(cross-posted from Facebook)
I have a very common name. I have the most obvious e-mail address that could be associated with my name. Many people who share my name get confused and give out my address instead of their own; or possibly their correspondents guess wildly and never imagine that there could be a real person on the receiving end of their attempts at communication. Whatever the reason, I get a LOT of misdirected messages, sometimes with resumes, addresses, banking information, or naked photos attached. The following are some of the gems of my collection. It's text-only, but proceed with caution: some of the messages towards the end may induce mental images that cannot be mentally unseen.
------------------
[I really hope this wasn't an attempt to hire me as an assassin.]
"Ian Boots"
Philip to me
Hello Rachel.
I would like to use a photo of yours for a story on Ian Boots.
Though I can't pay for it right now, if you have a website, I would be more than willing to put your site on mine as a text link.
And of course, for next year, when I have the budget to pay for shots, I would hire you to shoot players for me.
Could you get back to me on this?
-------------
[isn't she sweet]
Merry Christmas!
Andrea to ...
Good morning ladies,
I was just called as a visiting teaching district leader and am lucky to have the opportunity to get to work with all of you! Hopefully you are all ready for Christmas and have been enjoying the Christmas season so far. Just wanted to send some Christmas wishes your way. May the Spirit of the Lord bless you and your loved ones this season and always.
Merry Christ-mas!
--------
[how do you get Postel from Lewis??]
Hello!
t***@columbia.edu to me
Dear Ms. Postel,
I hope all is well. I am a recent graduate (May 2, 2009) from Columbia
University School of Engineering currently searching for a full time
analyst position at Credit Suisse. I am currently working at the
Portfolio Group Analytics at BlackRock, Inc. I've learned a lot of
market fundamentals in this position and wish to further develop my
passion for finance at your firm. Based on my knowledge of the GMSG division at Credit Suisse, I believe my ambition coupled with my analytical and interpersonal skills with allow me to make a strong impact as an GMSG Analyst. I am inquiring at this time if there are any open positions within your firm, as I would love the opportunity to work for the GMSG group at Credit Suisse. I have attached my resume for your review.
Please feel free to contact me at any time via email or phone at
610-***. I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Best,
Frank
---------
[This is one of several messages about this event--they REALLY wanted me to come]
Nursing Times Awards 2009 - Guest Names Reminder
Dear Guest,
I hope you are looking forward to the Nursing Times Awards 2009 that are fast approaching on the 18th November.
Just a reminder that the deadline to submit your guest names for your table or seats is Monday 9th November.
Please fill your names in the spreadsheet attached and return to no later than Monday 9th.
Tickets have been dispatched today.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
thank you
Victoria.
----------------------
[One of many CVs that this ad got me]
Sales Assistant Vacancy
Hannah to me
Dear Madam,
Please find attached my CV regarding you current Vacancy in your Jewel Nation Birmingham store. Please do not hesitate to contact me for any further information you may require.
Yours Sincerely
Hannah
cv1.doc
----------
[and another]
sales assistant vacancy
Zoe to me
After our previous phone call i have e-mailed you with an attachment of my cv and covering letter
look forward to hearing from you.
Zoe.
-----------
[I would kind of like to be able to give a talk on pediatric cardiology]
RE: academic session
Next Tuesday, at 2 30PM, we will have 2 academic talks, Sarah Pasquale on KD and Rachel Lewis on ECMO in pediatric cardiology. It would be nice if we could have the ICU attendings come if possible for this teaching activity and discussion.
Thanks,
Usha
--------------------
[I wonder who Harrison and Eric are and why Harrison is so much better than Eric. The document had confidential banking information in it]
info you requested
Tom to me
I'm really glad to hear you have Harrison - I didn't know if I'd like Eric as well! Talk to you all tomorrow.
doc20090910201824.pdf
Same Tom:
Info we spoke about today
Tom to me
Rachel,
Attached is both Good Faith Estimates (Ooltewah and East Brainerd). They should certainly be very close to the actual numbers. Look them over with Harrison. Should you all have any questions, don't hesitate to call me on my cell after hours.
[I didn't call him on his cell after hours but I probably would have if he'd included the number]
-------------------
Syllabus
Robin to me
Rachel,
I don't have a syllabus for any humanities classes to date. The professors
usually produce them closer to the start date.
Robin
-----------------------
[I totally should have asked them to pay for my transportation to the interview]
Invitation to Interview
Barbara to me
Good morning Rachel:
I mailed you a formal invitation this morning to come and interview at our facility but I am emailing you a copy also to save time.
As the letter states, we interview on Tuesdays and will be interviewing through October. If you would like to accept our invitation please let me know what day would be convenient for you to come to Atlanta to interview and tour our facility.
If you need to reach me you may call my office at 404-*** or email me.
Children's Healthcare of Atlanta@Egleston
------------
[This one made me nervous--does he know something I don't know?]
David to me
I hope the move goes well and that you arrive in the US without incident! Talk to you when you get here.
----------------
[another interview offer: this Rachel Lewis seems to have given out my e-mail both while applying for jobs and when posting notices for available positions when she got a job as a manager. I wonder which other of her life events I'll get to witness.]
Invitation To Interview
Simon to me
Rachel,
As discussed on Monday I am delighted to invite you to a formal interview with HPJ Jewellers.
