i am bossy

Today Bossy Is Maybe Too Tired To Write. And Here’s Why.

This is Bossy’s mom’s house, and last night the family was invited over for a special Mother’s Day dinner, and what made this Mother’s Day dinner special was the fact that the meal was catered entirely by Bossy’s brother and Bossy’s husband:

The two men planned and shopped and schlepped and chopped and cooked and assembled:

But what Bossy failed to realize about dinner cooked entirely by two men, was how much free time Bossy would have available to sit around and chat with her mom and sister-in-law. And drink wine. Lots of red wine.

After a melon and prosciutto appetizer, the family sat down to their meal: spaghetti with meatballs and sausage, and a mixed green salad with blue cheese and apples:

And for the next hour Bossy ate like the thirteenth starving child in a family of fourteen. And she drank wine like the thirteenth starving child in a family of fourteen—assuming starving children from large families drink wine.

And then Bossy scarfed a bowl of bread pudding and a dish of chocolate ice cream and more wine, wine! And why won’t the wine come out of the bottle when it’s empty?

By 11 p.m. Bossy was home in bed, where her troubles were only beginning. The first problem was this:

It’s an article in the New Yorker, and Bossy decided it would be a terrific idea to read it as she was falling asleep. It’s about a very promising young chef who found out he has tongue cancer and radiation treatments have ruined his taste buds and now the poor fellow can’t taste his creations and what is this sore on the inside of Bossy’s right cheek?

To cheer herself up, Bossy stayed up even later reading the following article in the same magazine:

It’s about a famous photo retoucher named Pascal Dangin, and when you see all of those perfect women in all of those perfect magazine layouts you can blame Pascal.

The article details Pascal’s ability to seamlessly reshape shoulder blades and redefine cheekbones, and before Bossy knew it she had drifted off into a dream, and in this dream she was a photographer.

And in this dream, Bossy’s assignment as a photographer was to shoot photos of a very wealthy man, because when you are a photographer more famous than Annie Leibovitz you don’t take pictures, you shoot them.

And speaking of the wealthy man in her dream, Bossy has no idea who he was but she will now attempt to capture his essence:

And then Bossy awoke to the tortures of a bedside lamp still on, her eyeglasses crumpled under her throat, and her liver enzymes breaking down the complex sugars of last night's Fetzer Merlot.

Blog Kindergarten: A Bossy Tutorial. Mother's Day.

We have her to thank. She’s Julia Ward Howe — and in 1872 she was all up in Boston's face trying to promote peace, so she called for A Meeting of Mothers. Of course Julia Ward Howe wrote The Battle Hymn of the Republic and this we know about Julia Ward Howe: she was not a subtle broad:

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword
His truth is marching on.

Next we jump to Michigan. On May 11, 1877 three guys were roaming the streets of a town called Albion and they were totally wasted. Because — get real — it’s Albion and it's 1877. What else is a brother gonna do in Albion in 1877?

But this made the town madder than a wet hen because all three of the boys were sons of strict temperance advocates. Also? One of the boys was the pastor’s son.

The very next Sunday the pastor was so upset about his son that he left the pulpit before the services were over. This is where we meet a certain Juliet Calhoun Blakeley:

Juliet Calhoun Blakeley was sitting in the front row that day and she gladly pointed her sassy Victorian lace-up boots in the direction of the pulpit and took over the sermon, calling on other mothers to join her.

In other words this whole Mother’s Day deal was originally an anti-drinking campaign.

Then for years after, Mrs. Blakeley’s super perfect wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-drinking-in-the-streets-of-Albion sons decided to honor their mother — and all mothers — with a churchy celebration held the second Sunday in May. In Albion. Albion Michigan, which only had like sixty-five residents, three of them drunkards.

So how did Mother’s Day grow from that to this?

As always we get to blame Philadelphia. Because this is one of its turn-of-the-century residents, Anna Jarvis:

Anna Jarvis launched an intense campaign in 1908 to honor the memory of her own mother by creating a national day dedicated to all mothers. She called on local clergymen, business leaders, and department store owner John Wanamaker – who offered the use of his store for the first Mother’s Day service, attended by 15,000 people.

The final element of the equation stepped off a train in Kansas City two years later holding two shoeboxes containing postcards.

And that chucklehead was J.C. Hall, the 18-year old founder of Hallmark.

Bossy Is Coordinating The Development And Implementation Of Exactly Nothing.

Today Bossy is writing a resume for a friend who shall remain nameless, and that friend is Bossy’s mother. Hi mom!

Bossy has tinkered with plenty of these things and has this to say: resumes are all about putting your best foot forward. Your lie-covered foot.

We’re not chatty: we have strong interpersonal skills. We didn’t look something over: we provided editing and proofreading support. We didn’t place phone calls: we identified and cultivated lateral relationships.

We tracked and established and fostered and managed and assessed and prepared and supervised and maintained and solicited and promoted and analyzed.

