY: I had the eggs florentine. As God is my witness I will eat eggs florentine in every establishment across this great city until the perfect plate is found. Like the Highlander: there can be only one. Well now that I am on a Highlander roll how good is this song?! Sidenote: the eggs florentine at Sanfords is pretty good. It doesn’t come on an english muffin unless you ask… and who does anything with hollandaise on wheat toast? BURN THE WITCH!

COLIN: I pulled an Ange and stretched at the table a lot got a Cobb salad. Every once in a while, I want to feel like I’m actually still doing this Paleo diet, and not just upping my fat intake without any other real modification. Summer’s coming, mama!

ANGELA: As the brunch went on, we all became increasingly drunker and I think the chatter turned into a conversation about young adult horror novels. I pulled the name “Christopher Pike” from the innards of my brain, and from there it’s all kind of a blur.

TILLY: That was a great convo. I could totally go for some R.L. Stine on my subway commute.

COLIN : I had easily hundreds of early-90s YA horror novels in my life as a kid. I think R.L. Stine set me up for disappointment when it came to high school boys. They always looked so dashing on the cover, and were always described as having “sandy hair” and wearing “madras shirts.” They drove Jeep Wranglers, they were emotionally available, they probably had forearms you could pitch a tent on. Other than the fact that they were occasionally ghosts, these guys were catch of the day, every day.

ANGELA: As with any good Sunday brunch, you start the day with the notion that you’re going to eat a good meal, have a drink or two, and then come home and “get shit done.” And, much like our fateful trip to the Film Center Cafe, I instead got home and passed the fuck out for three hours. Truly a sign of a successful meal.

TILLY: I’m jealous that both of you got to nap. I had to go into the city to drop off something for a friend and got talked into more drinking. Then I went to the supermarket… drunk… and $150 later – ugh.

COLIN: I guess that’s what a diabetic coma feels like. And if that’s the case, sign me up, Wilford Brimley! I slept like a dead man. This, of course, is par for the course with brunch, and the part when I usually ask myself, “Why did we do that? What a waste of a day,” but with company like this, I mostly just felt content. I also appreciated how little dancing there was in the presence of eggs (RIP Film Center Cafe, you sloppy bitch).

ANGELA: Even though they have a B health rating in their window, even though this guy hates them, and even though sometimes the line is kind of long, I love Sanfords and will continue to go here for brunch as much as my wallet allows (hint: not very frequently). The food is good, the service is great, and I like an excuse to get drunk on a Sunday as much as the next gal.

Sanfords Restaurant
30-13 Broadway
Astoria, NY, 11106
“Best bang-for-your-buck brunch in Astoria, and quite possibly the tastiest.”

Get your perfectly crimped hair out of here, Taylor.

Remember when people really liked Taylor Swift?
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Back in 2006, when she first burst onto the music scene with her hit single “Our Song,” fans instantly connected to her honest lyrics and down-to-earth personality. Girls wanted to be her best friend and guys wanted to bring her home to mom. She even beat out Beyonce for Best Female Video at the 2009 VMAs (much to the chagrin of Kanye West). And then she got, ummmm, kind of annoying. From her bushels of boyfriends to her Amy Poehler / Tina Fey diss, let’s review the gory details of Taylor Swift’s downfall.
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5. Codependent as fuck
The first and most obvious problem that Taylor Swift is wicked codependent, and she won’t STFU about it. I’m all for using writing as therapy, but this girl is taking it to the extreme. I don’t remember at what point in her career the whole “date a guy – break up – write about it” thing started, so I took to the Internet for the answer. What I found was a plethora of infographics and timelines all devoted to this particular topic. (People fucking love infographics.) In fact, there’s even a “Swiftipedia” page which not only tells me about all of her exes, but what songs were written about each. None of the relationships (Joe Jonas, Taylor Lautner, John Mayer, Jake Gyllenhaal, Conor Kennedy) lasted more than a year. In fact, none of them lasted more than three months. In New York City we don’t call that a boyfriend, we call that the average cycle of an OKCupid relationship.

Perhaps the most intriguing of the bunch is Jake Gyllenhaal. Apparently, based on this thoroughly fact-checked Taylor Swift wiki page, he spent $160,000 to have her flown over (over where?) on a private jet for a date, and then later broke up with her through text. Classy move, Homer Hickam. If you’re interested in hearing any more nitty gritty details about that relationship, just listen to her entire “Red” album on repeat. So, she dates a guy for literally two months, and then writes a whole record about him? Tay Tay, you’re fucked.

5A. She dumped Taylor Lautner for John Mayer. So, she dumped a werewolf for a Tim Burton character.

I can’t be the only one who sees the resemblance.

4. She used to empower girls, now she makes them feel jealous
Remember Taylor’s 2009 single, “You Belong With Me?” The song is essentially an anthem for any girl who’s been forced to watch her best guy friend date a total cunt while she looked on in broken-hearted agony. The lyrics were relatable and straightforward:

“She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts / She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers / Dreaming ’bout the day when you wake up and find / That what you’re lookin for has been here the whole time.”