I will be interviewing you for the position of Designate Branch Manager on Wednesday 25th of March AT 0930hrs (Venue TBC).
Prior to your interview please give some thought to the following scenario:
Brief:
You are successful in your application and have successfully completed your probation period.
You are placed in a high profile Flagship Store as permanent Branch Manager.
The Store is seriously under-performing in all aspects of sales, service, operations.
The Store Team believe that all performance issues are because of the recession.
The Challenge:
What would you do to influence the Store Team to deliver better sales, service, operational performance moving forwards ?
How would you change the current Store Team perception that everything is Ok ?
I will confirm the venue for interview by the close of business on Friday.
Regards,
Simon.
-------------
[I wonder if she got in]
Columbia Postbac Premed Application
Amy to me
Dear Ms. Lewis:
Thank you for your application for admission to Columbia University’s Postbaccalaureate Premedical Program. In order for the admissions committee to review your application for the spring 2009 semester, the Office of Admissions must receive the following items without delay:
...
Unofficial copies of transcripts and test results may be emailed directly to me or faxed to 212.***. If you have any questions regarding your application or the admissions process, please do not hesitate to contact our offices at 212***.
Sincerely,
Amy
Columbia University School of General Studies
----------------
[this one may be one of my favourite exchanges of all time]
Tonight
***@***.ac.uk to me
Genevieve
Sending this from college email because the other wretched one is not
working again. So cannot read you messages from earlier yet!
I will work on the potential arguments, but without much conviction. You
do not really have to manipulate me, I am already round your little
finger.
I got home before herself, which is good, as it helps in being later on
other occasions.
Each time I see you it gets better, and the leaving gets worse. That's
just how it is and how it will be until something gives.
Thank you coming to see me, but mainly just for being you.
Will write in the morning, and in the meantime will just think and then
dream, and then think again, of you my Darling
Clive
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Rachel to ***
Hi there. I just wanted to let you know that this e-mail is
misdirected. Perhaps you should double-check Genevieve's correct
address. In your situation it could be very unfortunate to have
e-mails go astray.
cheers
Rachel, not Genevieve.
***@***.ac.uk to me
Rachel (not Genevieve)
Thank you for your consideration! Duly checked and error identified.
Clive
[I was wowed by his savoir-faire--most adulterous professors wouldn't have the nerve to write back. Also, facebook keeps suggesting that I invite him to be my friend. That would be...awkward.]
---------------------
jthomasmobile: have you seen that?
me: I'm sorry, I don't understand
jthomasmobile: I just sent you an email which should have appeared probably six inches over my IM
me: I saw the picture but I didn't recognize the people or location
did you mean to send it to someone else?
jthomasmobile: it's Tony
me: I don't know who that is
jthomasmobile: oh damnit
jthomasmobile: do you have any idea who I am?
me: nope, sorry
jthomasmobile: I apologize, this must be the wrong email address
me: no problem. I get a lot of misdirected e-mails
jthomasmobile: you didn't go to Amherst?
me: nope.
-----------------
[Apparently there's a Rachel Lewis at JP Morgan. I got a couple of notes from her colleagues, as well as this.]
Resume
Alex to me
Ms. Rachel Lewis:
My grandmother, Rosalie, gave my resume to your mother earlier this summer, but I thought I would send another copy to you to make sure you received it and to tell you a little bit more about myself. I am currently entering my third year at the University of *** and will be starting the undergraduate program at the *** School of Commerce this fall. When I first heard about the abroad opportunities at JPMorgan, I was very excited and felt that this program was a perfect fit for me. I have always had a love of both finance and travel, and I feel as though your summer intern programs could be the ideal union of these two passions.
As a new member of the business community, I have a lot to learn. I will be spending the next school year with a community of talented and hardworking individuals, students and teachers alike. When I go into the working world, I hope to continue in the same type of dynamic learning environment. At JPMorgan, I have no doubt that this hope would not be disappointed. Throughout the company's website, the ideas of continuous leaning and challenging oneself are stressed. With JPMorgan's excellent reputation and energetic staff, I cannot think of a better group to train with toward this goal. I have seen throughout my life that the best way to gain knowledge is by working hands-on. By being immersed in the fast-paced business world like any regular employee, I will be able to challenge myself; I will learn both from my practiced colleagues and from my own personal experience. I will test what I have learned in the classroom and push myself to reach my fullest potential.
Along with learning from those around me, I know that I will be able to make my own personal impact on the JPMorgan community. One of JPMorgan's top assets is its ability to cooperate and work as a team. I have worked in numerous team-oriented environments, such as the Young Women Leader's Group and the Executive Board of Delta Zeta sorority. In these capacities, I have been involved in a variety of projects whose success hinged on an effective combination of individual and group activities. In addition, the McIntire School of Commerce is unique in its program of study because of its emphasis on group cooperation. All new students are divided into small teams which work together throughout the year for a common grade. This type of learning prepares students for the realities of the business world, where the group outcome is more important than that of the individual. Because of this I will be more able to quickly adapt to the team-based environment I am sure to find in your offices.
I would love to become a part of the JPMorgan team and learn the inner workings of major business functions through a summer of working and learning alongside your expert staff. I hope to hear from you soon, and am available at any time. Thank you for this exciting opportunity.
