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Deeply Loving 'I Am Love' (Has Anyone Else Actually Seen It?)

9/15/2014

If there is a more tender, evocative, less cloying story about the vagaries of love and the universal truths of life than Italian director Luca Guadagnino's 2009 film Io sono l'amore (that's I Am Love for us Anglo knuckle-draggers), I'd like to know about it.

It matters not that I seem to be the only person on the face of the Earth to have actually seen this film, despite the fact that it stars the reliably riveting Tilda Swinton.

Not only is Swinton foxy beyond belief but she plays a Russian émigré. Ergo, she delivers dialog entirely in Italian as a native Russian speaker would. Despite being British. So yeah, she’s kind of unbelievably amazing and puts into perspective just how talented an actress like Gwyneth Paltrow isn’t.

But that’s only the half of it. Without stumbling or soapboxing or pandering even a smidge, I Am Love expertly explores fraught themes including – but not limited to - love, lust, death, freedom, guilt, horror and joy. And it never once feels false.

Watching it for a second time last night (blessedly, my beloved Toronto Public Library has copies available for borrowing), I was reminded of all the big huge things this little film successfully takes on, and was again flattened by its deft hand. And yeah, I cried like a hungry baby with soggy diapers at the end again.

So as not to spoil things for anyone who might want to seek out this gem, I won’t divulge plot details (and DO NOT read Wikipedia’s entry which gives it all away). But I will say this: even I can believe in love again watching this movie which, as anyone who knows me will attest, is saying something.

Of course, I don’t believe it could ever happen FOR me or TO me - and I have an unassailable track record of wicked heartbreak to prove it. But that’s beside the point. I Am Love is like a postcard soaring in on the wings of hope, but waaay less corny than that last line.

If only all movies could be so affecting.

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Calling Out the Crazies

9/8/2014

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You know what’s great about homophobia? It reveals idiots at the speed of light, sparing us all time wasted on jackasses.

Case in point: Toronto District School Board trustee Sam Sotiropoulos who was recently - and smashingly – nailed for his hateful, boneheaded tweets regarding transgendered people, gays and Toronto's Pride Parade by a tenacious Global News reporter.

Keeners will recall that trustee Sotiropoulos launched an ultimately unsuccessful bid to ban nudity at the Toronto Pride parade, intimating that pedophiles invariably people the ranks of homosexuals. Hey man, nice shot.

Anyway, back to the Global interview: When pressed about his ugly remarks – sample tweet: “Toronto Worldpride Parade 2014: Freak Show with Politicians” – Sotiropoulos prevaricated, stammered and then eventually clammed up, staring down the reporter.

Luckily, Sotiropoulos is so far attracting exactly the right kind of publicity: the derisive kind.
Pink News quotes activist Susan Gapka as saying, “It’s very concerning that people elected to public office don’t follow or take the time to learn about our codes of conduct, about our society. I hope he doesn’t win again.”

Right. And let’s extend that hope to another high-profile homophobe (also liar) currently seeking public office in Toronto. The gauntlet is down, folks, the gauntlet is down.

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Can the Coffin Be Far Behind?

8/18/2014

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Went to see The Trip to Italy yesterday. It’s the sequel to 2010’s The Trip – best described as a road movie for foodies - with Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon as two impossibly sharp-witted pals who trade insults and astoundingly good celebrity impersonations over sumptuous meals for the benefit of fictional British newspaper readers and real-life movie-goers.

If you haven’t seen either film (and really, you shouldn’t attempt the second until you’ve seen the first) that plot description doesn’t seem riveting though it is pretty hilarious on the backs of talents like Coogan and Brydon. But what really gives both films gravitas is the serious life stuff thrown in between the pornographically opulent food and travel shots and brainy quips.

Broken relationships, extramarital affairs, career disappointments… all fall into the two films’ cross-hairs. And in The Trip to Italy, one brief scene is especially resonant and quietly heartbreaking: Coogan and Brydon mourn their younger selves, the selves that used to draw the hungry glances of young women, but now do not.

“It's funny... women that age just look straight through us, don’t they," the 49-year-old Coogan laments to Brydon as he observes a 20-ish blonde.

"We're non-threatening,” Brydon concurs.

“The smile we get is the smile they give to a benevolent uncle,” Coogan retorts. “Or a pest."

Pretty much anyone over age 40 doesn’t hear that dialog. They feel it in their bones. It is one of life’s cruelest ironies – just at the point where you finally start feeling comfortable in your own skin, nobody else wants to touch it.