Which leaves Bossy with one remaining question: why are we so unemployed?

Hello Thousands Of People Who Googled Bossy Looking For Lindsay Lohan’s New Song.

Do you remember Bossy’s old pal Lindsay Lohan? Well, yesterday she released a dance tune called Bossy, which makes all kinds of sense because apparently Lindsay Lohan didn’t receive the friendly memo from the real Bossy, and that friendly memo went like this:

Because Bossy likes it when the word bossy belongs to Bossy:

For instance, if you Google the word bossy and hit I’m Feeling Lucky, you will end up right back here, maybe even simmering in a vat of broccoli casserole:

When Lindsay Lohan carelessly sings, “I’m just a little Bossy,” she doesn’t understand that i am bossy isn’t just a state of mind, it’s a brand—even if that brand is insomnia slathered in firming serum rinsed with heart palpitations.

Lindsay Lohan’s song threatens to wreck Bossy’s Google recognition, and therefore Bossy is not a happy camper. Do you know what it looks like when Bossy is not a happy camper? It looks a lot like this:

And this:

And this:

And here are other random unhappy campers:

Where Bossy Has Another One Of Those Ideas.

Bossy was feeling very overwhelmed by her house the other day, which is nothing new—but Bossy has become insufferable because she’s been living in a car trunk for five weeks, and now believes all belongings beyond a container of Pringles and a sturdy pair of uglies constitute clutter.

Dirty wet washcloths, paperwork, weeds, dog hair, pollen, bathtub grime, unworn clothes, dog hair, oak tree funk, wilted lettuce, unworn shoes, more weeds, unworn jackets, dog hair dog hair!

Bossy needs to spring clean, and while she’s at it she needs to clean for last winter and the summer prior and the entire year before that.

And she needs to reclaim her garden and sell her unworn clothes on eBay and finish painting the underside of her porch and reorganize her home office, and scrub her vegetable bin, and instead Bossy does this:

So Bossy got thinking about all of her friends who are avoiding similar lists, and when Bossy says all of her friends she is talking abut her friend Martha. And then Bossy thought about her friend Amy who isn’t avoiding much of anything, but Amy likes to drink beer. And so Bossy called these two friends, and when Bossy says called she means emailed.

And in this email Bossy described forming a Grrlz Moral Support Co-Op, where each friend donates two days of their time to the other two co-op friends in order to accomplish things on their to-do list, followed by a third day where the two friends are available to assist in the tasks of your choosing, and who thinks Bossy could make that way easier to understand with even the smallest amount of editing?

It’s like this:

And when Martha received Bossy’s email she was all, “Hellza yes, I have many things on my to-do list that would benefit from forming a Grrlz co-op!” And when Amy received the email she was all, “Beer!”

And so yesterday Martha and Amy reported to Bossy’s house at 11 a.m. for Day One of the Grllz Support Group Co-Op, and raise your hand if you think that name is too clunky to catch on?

Anyway. For Bossy’s designated day, she decided to make it all about gardening. Which means weeding. This is because Bossy’s garden is totally overrun by a hideous purple-flower weed—and lord help Martha, if she would have stayed in this spot for two more minutes the weed would have wrapped itself around Martha’s roots and cut off her supply of water and air:

Here is another angle of the overwhelming mass of weeds, and Bossy’s Grllz who crawled around on their hands and knees while Bossy snapped photos also crawled around on her hands and knees:

In no time at all three hellacious hours, the Grllz were done and the garden was beautiful:

Which is when Amy thought it would be relaxing to sit in a chair and sun herself be attacked by a Great Dane and a ball:

Soon Bossy invited the Grrlz into the house for a very healthy low calorie salad. And a crap load of beer:

Today Bossy and her friend Amy are going to Martha’s house, where they are going to build walls replace windows polish silverware. Bossy will provide more details as they become available, and in the meantime, go out there and form your own Grrlz Moral Support Co-Op! The midday beer is delicious!

Ten-Word Tuesday.

Bossy thoroughly enjoyed how entertaining her readers reader was last week when the question limited the response to ten words. And because Bossy is nothing if not shamelessly repetitive, she wants to offer another ten-word challenge:

Today Bossy is thinking about summer, which begins in one thousand hours. In exactly ten words, can you please share with Bossy what you are doing to prepare for bathing suit season?

Hopefully it's not something contained within Bossy's Dr. Seuss Weight-loss Poem.

For Those Of You Who Missed Tom Cruise On Friday’s Oprah.

It’s been three years since Tom Cruise jumped on Oprah’s sofa and Bossy discovered he was actually King Tut. This past Friday, the actor agreed to an Oprah interview in his Telluride home in order to appear likeable celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of his acting career.

First Oprah drove up a steep Colorado mountain and through the stand of Aspen trees that line the Cruise driveway:

And before Oprah was even out of her car, she was all, “Oh my gah the stunning view!”

Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes were already in their driveway to greet Oprah—and about their fantastic Telluride view, Tom and Katie were all, “Right?”