Sincerely,
Alex
Resume.doc
Rachel Lewis to Alex
Actually it's Dr. Rachel Lewis, and I have no connection with
JPMorgan. Perhaps you should check the e-mail address of your intended
addressee before you distribute your resume or other personal
doccuments.
all the best in your job search
the other Rachel Lewis
-------------
[Again I should have asked them to provide transportation]
See you at the Races on Sat - Epsom Derby
Rachel Lewis to Beth
Hi there. You are probably trying to reach a different rachel lewis.
I live in canada and would have a hard time getting to the races by
train. Cheers: the other rachel
--------------
[I wonder if she renewed her locker contract]
Locker Renewal
Xavier to ...
Hello DePaul Student,
This message is to remind you that your Locker Contract with DePaul
University will be expiring on June 15th 2008. Please make sure that you
empty out your locker before this date. We will be cleaning out the
lockers after June 15th, so if we find anything in the locker, it will
become the property of DePaul University. DePaul University will not be
responsible for any of your loss in this matter.
---------------
[maybe I *should* take spanish lessons....good idea, Rachel Lewis!]
Course Schedule
ELEBAIRES Español para extranjeros to me
Hola Rachel!
I just wanted to get in touch with you to let you know that your private lessons schedule will be Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday from 13 until 17 hours. Please don´t hesitate to call or email if you have any questions or concerns. Enjoy your weekend!
Saludos,
Sarah
--------------
[I should have gone and brought her some edible underwear]
SAVE THE DATE-BRIDAL SHOWER
Please save the date and come!
You are invited to a
Bridal Shower
for
Beth
Charlottesville, Virginia
---------------
[I would like to pull credit, whatever that is]
NCO Credit Services
Lori to me
Rachel, can you please give me a call at 630-*** so we can get your account established so you can pull credit. Best regards,
Lori
------------
[I get tetchy when people get my title wrong]
Window Glass
Cooper to me
Mrs. Lewis,
Please see below the information pertaining to your window over your Andersen Patio Door.
Rachel Lewis to Cooper
Hi there. I think you have the wrong e-mail address. I'm not Mrs.
Lewis, I'm Dr. Lewis, and I do not own an Andersen Patio Door.
cheers
the other Rachel.
---------------
[I should have struck up conversations with all of these women and seen how long it took them to realize that I'm not the Rachel Lewis they think I am]
re: email addresses
Ladies:
Some of you had requested the email addresses of your fellow Women In Golf classmates. Well, here are the addresses that I have.
----------
[the first of several messages from what turned out to be a bot on a bdsm dating site--I still haven't figured out where my e-mail address comes into the picture]
Hey!
Jimmy to me
Hey there Rachel!
You definitely are a hotty! I go down to Austin quite a bit, so maybe we could get together one weekend! If you would like to chat you can e-mail or IM me at the address I just contacted you at. Hope to talk to you soon!
~Jimmy
-----------------
[number two]
whatcha doing?
Gary to me
Hi Rachel,
I am soooooooooo bummed out. You have not replied to my reply I won't hold it against you however, cuz I really want to get to know you better. Sorry if my first mail was a bit off color. Just having some fun using details off your profile.
So hot stuff, whatcha up to? How's things in the capital city?
Me? at work, as usual chasing down some problems we are having with the ultra pure water system. I am in semiconductors, something there is a lot of in Austin. I am a project manager/engineer at a defense contractor here in Dallas.
So what do you do to keep yourself busy? I can think of some stuff we can do together to stay busy.
Throw me a line, OK? I also like pictures.
Gary
Rachel Lewis to Gary
Hi there. I think you might be trying to reach someone else. I've been getting e-mails that are apparently directed to someone who has a profile on alt.com or a similar alternative dating site. I've got friends who use those sites, but I don't use them myself.
Good luck finding the right Rachel Lewis.
Gary Johnson to me
Hey so sorry. My guess is you have really bad friends who think putting your picture or a picture they say is you on a dating web site and then sending out come-ons to guys with your email. I have attached a copy of the picture for you. If this is you, you might know who's ass to kick.
Gary
Rachel Lewis to Gary
No, I don't know that person, but she's totally hot! :-)
Gary to me
Like a woman would say that.
[which raises the question: does he KNOW any women?]
------------------
[and now, the crown jewel in my collection]
Greetings from Sire Strict Love
Sire David
Hello rachel,
I did send you an email from alt... I take it that you probably didnt get it... so here it is again... I hope to hear from you soon.
Sire David aka Daddy
Hello rachel,
I saw your profile a couple of days ago (and winked) but wanted wait until I had the time to commit to do a well written, clear letter for you... I am also very pleased to see that you also had an interest and added me to your hotlist.
so anywho...
I am David.
I have been involved in the Ds/BDSM lifestyle for quite some time now (11+ years) and I am very confident in my abilities, but still strive to become better.
I can best be characterized as a "Daddy" Dom...
I take care of, protect, nurture, teach and even spoil my girl.
but on the flip side...
I also play with, use, discipline, punish, lecture and train as needed and wanted.
I have a strong belief in rituals and protocol.
What I am looking for in a slave/girl is desire and passion... I do not want to have to "break" her. I want her to do for me because that is what she wants to do... because in pleasing me she finds happiness and fulfillment within herself; and I will help her do that.
While I get so much enjoyment from playing with my slave/girl; the power exchange, the relationship, the connection is what is most important to me. If we don't have that then the play is meaningless.