Next step? Death.

It’s interesting hearing men decry aging with the frank resignation normally exhibited by women which the universe clearly targets for harsher judgment on this front. Face it – society abhors aging women. Actually, society can’t be bothered summoning the energy needed to abhor aging women. It just relegates them to invisibility instead.

Your friends, good souls that they are, will insist you’ve still got it, you are still attractive and desirable. Maybe more so now that you’re filled with dazzling, hard-won insights you can share over dinner and cocktails.

Your friends will chummily if bitchily point out the person in your orbit who has gotten fat or so lazy that they’re willing to leave the house wearing sweat pants – the unambiguous raising of the white flag on romance. “Compared to her,” they’ll coo, “You’re the bomb sweetie!”

But in your heart you know it’s not true. Heads don’t spin anymore. Construction-site whistles – once so repugnant – are no longer a daily fact of life. You’d be thrilled if they were a monthly occurrence. You are beautiful no more. Welcome to the golden years. And thanks for playing.

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Motorcycles Don't Kill Mufflers. Jackasses Riding Motorcycles Kill Mufflers

8/15/2014

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I’m calling this ‘The Summer of the Muffler.’

By now it’s obvious there was a citywide meeting among motorcycle riders this season where all agreed their mufflers would not reduce the amount of noise emitted by the exhaust of their internal combustion engines, as intended, but rather, would amplify it to the absolute maximum degree.

Why bikers would do this, I don’t know. Woefully misguided idea of what constitutes cool maybe? But I do know this: every single day this summer, I have been aurally assaulted by a blisteringly loud, hurricane-force, motorcycle muffler. There have always been fuckwits screeching around our streets and waking up the neighbours, but this year it’s the norm, not the exception.

Do I really need to bother stating I don’t hate bikes or bikers as a general rule? One of my best friends rocks a BMW (hi Wayne!) and I have blissfully sat on the back of many bikes over the years. Bikes are awesome - unless you are rattling all and sundry with your screaming muffler. Zipping by in a haze of racket doesn’t make you look foxy. It makes you look like an imbecile who doesn’t know how to provide routine maintenance to your vehicle.

And since I am already in a lather, here are a few other things annoying the bejesus out of me this summer:

The startling lack of summer. I wore a scarf and jacket to yoga last night. That is just so many kinds of wrong I can’t count.

Labour Day is 17 days away. 17. Beyond that lies winter, coiled and waiting to heave forth and envelop us in wretched cold for months on end. You remember winter, don’t you? It’s the living embodiment of The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave. And it’s headed our way.

I was completely priced out of the genius of Jack White live in concert. Also, the irresistible ridiculousness or Def Leppard and KISS in concert. Sometimes, freelance living really sucks.

The 2012 vintage of Peller Estates Private Reserve Baco Noir is all gone. Forever. That was some damn tasty wine.

One of my dearest friends landed a great job… in St. John’s Newfoundland. I already miss her so much my stomach hurts. And yet I couldn’t be happier for her. How the heck do you reconcile that? (See also ‘freelance living,’ above, before blabbing on about frequent visits).

Well, there’s always autumn. And the 2013 vintage Thirty Bench Riesling is rumoured to be better than it has any right to be. Oh yeah, there’s vodka also. And four new titles I put on hold at the library just came in! All at once! Maybe things are starting to look up.

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Lessons Learned from my MoFo Awesome Friends

6/23/2014

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It sounds like a Platypus with attitude but whenever I need a boost (which is pretty often lately…cue violins), I get heaps of inspiration from my friends. My friends are awesome. Like ketchup chips-with-champagne awesome. And they make me feel ridiculously blessed.

Not only that but my illustrious friends are kicking ass and taking names despite what life shovels their way. It behooves me to remind my sorry self of this so, for my benefit and maybe the benefit of my readers (both of you), I present:

Three inspiring things friends reminded me of last week.

My friend C. recently broke up with her long-time partner. It was pretty amicable as these things go – the partner bought C. out of their shared condo and though C. lost access to the dog (sniff), she knows another pooch is in her future. But here’s the kicker: C. has already, fearlessly and unreservedly, shacked up with another lover. And you can just tell by her calm, reasoned approach to the matter that she is not in a rebound phase. This is for keeps. Or at least, it’s for now... and C. is OK with that. It’s written all over her smiling face. Lesson learned? Love can happen if you are open to it. I myself have opted out of the hideous love racket and will never EVER date again. But it’s nice to know it’s out there for those who want it. (Suckers!)