Next Katie said her goodbyes in order to take care of important business, and that important business was getting lost while her husband gave the interview, because Katie is so much more than just Tom’s wife, and don’t you forget it. But on her way out the door, Katie called out, “I love you!” Twice.

In Katie’s absence, Tom decided to give Oprah a tour of his home, and the first stop was their very ordinary, fifteen million dollar kitchen:

And then with swelling pride, Tom Cruise walked Oprah past a colorful piece of framed art painted by his oldest daughter, Not Suri Isabella:

And then finally Oprah and Tom sat down in Tom’s living room and Oprah got right into it, “Tom, what about the couch incident?”

And Tom was all, “Yeah, about that…”

And then Oprah asked Tom about his thoughts on post-partum depression and the comments he made against Brooke Shields, and his YouTube Scientology preaching, and the rumor that Tom isn’t Suri’s biological father, and his custody agreement with Nicole, and his relationship with the new in-laws:

And then Oprah talked about how relaxed Tom and Katie’s house seemed, and how Oprah was comfortable enough to interview with bare feet:

And then Oprah commented about how relaxed Tom Cruise was, and the fact that she had never seen Tom Cruise that darn relaxed in all his life:

And then Tom put Oprah on the back of a snowmobile and took her to a secret spot with an amazing vista, and Oprah took it all in and then turned to Tom and said, “I deeply wish for you all of the peace that this view can bring.”

Or You Could Just See For Yourself

Dear Restroom Architect.

Bossy is certain you meant well, and attended scads of upper-level classes on the Paleolithic Period and Neoclassical Elements, but what she really wants to talk about is this:

It’s not so much your selection of the Elongated Wall-hung Toilet with Rear Spud that is mounted perilously close to the floor—but why the olive drab tiles on a vector orientation paired with glazed cinderblock walls?

And Bossy would personally like to thank you for providing a convenient hook on the stall door so that, as a random example, someone on a 35-day Excellent Road Trip can hang her purse and her backpack and her camera and her self:

And then there’s the little matter of real estate:

Would it have killed you to make the stall itself a little more generous in size? Don’t you know that all dog crates are supposed to allow their inhabitants to stand up and turn in small circles? Lucky thing you didn’t design the stall door to open inward! Oh wait:

And lastly:

Bossy has never read the directions to this Inverse Vacuum, but it must go a little something like this:

Push button. Place wet hands in flow of air. Vigorously rub hands together until they are still wringing wet and then use those germy wet hands to exit the restroom so that the next person to touch that door handle gets wet cooties.

Love, Bossy.

And Now For An Excellent Road Trip Flashback.

Bossy wants to tell you the following Excellent Road Trip story about her mornings. Every single day Bossy would wake up and take a shower and get dressed and pack her things and leave her host’s house and drive for three hours. And then the sun would come up. And then Bossy would career off a cliff, the end.

If Bossy played her cards right she could stave off hunger until 8 a.m., except there were no cards and there was no one to play cards with and there wasn’t any light or signs of life and what was Bossy saying again? Right. Breakfast.

Every day Bossy would search the exit ramps throughout the country for the McDonald’s arches and she would fall into their fine establishments for a delightful morning poo followed by a breakfast sandwich and yes it’s easy to confuse the two.

Every morning Bossy would stand at the counter in her support hose and order a Sausage Egg McMuffin with Cheese, even though there really is no such thing as a Sausage Egg McMuffin with Cheese—there is only a Sausage McMuffin with Egg which happens to have cheese on it, but who can blame Bossy for never assimilating the McDonald’s vernacular just because she ate this piece of nasty thirty-five days in a row.

Anyway. Bossy has two little-known facts to share about McDonald’s. The first fact is: they are not all created equal. Some are cleaner and happier, like the following light-filled McDonalds in Louisiana where the Senior Center residents gather very early in the morning to play Bingo:

The second McDonald's fact: their Sausage Egg McMuffins with Cheese do not all taste the same. Bossy’s favorite breakfast sandwich was purchased in a Texas McDonald’s, and what made it so good were the burnt bits on the soggy McMuffin and the slight chew to the microwaved egg:

The third little known fact about McDonald’s—and Bossy knows she was only going to provide two facts: they are not all priced consistently. Take for example New Mexico, which despite prosperous Santa Fe must have one of the poorest populations across the continental United States:

But would you believe out of the twenty-eight states Bossy visited, New Mexico wins for highest priced McMuffins?

For Those Who Think It's So Fooking Great For Bossy To Sleep In Her Own Bed.

It's lumpy. And when Bossy lies on her lumpy bed and looks up, she is reminded that she never finished spackling around her skylight:

And meanwhile on the floor to the right of her bed, Bossy's pile of unread magazines mock her:

While at the foot of her bed, Excellent Road Trip bags brimming with Mardi Gras beads and Gas-X and receipts and orthopedic shoes remain unpacked: