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Up before dawn, the children of Parkland pull on their handmade frocks and their breeches to tend to their daily chores. The pine floors of the sleeping loft feel chilly underfoot, so the children dress while standing on rugs made from crocheted cloth scraps. They carry wood for the cooking fireplace from the stack of logs split yesterday, and place an armful on last night’s diminishing embers.
Tasked with feeding the chickens, the girls place a pudding cap on the head of their toddler sibling and steer them towards the door, holding tight the leading strings that prevent the toddler from climbing the splintery yoke that awaits the spring plow. The boys head outside to milk the family cow and feed and water the cracker ponies that gather around the granary barn after a night at pasture.
Back inside, the children await their breakfast of ashcakes. Their mother makes a sticky dough of corn meal and water which she flattens into a cylinder placed directly on the fireplace coals. The boys go back outside to ready the pony that will take them several miles to the closest one-room schoolhouse, which was built when the neighboring community tallied over fifty local families. The boys place the bridle and bridoon bit on the pony and secure a sack of kindling around their shoulder for the school’s pot belly stove, which is located in the heart of the classroom. The girls remain behind to collect Spanish moss for the mattress their mother is sewing, and to help make the meat pie that will be served for a special dinner.
The boys kiss their mom who is pumping water from the well — and then grab the pony by the withers and loin, the boys swinging their legs over its back, turning toward the unpaved road and trotting past the loud rattle of a pony cart headed to market.
Arriving at the school, the boys hitch their pony to a split rail fence and try to suppress the excitement of an upcoming community barn raising. There are more boys as usual since it isn’t growing season, although a few boys are learning how to make scythes as blacksmith apprentices and won’t be returning to school.
Once inside the school, the children settle onto the wooden backless benches, the younger children in the front of the room, and the older children in the back near the door. The students reach for their slates to practice arithmetic.
Except on this day, not far from the schoolhouse, there is a very twisted and angry boy of similar age who is after vengeance. He has decided to target the school, for it represents everything he hates. He corrals a horse belonging to his friend’s family, and he stabs at the clay stuck in ridges along the bottom of the horse’s shoe, callously ignoring the collapsed horn that split over the heel nail and is rendering the horse lame. He stands on a log outside of the home where he has been planning his treachery, and he mounts the horse and directs it towards the schoolhouse.
A year earlier, the very twisted and angry boy of similar age purchased a Flintlock pistol, which was the most dangerous weapon he could buy. Typically used for protection and military engagement, the Flintlock pistol has a short firing range and is often used in conjunction with a sword.
On this day, the very twisted and angry boy of similar age arrives at the school ten minutes before the children’s dismissal — a time when the children return home to their afternoon chores and a warm meal by the fire. The very twisted and angry boy of similar age dismounts from his horse. He pulls the gun from his pocket, along with a powder flask full of black powder. He disengages the ramrod from the underside of the gun barrel and places it on the nearby split rail fence. He pours the black powder into the muzzle end of the pistol, spilling excess black powder onto his hands and the ground. He then drops a lead ball into the same muzzle end of the pistol and reaches for his ramrod to push the lead shot and powder further into the barrel. He then drops more black powder into the flash pan located on the opposite end of the muzzle and closes the flash pan lid. He cocks the gun to half-cock. Planning on shooting his gun multiple times, which means repeating this process, he places the ramrod in his pocket instead of clipping it to the bottom of his gun. He kicks the horse free into the late afternoon and walks purposefully towards the unsuspecting children who are practicing their handwriting in copybooks using quill pens.
The very twisted and angry boy of similar age pushes open the schoolhouse door and reveals his gun. The teacher, not much older than the students, lunges his body in protection of the children. The very twisted and angry boy of similar age cocks the gun to full cock and extends his hand, leveling the gun in the direction of the children. In split-seconds that feel like years, the teacher hopes that the Flintstock pistol won’t produce a proper spark due to a poorly napped piece of flint. The teacher hopes moisture has collected on the powder preventing firing, or that the very twisted and angry boy of similar age will have a flash in the pan, where the spark never travels to the combustion chamber igniting the full charge.
The very twisted and angry boy of similar age pulls the trigger. The flint strikes the frizzen, producing sparks that fly into the flashpan. The powder ignites and the resulting flash travels into the combustion chamber where it ignites the black powder. The gun discharges, but misses.
The very twisted and angry boy of similar age reaches into his pocket for the powder flask and the ramrod to reload his weapon. He tucks the ramrod under his arm and begins to pour the powder into the muzzle end of the pistol, but he is tackled by one of the older boys in the back of the room.
The incident is over. The school children return to their families, and to their lives.
The post If The Events Of Parkland Took Place When The Second Amendment Was Written appeared first on i am bossy.
Lately, Bossy has been having a difficult time making decisions — where lately equals the past year plus the previous five years. Typically her difficulty is limited to important things, such as where to vacation? Should a bathtub be incorporated into Bossy’s bathroom renovation? Is the gym near work more realistic than the gym near home? Should Bossy remove herself from the dating site, is it too late to order a meal plan, can wood decking be placed over her patio concrete, is it smart to buy an auxiliary bottle of blue cheese for take-out wings?
If these decisions are paralyzing, than Bossy is on life support when it comes to buying a pair of leggings on the Nordstrom site.
For instance. Should she buy these?
What about these?
And what about these?
How about these?
So many choices, so little time to wear all of Bossy’s 80s outfits.
Sister mercy, finally a pair Bossy can rule out:
The post When The Decision-Challenged Person Attempts To Purchase Leggings Online appeared first on i am bossy.
As some of you may remember, Bossy is single. After Bossy’s divorce, she joined an online dating site because they do not have I Am Here Somewhat Ironically sites. For those of you who don’t know how dating sites work because you are happy, it goes like this: you set up a profile and are presented with prospects based on your very broad search criteria such as age, height, and never trust a man with a curio cabinet.
And the dating websites never fail — for the past five years, Bossy has been presented with a string of interesting men who are tall, dark, and speaking of dark: Bossy can see the wood paneling in the background of your selfie so this is never going to work.
Bossy has often thought of deleting her dating website profile, but then how will Bossy learn about the many different species of fish caught by a pair of sunglasses?
So Bossy decided in lieu of perusing dating sites, she was going to just live instead, where just live means watch Call the Midwife behind closed eyelids.
It was in this spirit of just living that Bossy found herself this past weekend, walking one block to her local supermarket in arctic temperatures.
Bossy wasn’t in the market two seconds when she spied him. He was emerging from lightbulbs and plastic wrap and his aura was distinctly I am sane, healthy, and my leather desert boots are well-worn. Bossy fell instantly in love. She headed toward the spray mops just for the chance to pass him, before noticing he was beelining for the cashier. This was Bossy’s cue to turn and sprint down the dairy aisle in order to collect the sole reason for her being: a carton of half-n-half.
Faster than you can say grey hair poking out of a ski hat and no wedding ring, breathless Bossy had settled behind him in the supermarket checkout lane. “Just the toilet paper and the Snickers bar?” the cashier asked Bossy’s man. Bossy wanted to form the sentence, “Sounds like a fun day to me!” until she realized it sounded like a laxative commercial. So instead Bossy stood there facing her man, silent, which Bossy once read is the number one strategy for getting remarried.
While Bossy’s man put his toilet paper and Snickers bar into the shopping bags he was already carrying from the pet store across the street, the cashier turned his attention to Bossy, “Just the half-n-half?” Bossy wanted to form the sentence, “Yes, the half-n-half to accompany the coffee that goes with his Snickers bar,” but before the words could drop like a gum-ball from her brain to her mouth, Bossy’s man had turned on his crepe rubber heels and was gone.
Bossy jammed various numbers into the debit keypad, yelling, “idon’tneedabag,” over her shoulder as she exited the store. That’s when Bossy turned to her left and saw her man loading grocery bags into his perfectly parallel-parked car.
Bossy knows what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “A parked car means he doesn’t live in Bossy’s neighborhood, because no way would anyone leave a great street parking spot at noon on a Saturday in order to drive a few blocks to the busiest parking intersection in the city so you can pick up some toilet paper, a Snickers bar, and a few dog toys for your imagined Doodle-something!”
Bossy decided to turn and walk in his direction anyway, so that magic could happen. In Bossy’s case, magic was an exchanged smile that lit up the room, if South Street, Philadelphia were a room, and if it were the beginning of a long, beautiful night instead of a frozen, windswept afternoon, and if Bossy had thought of something clever to say.
But Bossy didn’t think of anything clever to say — or even something decidedly unclever to say — she just kept walking. In the wrong direction.
Bossy can sum up her supermarket experience with her man in this way: ‘You look familiar’ didn’t occur to Bossy until later. Crap!
Which is what today’s Ten-Word Challenge is all about. In exactly ten words, can you tell Bossy what she should have said to her man for a more happy-making outcome? Or tell Bossy about a similar situation when you couldn’t think of anything to say until later?
And be sure to check back later for the best What You Should Have Said comments on the web!
*please note: if you don’t see your comment appear at first, it’s because Bossy is in the process of educating her new spam folder and clearing reader names from that list. Thank you for your patience.
The post Ten Word Tuesday – The What Should Bossy Have Said Edition appeared first on i am bossy.
And so the Antiquities Act was born, but you can call it 16 USC 431-433 for short. This act gave the sitting president full discretion to declare a National Monument of any historic landmarks, structures, or objects of historic or scientific interest.
Theodore Roosevelt’s Antiquity Act language goes like this:
… any person who shall appropriate, excavate, injure, or destroy any historic or prehistoric ruin or monument, or any object of antiquity, situated on lands owned or controlled by the Government of the United States… shall, upon conviction, be fined in a sum of not more than five hundred dollars…
The Antiquities Act language has changed a bit since those early days, and twice there has been a reduction in presidential power for specific cases (Wyoming and Alaska now require congressional consent). The act has been used successfully 157 times by 16 presidents from Teddy to O’Boyfrend — but it’s faster to name the presidents who didn’t designate a National Monument: Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and George The Father.
Even Doubleya named three marine National Monuments protecting coral reef ecosystems:
The National Monuments designation is often the first stop in converting the land to National Parks — and that is done with the help of Congress. An example of such a conversion is the Grand Canyon.
In the 111 years of the Antiquities Act, no president has ever stripped National Monument land established by a previous president.
The post National Monuments & The Antiquities Act: A Very Bossy Tutorial appeared first on i am bossy.
Hello! And welcome (back) to I Am Bossy. It’s been 1,087 days since Bossy last posted — and although Bossy never thought about her time away from writing as gone fishing, it seems others do not agree:
We all know Bossy hates change as much as discovering her post images now need to be 680 pixels x the side of Burj Khalifa, but a lot has happened in the three years since her esteemed council has gathered.
Bossy, who had been renting a one-bedroom view in a doorman-building on a running path adjacent to a river, instead decided to purchase a small sliver of brick with responsibilities:
In addition, Bossy’s job shifted. She is now working full-time for an institutional investment firm. Bossy has learned so much about bottom-up, value-oriented, quantitative global equities, she could write a book!
But luckily Bossy’s lack of financial acumen doesn’t impact her job, which is within the firm’s marketing department. Because Bossy has over four decades of experience in markets!
Bossy’s kids have also undergone a lot of changes since the last time Bossy posted. Bossy’s son is now a Justice on the Supreme Court — and Bossy’s daughter is a junior at George Washington University in the heart of D.C., where she majors in hiding from the presidential motorcade.
And of course, Bossy’s beloved Barack O’Boyfriend, who finished up his glorious second term with integrity and grace before walking hand in hand with his beautiful wife Michelle toward their civilian life — was replaced with Binge Eating Required.
So what else has Bossy been doing to pass the time? Redesigning this blog! It’s been 26,000 hours of, “please use this yellow, not that yellow,” and “can you edge the font toward the thumbnail photo never mind can you walk it back?” For her endless, cheery patience and superhero technological know-how, Bossy ultimately has her old friend Heather to thank.
Although the paint is still wet and a few rooms remain unfinished, let’s take a tour! You can sign up to receive email notices of new Bossy posts in the upper-right corner, where you can also click links to follow Bossy’s twitter account, instagram photos, facebook page, and that there ignored pinterest thingie. Bossy is treating this relaunch as an old-school blogger experiment, and as such is establishing an OG blogroll of sorts in the navigation bar. Bossy has over a hundred bloggers interested in joining Bossy in their own reinvention. Stay tuned.
Bossy has also been passing the time as a continued participant of an online dating site — or as Bossy refers to it: the discard pile. As a longstanding member, Bossy has befriended many of the men she has dated and even a few she hasn’t — and it’s always heartwarming to see when occasionally, like an orphanage, or a dog pound, someone gets adopted into their forever home.
So that just about brings things up to date! Please leave a comment and tell Bossy what you have been up to these last few years. With the Bossy reunion out of the way, it’s time to have some fun!