My friend B. recently quit her job even though she doesn’t have another job lined up. Nothing much is even on the horizon. And she doesn’t have much in the way of savings to fall back on. Her rationale is that if she continues to pour her energy into something negative, nothing positive can possibly emerge. Also, she needs 100 percent of her working time to devote to finding work that is meaningful and fulfilling. So she just up and quit. I mean, gutsy huh? Not only that but she hit the gossipy party circuit with a vengeance in order to network, deflecting awkward questions about her former job and her future plans with aplomb. Lesson learned? Sometimes you just have to take the damn leap even if you might end up needing help down the line.

My friend J. has no money. None. To say that he has lived life recklessly would be a staggering understatement. But the reality is this: he basically has some clothes, books, an iPod, a mobile phone and a bunch of swanky tools he COULD potentially sell. But he really has nothing, not by the standards we Westerners generally live by. Yet I stress about money roughly 147 times more than J. even though I actually have some squirreled away owing to my crippling fear of poverty (hard-won fear, I might add). J looks at his rental space and his full dinner plate, his full pack of smokes, new library book and bottle of Pepsi and thinks, ‘Yup, a fine Tuesday awaits.’ I mean, obviously he is shithouse-rat crazy, but still. Lesson learned? Don’t forget to inventory the small stuff.

So…the unifying theme and proverbial moral of our story? Worry less and live more. And for fuck sakes tuck $100 at the back of the underwear drawer just in case. Also, thank my lucky stars I have friends willing to overlook my unshakable neuroses long enough to let me bask in their awesome presence. I really ought to get that tattooed somewhere.

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5 Reasons to Love NOT Being 20

6/16/2014

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Last night I had the good fortune to attend an MMVA pre-party hosted by awesome Toronto video production house The Field (thanks Cherie!) As usual with these types of events, it was spectacular people watching and a weird catalyst for introspection.

As I sat sipping crappy, overpriced, warm white wine the hot but knuckleheaded bartender had, like, totally forgotten to refrigerate, I watched beautiful 20-somethings glide by making the very mistakes I made back when Clint Eastwood was sane. Honestly, it was almost quaint! And I realized: aging sucks, but at least you pick up a trick or two along with those broken dreams and rigidly unforgiving attitudes. Herewith, five reasons I am glad I am not in my 20s anymore.

1.   I now know that spindly, soaring high heels are always a bad party-going idea and any sexiness I might feel at the beginning of the night can never, ever mitigate the agony I’ll feel at the end. And since no one is checking out an old biddy like me anyways – especially not with all those 20-ish babes teetering around in heels - wedges and flats make all the more sense.

2.   The person I am currently speaking with is every bit as interesting – or uninteresting – as that other person I spy across the room. I don’t need to peer expectantly over shoulders or scan rooms anymore. I can relax.

3.   Speaking of, it’s way better to have one good, reliable friend at your side – someone who will holler when something is stuck in your teeth – than to have a roomful of air-kissers who can make you feel momentarily golden but will stand down as your exit the loo with the hem of your skirt tucked in the top of your pantyhose. Plus, a friend will never let anyone else steal your seat when you go pee.

4.   Smoking does not make you look cool. In fact, it makes you smell bad, yellows your teeth, and…what was that other thing… oh yes! It kills you. I cannot believe another generation has fallen for the evil smoking-is-cool hoax, especially given the gore-fest images now gracing those $10 packs. But judging by the number of young smokers I saw last night, it has. Swear to god I will vote for the first party that campaigns on a platform of making cigarette sales illegal, gargantuan tax revenue be damned. Even if it’s the PCs.

5.   Mainstream tattoo culture had yet to take root. I know this doesn’t quite fit with this blog’s theme but damn I am thankful I didn’t face the kind of peer pressure that compels kids today to ink something completely idiotic on their skin. There is beautiful ink out there – I just rarely see it for all the butt-ugly shit cruising past on formerly pristine necks and ankles and shoulders. You know that stuff will still be there even when you’re as old as me, right? That ought to put it in perspective.

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Kimmie's Can't-Miss Tips for Saving Money (This is Gold Y'all!)

6/10/2014

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Anyone who knows me knows I’m tight with a buck. (Cue knowing eye rolls in the cheap seats). It’s always been a necessity. But I am also a jolly good saver and this last bit is what really counts, especially since I have never been a crazy-big earner despite (because of?) consistently juggling multiple jobs.