I am all over the spectrum of activities enjoyed... there are some that I do more frequently and some things that are so hot that I don’t use them that often just to keep them special.
I like to play with different sensations ranging from tickling to paddles... rope bondage to shrink wrap... soft & sensual to hard & sadistic...
you list yourself as a switch, and that is fine... I don't think that a couple should ever limit themselves to what they can do together... if you wanted to play/top that may be allowed as a reward/gift to you.
on a "vanilla" note... I like to play the drums, camping, cooking (you can do the cleaning part LOL ), concerts, playing pool and working out, I am also competitive and like to play games.
Trust, honesty & communication are vital to the success of a D/s relationship.
I like a slave/girl that can be spunky or bratty at times... but she will know when it is appropriate to do so or be able to stop when commanded.
I believe in safe, sane and consensual...
I don't do scat or animals (I do like ponygirls though).
I am VERY protective... I will never hand you over to another Dom... I take exception to other people hurting and leaving marks on my girl...
I am not abusive... I am a Dom, a Master, a Daddy... everything that is done to you is because you want to be there and accept it, either because it is what you want for your pleasure or because it is what you want for my pleasure.
There may be things I ask/command you to do that you will not like... but it is those things that best prove your loyalty, passion and desire for me.
I will ALWAYS put your well being before my own, before your wants and before my wants...
Yes you are a submissive... and with that you are the most valuable thing in the world to me.
You are a LADY and will be treated as such and act accordingly (no matter how you are dressed). Behind closed doors you can still be my dirty lil slut though.
I am loving and caring... but know that I am also firm and swift. I have a low tolerance for disobedience.
I am forever forgiving... but that forgiveness will not come easy... it will be earned.
I can be silly and will make you laugh a lot, but I am as serious as heart attack as soon as you stray from the path of obedience and respect.
Also keep in mind that I want more from my girl than D/s and BDSM, I want deep friendship, companionship and love.
Well I think I said enough here.
I hope that you find further interest in what I said.
I think you are extremely beautiful and if your submission is only a fraction of that then you will be a very good girl to have.
I look forward to your response.
BTW You can also I'M me (look in my pics for the how)
Be good rachel...
David
posed031805.JPG
Sire11.JPG
shower031805.jpg
["Well I think I said enough here." <--file under U for Understatement]
Monday, January 24, 2011
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The latest entry in the "I crack myself up" files
http://twitter.com/BuddhistHulk
Everything is funnier in all caps.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Bhante Mixalot
This manuscript was recently discovered in the jungles of Burma. The author (given the unusual name Bhante Mixalot) was clearly a devoted student of Buddhism, judging by his references to "vedana" (feeling tone), atimana (superiority-conceit), sakkayaditthi (belief in an independently existing permanent self), bhikkhus (mendicant monks), devas (celestial beings), yakkhas (demons), and kilesas (suffering states of mind). The song seems to be his complaint about the persistent seduction of mental proliferation, indicating that despite his ardent practice he had not yet made much progress along the road to liberation. There are several lacunae in the manuscript. Perhaps other scholar-practitioners will be able to form conjectures about the missing content of this verse
---------------
I like big thoughts and I cannot lie
You meditators can’t deny
That when a thought walks in with a pleasant vedana
and some sweet atimana
I get caught: I can’t help myself
Proliferating future selves--
Although I know I’m raving
I’m hooked and I can’t stop craving
Identity—I wanna become ya
I’m takin’ on ya
My teacher tries to warn me
But a thought comes up—sakkayaditthi!
Ooh--these sankharas,
sometimes they seem to have no end
but I'm workin', workin',
coz I ain't no uninstructed worldling.
I see thoughts dancin'
but I'm still advancin'
I just note it when my mind is racin' like a turbo jet.
I’m tired of magazines
Sayin’ self-improvement is the thing
Take the average bhikkhu and ask him that
He’ll say the self ain’t that.
So Bhikkhus! (Yeah!) Bhikkhus! (Yeah!)
Do you know your self ain’t that? (Hell yeah!)
Just shake it! (Shake it!) Shake it! (Shake it!)
Shake that sense of self
Self ain’t that!
(Got no use for sakkayaditthi)
…
A word to my kilesas: I'm gonna erase ya--
no time to waste here
But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna [OMMM]
Till the break of dawn
Got my sati goin' on
A lot of simps won't like this song
'Cause them punks like to sit and then quit it
And I'd rather stay all day
'Cause samadhi is strong
And I'm down to get my insight on
So devas! (Yeah!) Devas! (Yeah!)
You wanna cool your kilesas? (Yeah!)
Give it up! Throw it out!
Even yakkshas got to shout
Self ain’t that
Yeah bhikkhus—when it comes to rebirths,
this cosmos ain’t got nothin’ to do with my selection.
Identify with form, mind, consciousness? --Only if you want to suffer!
So your practice is really movin’
Your Chopra tapes are groovin’
But you’ve still got a self that you’ve improving.
My aspiration don’t want none
But libera-tion, hun.
You can do yoga and pujas
But don’t think your self is that.
Some bhikkhus wanna play that hard role
and say there ain't no self at all
so they get all nihilistic
but I keep an eye on my sila!
So greed says I need that
but I ain't down with that
Though the fires of greed may be overrulin’
I’m thinkin’ ‘bout coolin’
So I got some samadhi and pitti,
but I'm not stopping there
I'm on a mission to the unconditioned,
startin' with some bodhicitta
…
So bhikkhus if you're feeling caught
and you wanna really know what's what
dial 1-900-anatta: I'll tell you what it's all about:
Self ain’t that!
(No matter what you’re looking at your self ain’t that)
(This is the version performed on April 28 at DPP3 Dharma Follies)
---------------
I like big thoughts and I cannot lie
You meditators can’t deny
That when a thought walks in with a pleasant vedana
and some sweet atimana
I get caught: I can’t help myself
Proliferating future selves--
Although I know I’m raving
I’m hooked and I can’t stop craving
Identity—I wanna become ya
I’m takin’ on ya
My teacher tries to warn me
But a thought comes up—sakkayaditthi!
Ooh--these sankharas,
sometimes they seem to have no end
but I'm workin', workin',
coz I ain't no uninstructed worldling.
I see thoughts dancin'
but I'm still advancin'
I just note it when my mind is racin' like a turbo jet.
I’m tired of magazines
Sayin’ self-improvement is the thing
Take the average bhikkhu and ask him that
He’ll say the self ain’t that.
So Bhikkhus! (Yeah!) Bhikkhus! (Yeah!)
Do you know your self ain’t that? (Hell yeah!)
Just shake it! (Shake it!) Shake it! (Shake it!)
Shake that sense of self
Self ain’t that!
(Got no use for sakkayaditthi)
…
A word to my kilesas: I'm gonna erase ya--
no time to waste here
But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna [OMMM]
Till the break of dawn
Got my sati goin' on
A lot of simps won't like this song
'Cause them punks like to sit and then quit it
And I'd rather stay all day
'Cause samadhi is strong
And I'm down to get my insight on
So devas! (Yeah!) Devas! (Yeah!)
You wanna cool your kilesas? (Yeah!)
Give it up! Throw it out!
Even yakkshas got to shout
Self ain’t that
Yeah bhikkhus—when it comes to rebirths,
this cosmos ain’t got nothin’ to do with my selection.
Identify with form, mind, consciousness? --Only if you want to suffer!
So your practice is really movin’
Your Chopra tapes are groovin’
But you’ve still got a self that you’ve improving.
My aspiration don’t want none
But libera-tion, hun.
You can do yoga and pujas
But don’t think your self is that.
Some bhikkhus wanna play that hard role
and say there ain't no self at all
so they get all nihilistic
but I keep an eye on my sila!
So greed says I need that
but I ain't down with that
Though the fires of greed may be overrulin’
I’m thinkin’ ‘bout coolin’
So I got some samadhi and pitti,
but I'm not stopping there
I'm on a mission to the unconditioned,
startin' with some bodhicitta
…
So bhikkhus if you're feeling caught
and you wanna really know what's what
dial 1-900-anatta: I'll tell you what it's all about:
Self ain’t that!
(No matter what you’re looking at your self ain’t that)
(This is the version performed on April 28 at DPP3 Dharma Follies)
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Puss-in-boots, as told to my nephew
Once upon a time there was a simple young man who inherited nothing from his father but an old cat and a pair of boots. This young man had fallen in love with the daughter of a wealthy merchant, but although she loved him too, he knew that her father would never consent to her marrying a poor man.
He was sitting in front of his fire one night, bemoaning his fortune, when his cat said, "Do not fear, master. I know how to help you marry the woman you love."
The young man exclaimed, "Aaa! A talking cat!"
The end.
He was sitting in front of his fire one night, bemoaning his fortune, when his cat said, "Do not fear, master. I know how to help you marry the woman you love."
The young man exclaimed, "Aaa! A talking cat!"
The end.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The joy of roommates
"Ah, you're done on the phone. Who was on the phone?"
"Me."
".....I meant the other end of the phone."
"Me."
".....I meant the other end of the phone."
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Buddhist Personality Types
At the 3-month retreat at IMS in 2005, Myoshin Kelly gave a very funny talk on the traditional Buddhist personality types. (It was Hallowe'en, which seemed like a good time for talking about the masks we wear.) I was inspired by that talk to write the following quiz. Being me, I emphasized the funny side of the types; I also followed Myoshin's lead in breaking the aversion type down into anger and fear, which is not part of the traditional teachings. The text of the quiz is copied below; follow the link for a version with scoring.
http://www.helloquizzy.com/tests/the-buddhist-personality-type-test
This is my highly un-scholarly presentation of the traditional Buddhist method of classifying personalities. The categories (Greed, Deluded or Confused, Aversive-Angry, and Aversive-Fearful) correspond to the Three Unwholesome Roots. Everyone is greedy (angry/fearful/confused) sometimes, and everyone has the potential to be free from these causes of suffering. But when you start out on the journey of liberation, you need to know where you're starting from. If your natural tendency is to anger, different practices will be useful to you than if your natural tendency were to confusion. Ready to find out your faults? Let's go be spiritual warriors!
1 In school, I was always
chatting with my friends.
correcting the teacher.
sitting at the back hoping the teacher wouldn't call on me.
doodling.
2 When I get to the beach the first thing I say is
"Check out that hot lifeguard!"
"There's garbage lying everywhere!"
"Do you think there's an undertow?"
"I forgot my swimsuit...again..."
3 My morning routine is
extensive. I don't want to leave the house until I look my best.
hurried. There's nothing wrong with going out with wet hair.
never routine. My car keys are never where I thought I left them, so I'm always running late.
4 My wardrobe is
carefully chosen. I love to wear flattering clothes by prestigious designers.
functional. I mostly dress to be under the radar.
crammed with everything I've ever worn. It's so confusing getting dressed in the morning. Sometimes a friend will point out that I've combined stripes and plaid again.
basic. I don't waste time following fashions.
5 When a friend suggests an activity, my automatic response is,
"That's the best idea I've ever heard! Let's do it RIGHT NOW!"
"That is completely lame."
"It sounds dangerous," or "I'm not in the mood."
"I guess...if you want to..."
6 School. Extracurricular activities.
I was a cheerleader, duh!
I organized the Amnesty International club and hassled everyone to join.
I mostly stayed at home and listened to my Morrisey albums.
I did whatever my friends were doing.
7 School. Social life.
My social life suffered because I tended to steal people's boy/girlfriends.
My social life suffered because I alienated people by correcting their pronunciation.
I was pretty much a loner.
I hung out with the same group of people all the time.
8 People would be happier if
they took time to enjoy life. People don't focus on the positive side of things enough.
they lived better lives. How can you be happy if you're not doing what's right?
they just mellowed out. What's the point in making such a big deal out of everything?
they slowed down. I don't understand why most people feel like they have to take on so many responsibilities.
9 Shopping
is a sport, and I'm in the major leagues.
is a necessary evil. I go in, get what I need, get out again.
is a nightmare. With twenty brands of jam on the shelves, how am I supposed to pick one? And let's not even talk about clothes shopping. I daydream about having a personal shoopper who will tell me what I need.
is a necessary evil. I go in, get what I need, get out again, before someone pisses me off and I have to kill them.
10 At dinner time, I think
"Wow, this looks great! I wonder if there's more?"
about the calories and cholesterol per serving.
"It's dinner time already? Where did the day go?"
"The lettuce is wilted."
11 At the movies, I'm most likely to say
"That actor is totally hot."
"The script is totally derivative."
"Why are they shooting at that one guy?"
I prefer to go to the movies by myself, thanks.
12 My friends' affectionate nickname for me is
Sparky.
Eeyore.
Silent but deadly.
The Space Cadet.
13 My motto is
"Nothing succeeds like excess."
"If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."
"Look before you leap."
"When the going gets tough, the tough take a nap."
14 Okay. I admit it. Sometimes I can be
deceitful, if it will help me get what I want.
bitchy, when people aren't doing things right.
anxious and paranoid.
clueless--but my fantasy world is just so much more interesting than the real world.
15 What people appreciate most about me is
my fun-loving nature.
my penetrating intellect.
my easy-going, accepting nature.
16 When things aren't going my way, I figure
they'll improve as soon as I get that one thing I want (a raise/a new partner/a fancy dinner/new clothes)
it's someone else's fault, and I should help them see the error of their ways.
things are probably just going to get worse, and I should lay low for a while.
...could you repeat the question?...What are you talking about? Everything's fine. Really.
17 I think I'm probably
the greedy type--or, as I like to call it, the sensual type.
the aversive type--but it's not my fault I'm so fearful or angry: it's the fault of my upbringing. Or maybe I am just a bad person. *sigh*
the confused type. The situations I get into would be funny if they were happening to someone else.
...um...I see myself in all the types. I'm not sure. What do you think?
http://www.helloquizzy.com/tests/the-buddhist-personality-type-test
This is my highly un-scholarly presentation of the traditional Buddhist method of classifying personalities. The categories (Greed, Deluded or Confused, Aversive-Angry, and Aversive-Fearful) correspond to the Three Unwholesome Roots. Everyone is greedy (angry/fearful/confused) sometimes, and everyone has the potential to be free from these causes of suffering. But when you start out on the journey of liberation, you need to know where you're starting from. If your natural tendency is to anger, different practices will be useful to you than if your natural tendency were to confusion. Ready to find out your faults? Let's go be spiritual warriors!
1 In school, I was always
chatting with my friends.
correcting the teacher.
sitting at the back hoping the teacher wouldn't call on me.
doodling.
2 When I get to the beach the first thing I say is
"Check out that hot lifeguard!"
"There's garbage lying everywhere!"
"Do you think there's an undertow?"
"I forgot my swimsuit...again..."
3 My morning routine is
extensive. I don't want to leave the house until I look my best.
hurried. There's nothing wrong with going out with wet hair.
never routine. My car keys are never where I thought I left them, so I'm always running late.
4 My wardrobe is
carefully chosen. I love to wear flattering clothes by prestigious designers.
functional. I mostly dress to be under the radar.
crammed with everything I've ever worn. It's so confusing getting dressed in the morning. Sometimes a friend will point out that I've combined stripes and plaid again.
basic. I don't waste time following fashions.
5 When a friend suggests an activity, my automatic response is,
"That's the best idea I've ever heard! Let's do it RIGHT NOW!"
"That is completely lame."
"It sounds dangerous," or "I'm not in the mood."
"I guess...if you want to..."
6 School. Extracurricular activities.
I was a cheerleader, duh!
I organized the Amnesty International club and hassled everyone to join.
I mostly stayed at home and listened to my Morrisey albums.
I did whatever my friends were doing.
