Born Bossy

with one-upmanship and bullying thrown in.

Jill and Me

I’m the eldest of five, so I can’t help being bossy. I was left in charge when Mum had to work full-time after Dad left without leaving any child support. I prefer to think of myself as having big sister syndrome—reliable, competent, and responsible. But my bossiness morphed into one-upmanship.

Even my kindergarten report card referred to me as bossy, which could be interpreted these days as a bully. Around age 10, after watching Mary Poppins, I rounded up my sisters, cousins, and a few neighbourhood kids. I was the producer, casting director and stage manager, and we performed “A Spoonful of Sugar” and a few other songs and dances at the institution for “spastics” – as children with disabilities were called in 1964 London. My sister Jackie (second eldest) said, “Jane made us memorize Mary Poppins songs and charged their parents to see the show. Around that same time, she had an early morning paper route and made me go with her. She was always bossing me around. And I don’t remember ever getting paid.”

I sift through old photos. Here I am at the front door, age fourteen, propping brother David (age 2) on my hip and clutching Jill (age 4) in my hand. And here we are at the lake, everyone splashing around having a riot and I’m the lifeguard on the beach. No sign of Jackie, so don’t give me the sob story about how mean I was to you.

Jill, my youngest sister, remembers when I flew a few thousand miles to cook/cater her wedding for 120 guests. I was supposed to be one of several cooks and helpers, but it never works out that way. “My friends and staff didn’t help because they were all scared of you. Yet you still managed to pull off my fantastic wedding dinner all by yourself,” said Jill. Apparently, I barked a few orders at them, like sharpen the knife before you cut the carrots and don’t cut them that way. It was faster to do everything myself than explain how to make croutons for the freaking Caesar salad. (A quick backstory and brag: I’m a trained chef and owned Canada's biggest film catering company.)

My bossiness wasn’t confined to sisters. “On the rare occasions when Jane accepted an offer of help, you were best to think of yourself as a lowly and obsequious prep cook — do exactly what you were told, exactly the way she told you, and say “yes, chef” a lot (she likes that),” said my pal Joanne. Years ago, I went with another friend of thirty years to Spain for a week, but she left two days later. We hadn’t spoken for two years- she had moved back to Vancouver from London and called; I burst out crying. We were like sisters and vowed never to fight again. That's when she told me that I accused her of not even trying to say Hola or Gracias, and she lashed back because I kept telling her what to do.

Sisters. You love them or hate them. For us, it’s been both. My whole family is bossy – so much for the eldest daughter syndrome. Actually, it’s more about being competitive. Like the song, “Whatever You Can Do, I Can Do Better,” I added to the Mary Poppins performance. Jill and I got along well until recently. Again, I flew to Ottawa ($1,200 ticket) and spent pretty much the entire time cooking and washing dishes. Jill had a few catering gigs besides Mum’s memorial. As per usual, I criticized the redneck hoser food she was making.

Here's another thing: she wanted me to sleep in the grandkid’s room, on a single bed with a polyester duvet covered in plush toys. No reading lamp. Fuming, I took two sleeping pills. Everything was getting on my nerves: the TV station blaring commercials, the AM radio in the kitchen, all the junk food in her cupboards. I couldn't wait to get home.

But I wanted to make amends, so yesterday I asked how it got to this point and how we could go back to loving each other.

“You were my cool older sister because you left home, did drugs and sold blood in Istanbul when you were sixteen and travelled the world ” said Jill, “but you were also the bossiest—worse than Jackie.” ( I was a travel writer for 20 years.) She told me that every time she says anything, Jackie (second oldest) and I must one-up her. “When you came here for Mum’s celebration, you were miserable, bitching about my cooking. But I live in Hillbilly Balderson, and you live in Vancouver. I cook for rednecks, and you catered to movie stars. I cook turkey dinner for 100, but you've served turkey for thousands.” I bit my lip. It was hard not to interrupt.

“And you had to get all the stuff out of my bedroom because there was too much clutter. This time I gave you the kid’s bed and you bitched. But I had to sleep on your pull-out couch in Vancouver."

That did it. “But my $4,000 couch is a sofa bed, hardly a comparison."

Jill said I complained about everything she does. I couldn’t hold back.

“Next time you ask for my advice, I’ll shut my mouth. You never follow up with my suggestions anyway,” I said.

“Remember when I came to Vancouver and you said I don’t know how to cook? Of course, we had been drinking. Makes me feel shitty because you are a chef and I’m not. But I cook and people like my food. You never compliment what I do. You can always do better. and I’m surprised I ever talked to you again.”

“Well here we are now, talking,” I said. Jill’s turn. “You criticized me for writing my shopping list on scraps of paper instead of making a spreadsheet. I did it my way for 15 years so why do it your way?” Fair enough, but that’s the last time I dispense advice.

Maybe you want to hear more from Jackie, so for the sake of this story only, I phoned and asked if she could remember me bossing her around.

“Yes, I can remember just last year when we all went to Montreal and you swore that you knew the way to that restaurant you booked. But we ended up walking two miles. I kept saying we were going to the wrong way, but you’re the boss.” That’s not quite true. Admittedly, I steered us a few blocks in the wrong direction, but the only exercise Jackie gets is pumping her arm at the casino – she whined about walking.

“And years ago, when I got to Jill’s cottage in Norway Bay, everyone was sitting outside and you were sprawled across the little outdoor couch. I asked you to politely move, but you wouldn’t. So, I picked you up and dropped you on the ground and said, “There, bossy boots, how do you like that?”

“First, I don’t remember you picking me up and dropping me. Second, you don’t have that super power. And third, what the fuck does that have to do with me being bossy? If it really happened, which it didn’t, why brag about being a bully?”

Clearly, I’d opened Pandora’s Box. “You got to leave home at 16, but I had to get a job after school and give Mum half my wages for rent,” she whined. Well, there you have it. Jackie resents me. She continued.

“You were even bossy about me snoring, but everyone was.” How does she know that? “I told you to get your own room next time.” There won’t be a next time. “I can laugh about it now because that is just the way Jane is, but it wasn’t funny at the time, you were annoying.” Clearly, calling Jackie was a mistake. I took a deep breath to maintain a semblance of composure.

To stop my head from exploding and before letting her reply, I knocked on my desk a few times. “Someone’s at the door, I gotta go.” She fell for it.

Now that Jill and I were on speaking terms, I told her about Jackie’s bully “memory” and she had no recollection either. We talked a bit about why we are all so competitive. “ I think we were vying for attention because Dad was never around,” I said, “but it was easier for you being much younger…”

“Hey wanna fly out here in July for the grandkids’ birthday and help me cater a few weddings?”

“Only if you pay me and promise that we don’t go to the casino or the mall.”

“Sheesh, I am 60 and you’re still telling me what to do.”

“Yeah Jill, but I’m 70.

We both laughed. “I still love you,” Jill said. “Me too.” But I’m not seeing my family in July. If we can ever stop bickering over being bossy, maybe next year. Maybe we’ll always compete and boss each other around, but I’m hopeful that talking again will keep one-upmanship and bullying at bay.