Anything I have today comes from unfailingly paying the least I can possibly pay for something, then socking away that surplus. With few exceptions, I’ve kept my savings tactics to myself. But increasingly I have been distressed to hear otherwise sane and sensible people whining that they can’t save money. Yes. You. Can. I am going to teach you how.

For the first time ever, I present Kimmie’s Top 10 Can’t-Miss Tips for Saving Money™. These aren’t in any way revolutionary but they will absolutely, positively keep more cash in your pocket. And they’re dead-easy. See you on the bar stool (where we’ll go Dutch, of course).

1.   Be a constant shopper. This may sound counter-intuitive to anyone trying to save money, but it’s not IF the things you are constantly on the prowl for are non-negotiables such as toilet paper, peanut butter, soap, Britta filters and so on. In other words, stuff you are going to buy no matter what. If you are constantly on the lookout for these items, you are better positioned to find them on sale. Not only that, you will create a stash of essentials, meaning you’ll never suddenly run out of toothpaste and be forced to run to the corner store where you’ll pay top dollar plus 25 percent. With non-negotiables, buying now means saving later. And for something like toilet paper that can mean a difference of $6 to $8. Really. Mega-tip: Being a constant shopper is as simple as walking through No Frills on your way to work instead of walking past it.

2.   Clip and use coupons. This is so incredibly obvious I can’t believe I have to state it, but apparently the message hasn’t gotten through. “But what if the cashier thinks I’m poor, or a jerk?” Here’s a news flash: the only thing the cashier cares about is not getting sucked into the vacuum of a tedious conversation and getting you out the door with the correct change. Besides, if he’s working as a cashier, I promise you he understands the value of using coupons.

3.   Carry the coupons with you in your wallet when you go out. And be sure to use them against a product that’s on sale thus saving even more money. This is another benefit of being a constant shopper.

4.   Read the weekly flyers (or sign up for them online) and grab your essentials – or that week’s grocery/garden/household/underwear needs – accordingly. Did your Mom teach you nothing? And you don’t need to visit 10 stores to realize savings because most stores will match a competitor’s advertised price. You knew that, right?

5.   Unless you’re on death’s door or so drunk you’re at risk of falling face-first into traffic, don’t take taxis. Taxis cost a fortune and represent ridiculously low value for money. I’ve heard people try and rationalize them – ‘I don’t own a car so I can afford it’ or ‘It’s too cold’ or the gold-plated shit-for-brains classic: ‘My time is more valuable than the cost of the fare.’ Really? But it’s well-spent watching Dancing with the Stars or whatever stupid-ass show I guarantee you watch religiously? (We all do). Suck it up and wait for the goddamn bus. (Sorry for all the cursing just now, but I really hate motherfucking taxis).

6.   Don’t buy daily coffee at Starbucks and lunch at McDonalds. This too has been hammered home by financial experts since AC/DC was considered Satanic. But punters STILL fail to calculate the significance $5 spent daily has on the bottom line. So let’s do it again for the dude in the pointy cap: $5 per weekday equals $25/week equals $100/month equals $1,200/year. You can fly pretty far with $1,200 and wherever you’re headed probably has an all-you-can-eat buffet, so you’ll get all those empty calories back eventually. Brew your own damn coffee and stick a sandwich in your backpack (which you will remove promptly and hold in your hand the minute you board the subway).

7.   Fight fees and service charges like a warrior goddess with a chip on her shoulder and a Michael Bay script in her back pocket. Rogers charging you $2 a month for sending paper invoices? Call and switch to paperless invoicing. (You do READ all your monthly bills for errors and sneaky fees, right?) Don’t withdraw money from generic ATMs that levy a fee for the “convenience” (as will the place where you actually bank). Fees are way more pervasive than you think. And they suck. Be constantly vigilant.

8.   Collect loyalty points and use them to save money. Shoppers Drug Mart Optimum points are great – 8,000 saves $10 and you can buy everything in those stores! Correction: you can buy everything there once it goes on sale. But you will need to carry the loyalty card(s) with you in your wallet at all times… right beside your coupons.

9.   Join the library where your books, periodicals, movies and music aren’t sitting on shelves collecting dust like all the crap you have at home.