7 School. Social life.
My social life suffered because I tended to steal people's boy/girlfriends.
My social life suffered because I alienated people by correcting their pronunciation.
I was pretty much a loner.
I hung out with the same group of people all the time.
8 People would be happier if
they took time to enjoy life. People don't focus on the positive side of things enough.
they lived better lives. How can you be happy if you're not doing what's right?
they just mellowed out. What's the point in making such a big deal out of everything?
they slowed down. I don't understand why most people feel like they have to take on so many responsibilities.
9 Shopping
is a sport, and I'm in the major leagues.
is a necessary evil. I go in, get what I need, get out again.
is a nightmare. With twenty brands of jam on the shelves, how am I supposed to pick one? And let's not even talk about clothes shopping. I daydream about having a personal shoopper who will tell me what I need.
is a necessary evil. I go in, get what I need, get out again, before someone pisses me off and I have to kill them.
10 At dinner time, I think
"Wow, this looks great! I wonder if there's more?"
about the calories and cholesterol per serving.
"It's dinner time already? Where did the day go?"
"The lettuce is wilted."
11 At the movies, I'm most likely to say
"That actor is totally hot."
"The script is totally derivative."
"Why are they shooting at that one guy?"
I prefer to go to the movies by myself, thanks.
12 My friends' affectionate nickname for me is
Sparky.
Eeyore.
Silent but deadly.
The Space Cadet.
13 My motto is
"Nothing succeeds like excess."
"If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."
"Look before you leap."
"When the going gets tough, the tough take a nap."
14 Okay. I admit it. Sometimes I can be
deceitful, if it will help me get what I want.
bitchy, when people aren't doing things right.
anxious and paranoid.
clueless--but my fantasy world is just so much more interesting than the real world.
15 What people appreciate most about me is
my fun-loving nature.
my penetrating intellect.
my easy-going, accepting nature.
16 When things aren't going my way, I figure
they'll improve as soon as I get that one thing I want (a raise/a new partner/a fancy dinner/new clothes)
it's someone else's fault, and I should help them see the error of their ways.
things are probably just going to get worse, and I should lay low for a while.
...could you repeat the question?...What are you talking about? Everything's fine. Really.
17 I think I'm probably
the greedy type--or, as I like to call it, the sensual type.
the aversive type--but it's not my fault I'm so fearful or angry: it's the fault of my upbringing. Or maybe I am just a bad person. *sigh*
the confused type. The situations I get into would be funny if they were happening to someone else.
...um...I see myself in all the types. I'm not sure. What do you think?
Monday, November 17, 2008
The proper use of technology
Tonight I asked a friend to help me prepare for a class presentation. My presentation is on long-distance collaborations. I figured I'd tell them about some of the tools I've used over the years, like blogs and skype, and give a demonstration of a nifty skype add-on called Talk and Write by doing a live skype call with my friend, during which we'd collaborate on drawing a picture.
This is the first picture we drew together.
Perhaps we should draw something different for my class presentation.
This is the first picture we drew together.
Perhaps we should draw something different for my class presentation.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
nonself portraits
This is a picture of me.
Or maybe it's a picture of my brother. My parents say it's me, but it was in with a bunch of pictures from the winter after my brother was born; and in any case one baby looks pretty much like another.
This is a picture of me.
Now the likeness is clear: the hopeful expression, the lopsided smile, the vast enthusiasm about food. But they say that every cell in our bodies changes at least every seven years, so in what sense is this eager little being me?
This is a picture of me.
It's from my days in a medical imaging lab. I liked to volunteer for scanning sessions in the MRI units; I found the confined spaces restful. This is from my very first session. The guy who was using me to test imaging protocols gave me some snapshots as souvenirs. I'm sure it's me in this picture; I remember the jokes I was cracking as I was strapped into the helmet. And yet, where is there any me-ness in this photograph? Looking at this image, do you say, "That anterior cingulate cortex is sooooo Rachel"? You have now gotten inside my head in the most literal way--and what is it that is there? Some mushy material of varying densities and textures.
This is a picture of me.
Well, not exactly. It's a picture taken from a fortuitously flattering angle at a party where I'd made a special effort to get all dolled up. It's also been edited to take out red-eye and to even out my complexion.
This is a picture of me.
Actually it's a photo of me fed into the aging simulator at http://morph.cs.st-andrews.ac.uk//
This isn't how I look--yet.
Or maybe it's a picture of my brother. My parents say it's me, but it was in with a bunch of pictures from the winter after my brother was born; and in any case one baby looks pretty much like another.
This is a picture of me.
Now the likeness is clear: the hopeful expression, the lopsided smile, the vast enthusiasm about food. But they say that every cell in our bodies changes at least every seven years, so in what sense is this eager little being me?
This is a picture of me.
It's from my days in a medical imaging lab. I liked to volunteer for scanning sessions in the MRI units; I found the confined spaces restful. This is from my very first session. The guy who was using me to test imaging protocols gave me some snapshots as souvenirs. I'm sure it's me in this picture; I remember the jokes I was cracking as I was strapped into the helmet. And yet, where is there any me-ness in this photograph? Looking at this image, do you say, "That anterior cingulate cortex is sooooo Rachel"? You have now gotten inside my head in the most literal way--and what is it that is there? Some mushy material of varying densities and textures.
This is a picture of me.