Now, a mere four years later, and Ms. Swift is singing a different tune:

“I used to think that we were forever ever / And I used to say, ‘Never say never’ / Uggg… so he calls me up and he’s like, ‘I still love you,’ / And I’m like, ‘I just… I mean this is exhausting, you know, like, we are never getting back together. Like, ever’”

And I’m like, “Uggg, you are obnoxious,” and she’s all, “Have you seen my Target commercial?”

Exhibit A:
Taylor back in ’09, making all of the nerdy girls of the world feel a little bit better about their lives in her video for “You Belong With Me.”

Exhibit B:
Now she’s like, “I can get mad hot dudes with the snap of my fingers, I don’t even care about my old nerdy neighbor. Hey, check out my red lipstick.”

And has anybody addressed the weird fucking animal band that appears throughout the “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” video?

Seriously, what is this? Why is this happening? And why is Taylor still wearing those god-awful black frames? It’s like bizarro world Wizard of Oz, which is already pretty bizarre in and of itself. This bitch has gone off the deep end.

3. Taylor Swift fan mail dumpster
I remember the first time I wrote fan mail: I was around 10 years old, was utilizing my Lisa Frank stationery for the first time, and after slipping the unicorn and rainbow-adorned envelope into the mail I eagerly awaited a response which I would never end up getting. I later found out this was probably because I didn’t include a self-addressed stamped envelope. Thanks a lot, Michael J. Fox. So in early March, when hundreds of unopened fan letters addressed to Taylor Swift were found in a Nashville dumpster, I could immediately relate to the pain and confused agony that she must have imparted on her devoted fans. According to Nashville radio station WKRN, the fan mail was “covered with pictures, hearts and sparkles.” You know what else the mail was covered in? Crushed pre-teen dreams. Fuck you, Taylor Swift. Fuck you.

2. “Teen Battling Cystic Fibrosis Meets Taylor Swift“
God, what a self-serving whore.

(I like how the writer describes 15-year-old Cheyenna as “clutching” the inhaler. I hope Taylor’s band of furries doesn’t come onstage and overexcite her.)

1. Tina Fey & Amy Poehler
Speaking of Michael J. Fox (who knew he’d show up so prevalently in this article?), in maybe one of Taylor’s biggest faux pas to-date, the young singer struck back at comedians Tina Fey and Amy Poehler after they took a playful dig (otherwise known as A FUCKING JOKE) at the singer during the 2013 Golden Globes. Here’s the story: the two hostesses were doing their monologue and doing a pretty kick-ass job of livening up another stale night of Hollywood award shows. Michael J. Fox’s son, Sam, was at the event working as Mr. Golden Globe, so naturally Poehler and Fey joked with Swift, telling her to “stay away” from the 23-year-old. Seemed like a pretty innocent jab at the time, until T. Swift’s now infamous interview with Vanity Fair. According to an article by Reuters:

In the Vanity Fair interview, Swift, 23, responded to the Golden Globes incident by citing a saying told to her by talk show host Katie Couric that “there’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.”

So in one fell swoop you’ve pissed off Goddesses of Comedy Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, you’ve likely pissed off Katie Couric because you totally just threw her under the bus, and now you’ve pissed off me. And if you even THINK about touching Mikey J’s son I will crush you, because I’ve had my eyes set on him ever since I was old enough to realize that Michael J. Fox had a son close enough to my age to one day have consensual sex with me. And if he had ever taken the time to read his fan mail, maybe he would know that by now.

I guess that about wraps up all of the reasons in which T. Swift is annoying now, although if Harry Styles was writing this article he might have a bit more to say. And, despite the aforementioned offenses, it seems that her career is still unstoppable. Ayo –  Taylor – imma’ let you finish your career, but first I want to watch this YouTube video of “Our Song,” because I totally forgot how badass it is until I started writing this article. God, she’s so tall and pretty…

Things are looking up. Badass.

How long can one person sit in their apartment, devoid of all social interaction, before going mad? How much daytime TV can a human consume before losing all faith in humanity, and in modern television programming? And just how much stress can one neurotic Jewess endure before going completely bat-shit insane?
—
These are all questions we’ve aimed to answer throughout the last three installments of The Unemployment Diary, featuring Angela Bunt as the main player. Fortunately for Angela, the long roller-coaster ride of freelancing in NYC has come to an end, and thus, so has this diary. Unless, of course, somebody else gets laid off…
January – February
Health insurance, student loans, weddings, vacations… I cycle over and over in my mind the endless possibilities of things that can happen, or that will happen, which are going to cost money that I don’t have.What if I take an unexpected tumble down the stairs? Or somebody sends me an envelope of Anthrax? (I have a lot of stalkers.) The health insurance I have under my parents – for the few short months before my 26th birthday – only covers me in Massachusetts. I envision myself needing to be rushed to the hospital, and as the ambulance straps me in I weakly tell the driver, “take me to the Megabus, I have to go home!” I play out countless scenarios in my mind – all of which end in me on the streets with a gangrenous leg – and before I know it hours have passed and I’m frozen, stiff-necked, throbbing shoulders, in front of a blank laptop screen. I really should get back to writing. Instead, I absorb hours of court television shows – one of which features a couple adorned in matching purple shirts as they try to sue the defendant for recanting on a verbal contract – which makes me think that maybe my life isn’t so bad. I watch Harvey Levin interview folks outside of the People’s Court, and wonder how he has time to work on this show and also run the TMZ franchise. How do I get a job at TMZ? How is he so successful? I am putting power Jews all over the world to shame.

Just… no.

It’s hard having your only skill be something basically everybody can do. Sure, not all people are great with words, but almost anyone can string a sentence together. It’s not like being good at math or science. Those are skills you can actually apply to a multitude of well-paying jobs. I think to the future: what if this doesn’t work out? Am I really dumb enough to think I could make a career change in this shit-storm of a job market – specifically an editing/writing job? Angela, you’re a fool, and now it’s too late to change your mind because you’ve already told everybody and their mother that you refuse to give up on “your dreams.” With each passing day, my self-confidence dwindles. Until I get my first job interview.

Mid-February
I’m called back to the unemployment office, my fav place ever, deep into the bowels of Queens in Flushing. In the back of my mind I hope/think that this may be the last time I’ll have to do this, so I try to enjoy the hour long train ride and I smile knowingly at all of the Asians wearing SARS masks once I get off at the Flushing-Main Street stop. Upon arrival, I am ushered into the usual classroom and I quickly claim the only left-handed desk, which happens to be broken, and which also happens to be shoved all the way to the left wall rendering it pointless. When the career counselor asks me why I took the broken desk, I loudly exclaim: “It’s the only left-handed one,” and while I still have most of the classroom’s attention I follow-up with: “It’s a left-handed world and I’m just living in it.” This time around, we are made to watch a 45-minute video that explains the same things they always explain, except with more of a sense of urgency because our benefits will be running out soon. I bring a book and hope I don’t get caught reading. It’s very reminiscent of high school, except replace reading with sleeping.

On the bright side, something about being in the unemployment office always brings out the funnies in me. It’s the same thing that happens to me when I’m on the Megabus. Maybe joking to myself, or flaming irresponsible bus companies on Twitter, is a type of defense mechanism to shield me from idiocy and incompetence, or just plain torturous situations. On this day, my defense mechanism manifested itself in the form of haikus:

Late February
I got a job, I got a job, I got a job, I got a job. Thank fuck. Tears of relief squirt from my eyes and I have to wait until I stop crying out all the stress from the last nine months before I can call my mom to share the news. (Bury those emotions, girl. Bury them deep.) I’ll be working full-time at the same place I’ve spent the last nine months freelancing, and my mom tells me she “knew i’d get it all along.” Oh, well, I’m glad one of us wasn’t worried.

I’m rich, bitch.

Beginning of March
It’s been two weeks since I’ve re-joined the living in the working world. I slog through my morning commute from Astoria to Union Square, and while I think the new gig is going swimmingly, my perky “I’m going to make myself lunch every day, get eight hours of sleep every night, and wake up early every morning” attitude slowly begins to dwindle. It only takes two taps of the snooze button to turn my 8:30am wake-up into 8:45, and my morning routine goes from cute-outfit-full-makeup to spray-your-dirty-jeans-with-perfume-and-slap-some-coverup-on-your-baggy-eyes. I debate throwing myself down the stairs in the morning just to make use of my health insurance, and because who hasn’t fantasized about being in the hospital and seeing which of their friends would come visit them?

Last Week
I write this from the laundromat at 10 o’clock at night. Working out and doing laundry are the two most noticeable things I can’t get done during the day now, and Lord knows I refuse to get fat. Or be smelly. The beef jerky-filled office isn’t helping with either. I look up at the televisions that are mounted throughout the large, 24-hour Quick Wash. One is playing Fox, and a blonde, makeup-laden news anchor is fear-mongering me about the dangers of the hot new club drug, “Molly” (news flash: it’s not new). Another is playing the Telemundo channel, and I think to myself how many more television options I’d have living in Queens if I could just learn Spanish. At the far end of the laundromat a repeat of the People’s Court plays on mute. The disgruntled-looking plaintiffs are learning the hard way that a verbal contract does not hold up in court, and they are wearing matching purple shirts. I watch my clothes whir in the washing machine as they switch from soak to rinse to spin, and I think to myself: “life isn’t so bad.”

Part 1 * Part 2 * Part 3 * Part 4 * Part 5 * Part 6 * Part 7 * Part 8

Jackie waited in the office for so long she went all ‘Benjamin Button’ on her doctor’s ass.

Editor’s Note: Since the dawn of Buntology, Jackie has been regaling us with her medical tails of woe (and triumph). Most recently, she let us in on her whacky visit to the optometrist. Now she’s back, only this time it’s with a vengeance. No longer will patients suffer at the hands of over-scheduled appointment books! No longer will we be forced to sit in a waiting room reading old issues of Cosmo secretly hoping nobody can see that we’re turned to the “Sex Tips” article, which is pretty freakin’ lame anyway! No longer will we wait in the freezing cold exam room with our Johnny gowns hanging lifelessly off our goosebump covered bodies! NO LONGER!
—
How many times have you gone to a doctor’s appointment or dentist appointment and were brought in within five minutes of your scheduled time? When I say “brought in” I mean: taken from the waiting room, entered the exam room and had the doctor come in right away. *Crickets chirp*

Thaaaat’s what I thought.

It is on a rare occasion that you are taken care of at your scheduled time. The scheduled time that you either  1.) took off from work to be at 2.) cancelled plans to be at, or 3.) I don’t know, got off your ass and took time out of your life to be at. Heck, you may have even gotten their a few minutes early, because God forbid you show up late to an appointment. That means charges up the wazoo.

In ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ Jack Nicholson’s character turns the waiting room upside down with his antics. And then he gets lobotomized. Soo…

So today, my friends, I am taking a stand! I will call 10 minutes before my appointment to make sure they are running on schedule, because it’s not like the receptionist is going to call me to let me know if they’re running late – I’m sure she has better things to do. Oh wait, shouldn’t that fall under her duties?! From here on out, I’ll march right out of that office if I am not seen within 15 minutes of my scheduled appointment.

This has been an ongoing problem for me. Whether I am seeing my tummy specialist, my regular primary or my dentist, I always have to take the time off work (where I am paid hourly, so I just lose money or use vacation time) and am essentially paying the co-pay, PLUS the money I am losing from not being at work. The most annoying part is that my appointment will be at 4:00pm, so I leave work an hour early, but they don’t see me until almost 4:45 or 5:00pm. I could have stayed at work! All you get is a piss poor excuse like, “Oh we had an emergency,” or “It has been a busy day,” or “…” (nothing at all). No mention of the fact that they are speaking with you 45 minutes past the appointment time. At least leave me in the waiting room where the magazines are, instead of bringing me into another room where I will wait all alone with nothing to do but read the weird body charts on the walls. It is like they think we are idiots, and that placing us in another room will count as starting the appointment on time. Nope, ya’ just stuck me in another room where I will sit boiling away. This is exactly what happened to me at the dentist office just a few days ago.

It’s my final week at my current job, and I felt guilty for leaving an hour early with only a few days left at the company. But I really needed to get that cavity filled. I ducked out at 3:45pm to make it to my 4:00 appointment, and sat in the waiting room, stomach growling. I wanted to eat a snack before, but didn’t have time nor did I want food in my teeth. I figured I would get this Sour Patch Kid-induced decay drilled out, wait for the novocain to wear off, and be eating dinner by 7:00pm.  Here’s what went down:

4:00pm: Sitting down in the waiting room.

4:18pm: I am brought into the room. Sit in the chair, get my bib thing put on. The assistant asks how I am: “Hungry.” She leaves the room.

Beetlejuice thought he had finagled his way to a better spot in the waiting room line, and then he got a shrunken head. And then he starred in ‘Multiplicity.’

4:25pm: I can hear my dentist talking with another patient in the room next door. She is talking about nerves and roots and whatnot. My dentist then comes into the room I am in, grabs some model of a tooth and says, “Hi,” and walks out, closing the door behind him.

4:33pm: Ok, at this point it’s like, over 30 minutes past my appointment. Should I be getting annoyed? I am super hungry and getting super pissed. This lady and my dentist are still chattin’ it up about her feelings and thoughts on root canals. C’MON!

4:42pm: I have now decided that I will walk out at 4:45pm, because let’s face it, this is a little insane. Also I am really hungry and do not want to wait until 10 o’clock to eat dinner. He could’ve at least come in and given me the novocaine to move this process along. But nope – Jackie doesn’t care, she is young, nice, laid back, she wont mind waiting [editor's note: I don't know if I'd classify you as "laid back," and I don't remember you being particularly nice, either]. Clearly they don’t know me very well, and clearly they don’t know how crazy I am with an empty stomach.

4:45pm: I grab my purse, rip off my bib and let the receptionist know that I have been waiting 45 minutes, am starving, and have not been seen yet. She apologizes and reschedules me, and my dentist comes over and tells me he is sorry and had an emergency. OK, sooo, why didn’t you call me and tell me! I wasted an hour of my life, and lost an hour of pay. Oh, and I still have that filling to look forward to, which of course I will take time off of work to be at.

Lesson of this story? I should take better care of my teeth. Other lesson? Stop letting doctors rule your life.

If you are not seen on time walk out! Well, reschedule first, then walk out. Hopefully if we all come together we can stop this craziness and doctor’s offices will stop scheduling 15 people at the same time. Hey, maybe they’ll even call you to let you know they’re running behind. Down with the man!

OK, time to floss.

He’s got the whole package, except for his package.

The 85th Academy Awards debuted on ABC last Sunday. Angela watched from her apartment in Queens, and Rochelle & Rod (her adoring parents) watched from their bedroom in Western Mass. The result? A mish-mash of jokes and insults that you may or may not find amusing. But you’re already a paragraph into the article so you may as well just keep reading.
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ANGE: I listened to the red carpet pre-show while pulling the gizzards out of my chicken and prepping it for the oven. No, seriously. How come the hosts always refer to the evening of the Oscar’s as “a magical night in history” and “one of the most eventful evenings in our lives?” I’m not winning any awards, I’m not brushing elbows with George Clooney’s Beard, I’m not dating that awkward guy onstage handing celebrities their awards and ushering them backstage. 

ROCHELLE (MOM): Kristin Chenoweth: You are short. We get it. The interview is not about you so stop telling us how tiny you are. Dad (Rod) and I said it could be a drinking game. Every time she refers to her size you take a drink. Wish I had counted.

Halle Berry: We decided that her hair has looked better and we aren’t crazy about her dress but it doesn’t matter. She is so beautiful she gets a pass. Robin Roberts: Did you really have cancer? Because your arms look fantastic. In fact, you look better than most of the healthy people I know. Way to go!

I’m short! But my hair is tall.

I’m really happy I have daughters because I know that if I ever had the money to get plastic surgery they would keep me from going overboard and becoming a member of the “Looks Like The Joker” Club. It is sad really. Was that Renee Zellweger? Holy Crap! Looks like The Joker. Too bad she didn’t have  brutally honest offspring to keep her in line. So far I have Renee Z. and Nicole Kidman on the “Looks like the Joker” list. I will update as the evening progresses.

ANGE: Christoph Waltz took home the first award of the night with Best Supporting Actress for Django Unchained. This dude seems like such a genuinely nice person, and he and Quentin are total butt buddies. “I’m trying, Ringo. I’m trying reaaalll haaaaahhhhd.”

ROCHELLE (MOM): I love Tarantino even though I know he is wacky. On Stern he does such a great interview. I feel like he would be just normal to hang out with. Well, aside from his being a genius. I don’t get the feeling that he is full of himself, I think he just has fun doing what he likes to do. Pulp Fiction? Please.

ANGE: Paul Rudd and Melissa McCarthy came onstage to present best animated short film, and best animated film. It’s like, Paul Rudd – as if I wasn’t already desperately in love with you enough, your long hair and beard have really sealed the deal. Can the two of these people (Melissa McCarthy and Pauly) be in a movie together already? (Oh wait, they already were.)

ROCHELLE (MOM): Oh Seth.. I am loving this. Hey, we just watched the Oscar-nominated “Flight” the other night. In the last 12 months we’ve actually seen some movies. So far I am pretty entertained.

ANGE: Woah! When did Seth McFarlane get so hot? This man is truly the whole package: he can sing, he can dance, he’s good-looking… too bad about that micro-penis, hey?

Ooof. I like her even more now, to be honest.

ROCHELLE (MOM): Cinematography – no one cares. Seriously, I know you work hard and we value your talent but no one but you and your family and friends give a shit about what you have to say. Sorry.

ANGE: Les Mis montage? Can’t even handle it. Much to my shock and disgust, there has been some negative feedback regarding the movie. To the haters I say: You are idiots. Read more about what Buntology thinks of Les Mis here.

ROCHELLE (MOM): Every time they play anything from Les Mis I get all choked up.

ANGE: Life of Pi = Life of Poop. Who cares, amiright?!?!?!

ROCHELLE (MOM): So many dresses with sparkles. And lots of strapless dresses.  So many are are too tight or ill-fitting. In other words, the boobs look squished. Why doesn’t someone tell them? They need some daughters.

ANGE: Got a boner when the cast of Les Mis came onstage to perform “One Day More.” Lost it as soon as Russell Crowe started singing.

ROCHELLE (MOM): Did they just play the theme from Jaws as they urged some guy off the stage? That’s hysterical.

ANGE: Kristin Stewart: we get it. You’re all nervous and are always sporting that “I’m so out of place” vibe. But that’s no excuse for your hair to be so greasy. You’re at the fucking Oscars, bro.

ROCHELLE (MOM): Jennifer Hudson can sing, I’ll give her that. But I never like her choice in clothing.

ANGE: I’m getting bored. Ang Lee just won an award for Best Director, which is nice but doesn’t really count because they didn’t nominate like half the director’s they should’ve.

“It was thiiiiiis long.”

ROCHELLE (MOM): Shhh – Les Mis songs – I just love Les Mis and don’t care about the criticisms that it isn’t Broadway or there were issues with close-ups. Don’t care. Loved it and love all the songs. So shut up and go see Lincoln. (Actually, I want to see Lincoln.)

ANGE: Remember that time Jennifer Lawrence fell up the stairs after winning an Oscar? And then Meryl Streep walked out onstage and blatantly pulled out her wedgie? Oh well, I still love them both.

I was disappointed that Hugh lost to Daniel Day Lewis for Best Actor, but not surprised. That man is constantly winning Oscars, although I’m not even convinced he’s a real actor. I mean, I’ve never seen any of his movies…

ROCHELLE (MOM): Well, I’m really tired and so will probably just listen to Adele sing and go to sleep. I would like to hear Streisand and am kind of excited to imagine that Meryl Streep, Barbra Streisand and Adele are all under one roof but I can catch it on Youtube tomorrow.

Fin.

My last visit with twin, Angela, finally pushed me to make the call and set up an appointment. She didn’t like me driving in the dark without glasses while on my way to the gym, but I’ve basically memorized the roads to the gym, so I don’t even need to be able to see… right?

Needless to say, this was not what Jackie’s experience was like.

I finally bit the bullet and found a local optomologist. The woman was able to fit me right in, so I thought, “great, I will just go in and get my exam, get fitted for contacts and be done with it.” Well, was I ever so wrong.

I walked into the small eyeglasses store and was led into a tiny back office. I was greeted by a gruff Russian woman in her late 60s. After the quick exam, she told me that my current prescription was wrong and that I would need new glasses along with my contacts. She then placed a pair of contacts in my eyes (yelled at me for blinking) after the multiple tests of looking at the contacts and telling her if they were inside out or not.

Once the first pair were in I knew something was not right. I could barely open my eyes. I told her this and she told me, “It isn’t like changing a shirt, you are going to feel them.” So then I said, “Well, then I am not going to wear them.” She took them out and put in another pair. Those felt much better, but still not perfect. I suggested that I try another and see if they would maybe feel even better, and she said, “No, I will not allow you to try any others, these are the perfect fit for your eyes.”

Is it inside or outside? F*ck if I know.

At this point I just wanted to get the heck out of there, and not having contacts before I wasn’t sure if this lady was an expert or just insane. Then she told me I needed to come back for two follow-ups to take her “Contact Classes.” That’s when I knew she was indeed crazy. When I told her that I had never heard of anything like this, she got very defensive and told me she was not giving me contacts until I came back for a follow-up.

So here I am, one day until my Contact Class 101. I could just not go, but I did pay this lady $95. Plus it could make for some more amusing stories. And who knows — maybe I am in fact the crazy one. Or maybe, just maybe, this woman is going to blind me for life.

JACKIE: I still didnt get an A.

MOM (Rochelle): When I first heard that Les Mis would be released to movie theaters on Christmas Day the SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and general holiday depression I had been suffering from slightly lifted. I knew Angela, Jackie and I would be going. We had dreamed this dream since they were in Mr. Murch’s 6th grade class where he mixed math lessons with musical theater. Since my kids are far more theatrical than mathematical the words to Le Mis, Phantom and others found a forever home in their brain while fractions and algebra never did.

ANGELA: I had been home for the holidays about 72 hours and had already witnessed a domestic dispute on the streets of North Adams, drunkenly dropped my iPhone in a toilet, broke it, found a new one for cheap, contracted and was riding out a cold which I had successfully spread to the rest of my family.

Mom as Fantine… with sunglasses.

MOM (Rochelle): By Christmas I was pretty miserable, and the rest of the family had such awful colds that the most exciting conversation revolved around who had what color phlegm: “If it’s clear, it’s not an infection.” Nevertheless, we headed to the movies.

JACKIE: I was actually just getting into phase one of the sickness at the point. I was sleeping the whole day, and really did not want to leave the house. But, I knew I must for the cause!

ANGELA: Jackie and Mom fought their agoraphobia and we headed to North Adams’ poor excuse for a movie theater. But, it was five dolla’ Tuesdays so I’m not going to complain.

MOM (Rochelle): And I paid.

ANGELA: When the movie began with “Overture / Work Song / Look Down,” performed by a bearded, scraggly and homeless-looking (aka hot) Hugh Jackman as Jean Valjean, my heart skipped a beat as he lifted that French flag and dragged it through the mud past the glowering Javert (played by Russell Crowe). It’s funny, I always forget that Les Mis is based on a significant event in history, which is the French Revolution. Eh, actually, who cares about the French. I sat back and got ready to enjoy three hours of musical bliss. The only issue I could foresee was controlling myself from singing along. And Jackie’s incessant coughing.

MOM (Rochelle): I love plays, theater, acting, performing and all that kind of thing. I still ask my mother why she didn’t send me to dance, tap, jazz, singing and every other class so I could be on a stage being adored.

Eh, I’d still do him.

JACKIE: Yes, Mom is such a performer. Wait what have you performed in?

ANGELA: Mom once played a prostitute murder victim in the opening scene of a college production of “Jack The Ripper.” Also, Jackie, do you remember that time I flubbed my lines during a school play and you blackmailed me with the recording we had of it?

MOM (Rochelle): I loved this movie. I loved Anne Hathaway singing/acting “I Dreamed a Dream.” It was perfect for my depressed state. ”There are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms you cannot weather.” That’s right Fantine, I feel your pain. Life sucks.

JACKIE: OK, well Mom you dont have it as bad as her, so maybe that should put your life in perspective. You’re not a prostitute, you didn’t get your hair and teeth pulled out. I mean, life could be worse.

ANGELA: I never cared for much for the Fantine storyline, and I never cared much for Anne Hathaway (although I loved her boobs in “Love and Other Drugs.”) But after her rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” there was not a dry eye in the row. In all fairness, me, Jackie and Mom were the only people sitting in the row. (JACK: Or dry nose — my cold was really causing drippage at this point. (ANGE: Ew, drippage?))

ANGELA: Hugh Jackman was the star of the show, and his singing and acting throughout the film was seriously amazing. He should definitely definitely definitely get an Oscar for his performance. The Sasha Baron Cohen-Helena Bonham Carter duo acting as grimy innkeepers, The Thénardiers, was spot on and provided some much-needed comic relief, and of course being a huge Eponine fan, I absolutely loved Samantha Barks’ on-screen rendition. (JACK: She was the actress who played Eponine in the Les Mis 25th anniversary special!) Did anybody else notice how tiny her waist is and how big her boobies are? I spent a lot of time in middle school singing “On My Own” to myself in my room after getting rejected at school dances, so that song was a definite highlight.

JACKIE: Eddie Redmayne — who played Marius — is hot, I liked his big monkey mouth. He and Amanda Seyfried (who played Cosette) had great chemistry on screen, and I like to think they are together now in real life. Seyfried has such a great falsetto voice. I should probably watch some Mama Mia!

Russell Crowe as Javert, equipped with the thing his character most needed.

ANGELA: Russell Crowe was absolutely awful as Javert, the prison guard who either had a gay crush on Jean Valjean, or just really needed to find a hobby. You might be thinking: “Angela, was he really that bad or are you just a ruthless c*nt?” Let me put it this way: every actor at some point in the movie moved me with their performance, no matter how small their role. (Why, Gavroche, WHY!?) But every time Russell Crowe came on the screen he legitimately sapped all of the energy out of the scene. As I described it to my family, “Whenever Russell Crowe started singing I lost my boner.” The entire cast should get Oscars just for carrying his ass through the movie. He even ruined “Stars” which is like, the most epic song ever. And also, I am a ruthless c*nt.

MOM (Rochelle): While there is nothing quite like a live performance, this came close. I dreaded sitting in the theater for over two hours but the time went quickly, and I learned that my dad was right when he used to say that France is dark, rainy and dirty. He was referring to WWll but apparently it was this way all through the French Revolution as well. When did it get pretty? Why do people go there?

JACKIE: The only negative thing I will say is that it was a little long, but you can’t change the story so what are you gonna’ do? I would definitely like to see this again, but in the comfort of my living room so I can sing along loudly and fast forward through songs I don’t care about.

MOM (Rochelle): I’ve been to many (like 30) Broadway shows so I kept wanting to applaud after songs and felt awkward that it was so  silent. I mean, these were heart wrenching performances. By the end of the movie when just about every character was dead (woops, spoiler alert) we just went for it and starting our own little standing ovation. As expected the rest of the audience joined in. Suddenly the whole theater came to life. I think we can take some credit for that.

ANGELA: As the audience filed out we just sat there with all of our emotions. I think I heard people talking/laughing about us as they walked by, like, “Those are the weird girls who wouldn’t stop fist pumping during the song ‘Red and Black.’”

MOM (Rochelle): Loved the movie, loved that I saw it with my girls and love that it’s coming back to Broadway in 2014! See you there, NYC.

The Boss. Ho ho ho.

[Author’s note: Granted, there is an endless well of seasonal tunes, and this compilation is admittedly incomplete. I confess that it was written while I was sick and under the influence of a combination of over-the-counter cold medications. I laughed, I cried, I wrote. I hallucinated. James Stewart and I sat under my Christmas tree and rang jingle bells while yelling, “Get me. I’m givin’ out wings!” So this is the result.]
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Everyone has their favorite holiday songs. You are understandably welcome to express your personal opinion about the selections below and the particular artists that performed them (as long as you realize that you are wrong if you disagree with me).

Rocking-est Christmas Songs
I love rock and roll Christmas music because I came of age in the 70’s, listening to the stuff. Or maybe because the program director at my old radio station was the first guy to let me play “Merry Christmas, Baby” by Bruce Springsteen on the air…

1. Run Rudolph by Chuck Berry
There are lots of great versions of this tune from the likes of Dave Edmunds, and Chuck’s disciple Keith Richards,  but Berry, the daddy of duck-walking, string-bending lead guitar riffs plays my favorite version

2. Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses
I didn’t even know other songs by these women, including the “Square Pegs” theme, when I started loving this tune. Featuring some great electric guitar and walking bass, a cute little holiday story, where girl gets guy while her small turkey roasts in the oven. While I sat in our apartment on Christmas eve, with all the presents under the tree exclusively for my wife and I, since the Bunt Girls had not yet made their appearance on earth, this was playing on the radio. And I still love the song. The intro is the coolest thing to skip down the street to, in perfect time, which I did last night downtown while listening on my iPod. For some reason, nobody even laughed at me. Maybe it was the big, vicious dog, skipping along with me at the end of my leash?

3. Little Saint Nick by The Beach Boys
Filled with their signature tight harmonies, Santa’s sled will walk a freaking toboggan with a 4-speed stick. She’s candy-apple red with a ski for a wheel…and when Santa hits the gas, man, just watch her peel. Just get the hell off Pasadena Boulevard or else.

4. Merry Christmas, Baby by Bruce Spingsteen on NBC
I’ve always loved the Boss, and in this video I get to see Clarence Clemons come alive again and even watch Conan O’Brien playing with the band.

Coolest Christmas Songs
I don’t mean to be racist here, but men of color have always been smooth vocal artists. In the words of Mr. Potter, speaking with George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, “Do I paint a correct picture, or do I exaggerate?” Here are my favorite cool-assed soul holiday songs…

1. Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer by The Temptations
As Smooth and natural as Metamucil. With the internet just a gleam in young Albert Gore’s eye, this was this was among the coolest Christmas records that I could find when I was growing up.

2. I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas by Clyde McPhatter & The Drifters
Not enough O’s in smooth to describe this one.

3. Christmas in Hollis by Run DMC
Mom’s in the kitchen cookin’ chicken, collard greens and  macaroni and cheese? Oh hell, I’m there. Maybe I’ll even catch a glimpse of  Russell Simmons.