10.   Get a fucking grip already. This may be the hardest thing but it’s also the most important. You probably don’t need that shit you’re about to buy anyway (plus your sense of entitlement is really annoying). Also, pretty much anything you’re grappling with can’t be solved at the retail level despite what the advertisers tell you. Being on a budget doesn’t mean life has to suck. It means you need to be more creative. I promise you’ll be better off in old age when you don’t have to eat cat food to survive. I dish that stuff up every day and it is nasty - even the expensive stuff - which neatly drops us at our 11th and final point.

11.   When you are about to make any purchase, ask yourself: do I want to eat cat food one day? If the answer is no, put the bill back in your wallet and walk out of the store. It’ll still be there tomorrow if you change your mind.

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There Is a Light That Never Goes Out

6/9/2014

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It’s been 17 years since American singer Jeff Buckley died, accidentally drowned in the Mississippi River after a spontaneous dip prompted not by drugs or alcohol, according to an autopsy, but by joy at having finished new material that, had things gone as planned, would have succeeded 1994’s Grace debut album.

Not a week goes by without a thought of him. It’s not anything remotely romantic – I mean, I do love his music. It’s more about what he represents to me: the ridiculously arbitrary nature of fate which is at once completely unfair (Buckley dead, Bernardo alive) and thoroughly humbling (the Universe took someone so majestic; why the hell am I still here?)

I met Buckley several times. Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I hosted a nightly radio show that permitted me to book my own guests - thrillingly, sometimes even those that coloured outside the firmly delineated lines of the station’s format – and the charmingly iconoclastic Buckley appeared, I think, three times. I had to beg and cajole to get him.

That I took heaps of shit from management and colleagues for booking him was to be expected. This was when Sugar Ray and Pearl Jam ruled, not oddball folk-pop songwriters with nosebleed falsettos. But it was worth it. So fucking worth it. Years later, Kevin Drew of Broken Social Scene would recall hearing one of those Buckley radio spots and then sneaking underage into a club using his brother’s ID to witness firsthand Buckley’s voice.

That voice. That inimitable, winding, soaring, elastic, fervent, aching, smouldering, genuinely otherworldly voice. You can’t hear it without experiencing synesthesia – every sense alert to it . Though exquisite, Leonard Cohen’s original version of that song simply doesn’t hold a candle to Buckley’s cover. To hear Buckley sing that song – or “Lilac Wine,” for that matter – is quite literally breathtaking. I mean, who can do that?

Because of his cruelly limited output, it’s almost certain Buckley will end up as a footnote (however beloved) in the canon. He wasn’t famous enough or tragic enough to survive as a damaged legend like Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain. His music was too angular anyway. But to me Buckley is an unimpeachable reminder of how fragile we really are, to quote another singer with a notable falsetto.

Remembering that casts light on even dark, ugly days. Sometimes, that’s enough.

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Stuff I Am Grateful For Today

6/3/2014

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It’s early June. As we hopscotch towards the longest day of the year and after that, glorious summer (stuff it, Australia) it seems like a swell time to itemize the many things I am grateful for right now. Depression is for suckers. And February.

1.   People are finally admitting that Seth MacFarlane isn’t funny. Not even a little bit. Not even as an alleged satirist. I realize this isn’t exactly a shocking revelation but for those of us standing at the sidelines wondering how on Earth this smirking, blatantly misogynistic classroom bully became Hollywood’s highest paid TV writer – and onetime Oscars host – this feels like validation, albeit way late. Also, it helps to free us from the uncomfortable truth that anyone claiming to prefer Family Guy over the vastly superior Simpsons (even season 19 Simpsons) obviously isn’t fast enough to get the jokes.

2.   I am not addicted to my mobile device. Not even a little bit. While I hugely appreciate the ability to track down a friend in a frothing crowd via text – and the ability to surreptitiously snap a picture of beautiful Sunny the cat lolling in the garden without lunging for a proper camera and disturbing the moment – I can put the thing away for whole hours at a time. And just talk. Or, better still, not talk.

3.   Vodka. I am very truly grateful for vodka. This will only seem ludicrous to those who’ve never experienced things like my last (and, God as my witness, final) breakup. Or a pre-Christmas Saturday retail shift at St. Lawrence Market. Or an afternoon visit with B. Believe me, in those ridiculously trying instances, it was vodka – not positive thinking or deep breathing, despite the cachet of those claims – that soothed the nerves and propped up my weary soul for yet another day.

