Bossy

The term "bossy" has really exploded in feminist culture and writings lately. People be like, "That is an inappropriate term for women." (Mainly because, like "bitch," "bossy" is never applied to men since assertive male leaders are just called, like, "president.") Meanwhile, Nicki Minaj and Kelis are making it their own: I am bossy. I am a bitch. That's my right. Worship me. Donna on Parks & Rec compliments or degrades Leslie via Twitter by alternating hashtags of #BitchBoss and #BossBitch.

My jury is still out, but the debate resurfaced a memory I had long buried. It was the summer before 7th grade and my gang of gal pals had spent the day riding bikes and hanging out in various parks. We ended up at someone's house, and I thought it would be fun to do some project. I honestly don't remember what. Something with writing. Everyone was being sort of lazy and not listening--understandable because it was summer vacation. Anyway, the three girls eventually sort of left the room one by one and announced they weren't going to listen to me because I was being bossy.

How was I being bossy? I wanted to know. Tell me what was bossy. I was offering everyone creative equality. "You just were." But I just had an idea of something to do. We were all bored. So I literally found a dictionary, read the definition of bossy, and asked, "What in here? Give me facts."

I don't think they were necessarily wrong, but I know I didn't get an answer, and I'm pretty sure I biked home and spent the night alone. In my middle school gang (there were about eight of us, thick as greek yogurt) people always made fun of me for saying "Can you give me an example?" Like, "Alice, you're always so blah blah blah." To which I would reply, "Give me an example." I still do this, and, come to think of it, it has frustrated people my whole life. That could be "pushy" (one of the definitions of "bossy.") But I'm honestly not trying to be right. I'm not trying to be "bossy" (whether that is a fair assessment or not). I just want to know.

Tree-O

It is my sister's birthday. It's been a grand year for the Pookie. As a close outside observer, I would postulate that this has been the happiest year of her life. It's hard to exactly say why, but I do believe it to be so.

Pookie probably has her own accomplishments and memories on this date of reflection, but this is MY dang blog, so here are some of MY dang thought on her last year:

It's been difficult being so far away from my sister--location, time zone, and also her limited understanding of my life out here. But, we've managed to stay in touch a pretty good amount--not Grey Gardens level like I prefer, but probs Leslie and Anne level. Most importantly, she is "there" for me if I need anything.

One weekend this summer I was suddenly in the grips of a very scary physical problem involving extreme nausea, pain, and itchiness. I called Pooks for a general morale boost and support the morning the symptoms began, and immediately she asked if she should make the drive from STL to Chicago. I didn't think it was necessary, but by afternoon she decided to hunker up anyway. It was a miracle she had that intuition because by the time she arrived (with pints of ice cream as I had texted her in last-ditch despair), I was completely immobile. I could not even walk ten feet to the bathroom. So my sister walked in the door after a five hour car trip, and before even sitting down, carried me to the toilet.

It was a torturous experience--and she did not complain when I spent the whole night screaming, bawling, and whining for backrubs. She cracked jokes, she fetched water, and she stayed until I was able to hobble.

This is my sister. A person who can make what should be the worst moments of my life somehow not.

Takin' pics at Buckingham Fountain. September 2012.

Happy Birthday to my favorite person past, present, and future.