Most Fun/Odd/Inappropriate Christmas Songs
In past years, I’ve spent some holiday time at the State Street Tavern in North Adams Massachusetts, with Bill Hulse, the King of Christmas. Between that beloved watering hole jukebox and on the internet, I’ve heard some seriously strange and wonderful seasonal music. For example…

1. Dominic The Christmas Donkey by Lou Monte
Bill was winning friends and influencing people in this Patriots bar with his NY Giants Santa cap when we first heard this song and were totally flummoxed. I still don’t know why there is a song about an Italian Christmas donkey (Maybe it was just some cool shit that the Sicilian mob sang as they tortured some poor bastard). To paraphrase Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction, “When you heard ‘Dominick,’ it was your ass.”

2. Mele Kalikimaka by Bing Crosby
My fave crooner from 20th century. For me, a swinging tune. With the Andrews sisters backing up Der Bingle, I’m digging the idea of stringing some holiday lights on my palm tree.

3. Ukulele Underneath The Christmas Tree by Creamed Corn
This is the type of thing that I could only find on the internet. Then I tortured my daughters with it for years. Just keep rockin’ that Uke, boys.

4. Rusty Chevrolet by Da Yoopers
We received this record at the town radio station where I worked. It was on an independent label, and so odd that I couldn’t help but love it. The station owner was not amused. I imagine this band is a sensation on the Upper Peninsula in Michigan.

5. Baby it’s cold outside by Dean Martin
I like to imagine that Dino sang this with a cigarette in one hand and a highball in the other. But this is a date rape song, plain and simple. Look at some of the lyrics, as this poor woman tries to escape from Dean’s apartment:
“My mother will start to worry-”  “Beautiful, what’s your hurry?”
“Say, what’s in this drink?”
It’s called Rufinol, my dear. For chrissake, your mom and dad are home pacing the floor. When you are dumped on your front lawn at 4 AM, glassy-eyed, your clothes mis-buttoned, and with no memory of the last six hours, you’ll never leave your cocktail glass unattended again.

Santa Baby by Michael Buble
It’s just plain wrong. I get douche chills listening to Mike’s version of this tune. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Buble is a super-talented, award winning singer, songwriter and actor, but Santa Baby is just not a proper song choice. The slinky Eartha Kitt and a younger Madonna do the song justice.  A guy singing, “Santa! Hurry down the chimney tonight!” just sounds desperate.

This list could continue. There are other songs that bear closer inspection. In the interest of full disclosure, I had a previous life as a city event planner and was responsible for leading a large crowd in a forced chorus of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” while we lit a Christmas tree. I felt like Joseph Goebbels.

Coming to town indeed.

You’ve already been warned to watch out. Not to cry. Hell, this sounds like something told to a child as they’re pushed into the back of a van with no windows in some shopping mall parking lot.

Have some of your own favorites? I’d love to hear them. Happy Christmas!

“Let’s be honest, Lew. You paid for the women.”

Don’t get me wrong. I believe that Jesus was a decent carpenter and a hell of a nice guy who basically told the phony Pharisees to get lost while he  sought out the companionship of the cast-offs of society. I could do a lot worse than to follow his teachings. As John said (not the apostle, the Beatle): “All you need is love.” But I’d like to know what the idea of the Virgin Mary giving birth in a stable – “Hey dad, swear to God, I never even thought about having sex. Some angel visited me and well, I seem to be preggers.” – has to do with television ads for diamonds and sports cars with red bows attached to them in perfect upper middle-class driveways on December 25th, along with thousands of dollars worth of presents under expensive holiday trees. And don’t even get me started about the idea of some fat guy in a red suit hanging out with red-nosed reindeers and wee folk, driving a big red sleigh like a maniac around the world and breaking into houses.

But at my advanced age, just today as a matter of fact, I’ve found my happy thought that will keep the season alive for me.

Clearly a very wise, well-spoken man.

Remember the nightmarish days immediately following the tragedy of 9/11/01, when we were all together, on the same page? Someone drove past with an American flag attached to their car. Hell we all had flags hanging from our houses. We nodded to total strangers. We were all in this shitty thing together. Despite the horror of the attacks, we forgot our differences and became closer. People in Kansas were sporting “I Love New York” bumper stickers on their car. Let me know what other time in this country’s history that you’d see something like that.

I realize now that we’re getting the same chance each year. The holidays are the opportunity, without all the tragedy of a terrorist attack. It’s OK to nod pleasantly at folks and let someone ahead of you in a busy store line. With folks in a giving mood, food pantries fill up their shelves and fundraisers for the needy do pretty well, too. In the words of Bill Murray in one of my fave movies, “Scrooged,” you can make someone a sandwich and say, “Here. I made this for you.”  As I walked my dog today, I saw that somebody has a cardboard pallet as a makeshift bed on a bridge underpass. We’re not doing great here in Buntworld, but I bet I can find a couple of blankets to bring there.

So I’ll trim my Charlie Brown tree that I’ve appropriated from the middle of the woods, ’cause it was free,  put up those cheap velvet ribbons in the windows, and turn on dopey Christmas movies that make me cry, which will make my daughters point at me and laugh. That’s OK. They’ll be here at Buntington Manor for the holidays. That’s good enough reason for me to keep Christmas each year.