4.   The Toronto Public Library. If there is a better library system in the galaxy – one that will order books specifically for me and deliver any title to my branch of choice for free – I’d like to know about it. It sounds like a boast but the truth is: I am now and have always been a super-nerd able to plow through two books a week. I would not be able to do this without the library. I love the Toronto Public Library.

5.   I am grateful for my heretofore unknown but surprisingly comprehensive ability to forgive. For years I carried around anger over stuff and things and people and even though I read many very persuasive arguments stating that anger hurt me more than those I aimed it towards, I nurtured it anyway. And then one day, I stopped. And it actually did feel better. Certain acts and remarks still make me seethe – and I genuinely do not believe I deserved that awful breakup – but at least now I can see past the hulking black cloud to the green field in the middle distance. Sounds like a platitude, but regular hot yoga really helped with that. And vodka, obviously, though not both at the same time.

6.   Speaking of, I am grateful for hot yoga, specifically as taught at Moksha Yoga Danfort h. Prayer Twist not so much. But that feeling at the end of a grueling 90-minute class when you somehow pulled it out of thin air is better than… better than… what’s that thing two people in love do together? Yeah, it’s better than that.

7.   Italy. I am ever so grateful for Italy. I’m guessing this one doesn’t need elaboration.

8.   Darling Fue and sweet, skittish Mister Hister – ditto.

9.   Oven-fired thin-crust pizza with Gorgonzola and wild mushrooms. Also Funghi Assoluti and my ability to credibly replicate Terroni’s superb take on the dish at home. Actually, quite a few people are grateful for that.

10.   I am grateful for the ability to be grateful. Many aren’t and, whether they know it or not, it’s written all over their faces. And it looks bad and sad and alienating, plus it’s 100 percent Botox resistant. I hope my face says something sweeter.

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Facebitch (verb): The Very Satisfying Act of Venting on Facebook

10/9/2013

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I recently had a nasty tussle with Bell Mobility over an account I was trying to sort out.

It was infuriating, not only because I couldn’t seem to resolve a fairly straightforward issue (switching from pre-paid to monthly) but because I was funneled through a system so rigidly compartmentalized that one agent wasn’t able to execute the transaction. It took four agents – four! – over three phone calls and a total on-hold wait time of about 90 minutes.

Good thing I work from home and don’t have a real job or I’d have been sunk. At the end of that ridiculousness, I was so frazzled and vexed that I… took to Facebook to complain.

I wish I could say I wrote a stern, sober but compellingly argued grievance letter to the head of Bell which I copied to my MPP and various patchouli-scented consumer lobby groups collecting signatures for a petition.

But I didn’t. I bitched on Facebook. And you know what? Not only did I feel much better, I actually think I might have been more successful in making my point. And maybe – just maybe – advocating for real change.

Here’s why. Dozens of others came forward to comment on my post and share similar horror stories endured at the hands of Bell or Rogers, our nation’s other completely tone-deaf service provider. Stuff like that gets embedded in people’s subconscious – I am sure of it – influencing their decisions going forward.

The ‘Let’s all bitch and name names on Facebook’ trend is a momentous one. A short while after my rant, my sweet cousin Brenda – possibly the gentlest creature this side of the toilet paper kittens – was so mistreated during a simple yet stupidly inept watch repair transaction that she too took to the web to howl in pain. We could feel it, and we could relate.

In the short term nothing really changes but the optics of those kinds of posts are terrible for these companies. And as any teen twerker will tell you, stuff posted to the mighty Interweb lasts forever.

Sooner or later, Bell, Rogers and their ilk will realize these missives must be shot down on the front lines: through savvy customer care and improved service. And you have to patrol stuff like that constantly. Less money counting, more supervising is what I am saying.

I don’t expect Bell to cave just because some whinging freelancer heaved a furball on Facebook. But if 100,000 others do the same… well, no one likes a furball. Eventually, someone is going to have to haul out the proverbial bucket and baking soda and get down to work.

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<<Previous

Deeply Loving 'I Am Love' (Has Anyone Else Actually Seen It?)

Calling Out the Crazies

Can the Coffin Be Far Behind?

Motorcycles Don't Kill Mufflers. Jackasses Riding Motorcycles Kill Mufflers

Lessons Learned from my MoFo Awesome Friends

5 Reasons to Love NOT Being 20

Kimmie's Can't-Miss Tips for Saving Money (This is Gold Y'all!)

There Is a Light That Never Goes Out

Stuff I Am Grateful For Today

Facebitch (verb): The Very Satisfying Act of Venting on Facebook

Kim Hughes

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