Well, not exactly. It's a picture taken from a fortuitously flattering angle at a party where I'd made a special effort to get all dolled up. It's also been edited to take out red-eye and to even out my complexion.
This is a picture of me.
Actually it's a photo of me fed into the aging simulator at http://morph.cs.st-andrews.ac.uk//
This isn't how I look--yet.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Best Foot Forward
(An essay written some years ago by my great-aunt Mary, who herself lived independently into her nineties, about her mother Greta, my great-grandmother. May I be worthy of my brave and resourceful foremothers.)
There is a mirror in my front hall where I look to see if I’m presentable before going out. I’ve also noticed visitors stopping to take a quick glance and pat their hair in place.
The psychologist Carl Jung had a name for this common behaviour. He explained that we were putting on a persona—a mask.
There are other names for it. My mother called it “putting your best foot forward”.
Greta Ethel Jones was born in 1884 on a farm near a small town in New Brunswick. Life in those days was still ordered by the rules of the Victorian era: young women were carefully chaperoned, were required to sit stiffly upright on chairs, and never hung their undergarments on a clothesline without first hiding those unmentionables under towels or pillowcases. In Greta’s family such rules were all the more strict because her forebears had come as United Empire Loyalists from Boston, known then as the most conventional of cities.
In her family the women would work their fingers to the bone to cover up the fact that money was scarce. “We kept the house shining and always had fresh baking on hand for visitors. My sisters saw to that. They thought I was hopeless in the kitchen, except for cleaning up. I dusted furniture and plate rails, polished banisters, scrubbed floors and helped beat the dust out of carpets every spring. Most of the time we couldn’t afford a hired girl.”
Absorbed in the world of childhood, I paid little attention to Mother’s stories of her young days. Later I understood that not all had been well at her home. There must have been at least one family secret. When her father came in weaving unsteadily on his feet, probably no one would say a word although all knew he had been imbibing with the hired man in the barn.
Greta had three older sisters. There is a photograph of the family posed outdoors in front of the farmhouse veranda. Mother and daughters are seated in front of Father and a brother. The girls sit prim and ladylike, decorously clothed in long-sleeved, frilly blouses and dark skirts down to their toes. All four of them wear their hair in high puffs over the forehead in the fashionable Gibson Girl style of the day. Their mother, sitting stiffly erect, wears a black dress with high-boned collar. Father stands in correct patriarchal pose, thumb hooked into waistcoat above a gold watch and chain.
Masks are in place. They have all assumed their personae.
Since my mother never spoke about a brother, I had forgotten that she ever had one. Much later I found in her scrapbook of baptismal certificates and school diplomas a clipping from a Texas newspaper, the obituary of a Charles Jones. When I asked about him, she admitted that he was indeed her brother, written off long ago by his family. It embarrassed her even then to speak of the reason for his exile. His crime? His wife had divorced him. At that time the only legal reason was adultery. I think Mother somehow avoided using that wicked word.
I envied her childhood growing up on a farm. Imagine, being allowed at age fifteen to drive the horse-drawn buggy into town! There were other entertainments as well. She mentioned dips in the sea when she went “down to the Cape” in the summer holidays. One can imagine the ladies well covered in voluminous bathing costumes, including long stockings since legs—limbs, rather—were classed among the unmentionables. Back at the farm on hot summer afternoons they no doubt relaxed on wicker chairs in the shade, chatting as they bent over embroidery hoops. Greta would be doing fancy stitches on pillowcases for her “hope chest” until her mother sent her in to get lemonade for the visitors when the gossip began to get spicy.
It was winter fun that she enjoyed the most: riding in a horse-drawn sleigh with everyone singing, skating in the moonlight on a pond swept clear of snow, and, on Saturdays, skating to music in the indoor rink.
One winter, my sisters and I (all born in Vancouver) persuaded her to go skating with us on False Creek on one of the rare times it froze. We smiled at her old-fashioned skates, but in spite of middle age she outclassed us all. She was a girl again, whirling and dipping as if she was waltzing, with no lack of partners, to the music of a band.
Greta enjoyed school and developed an enduring love for poetry. As young ladies did then, she memorized reams of poems. She especially admired Longfellow. I remember, as a teen-ager, wriggling with embarrassment in case one of my girl friends should happen to hear her recite:
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town
And my youth comes back to me.
She admitted that she had many “beaux”. The most devoted one (and the one she found least interesting) was Edward. “He used to moon at me with big sad eyes,” she said. She ignored him right up to the end of high school days, but at graduation they had to go up together to receive their prizes as the two top students.
She dreamed of travelling, but with no money that was impossible. With school days over she found a “position” in a jewellery shop. It must have been then that she acquired the red satin evening gown that, as small girls, we liked to use for dress-ups, though we always tripped over the hobble skirt.
“I went to all the parties with different beaux—chaperoned, of course!” said Mother.
“Did you ever go to parties with Father?” I asked.
“Oh no. He wasn’t a good dancer. If he were at the same party, he would stare at me from the edge of the dance floor. I used to flirt with my partners just to tease him.”
Edward’s father was a lawyer who saw little future in the depressed economy of the Maritimes. Like many others, he responded to the lure of the West and in 1908 moved with his wife and younger children to the growing city of Vancouver. Edward joined them after finishing an apprenticeship in mechanical engineering.
Before he left, he begged Greta to come out west to marry him as soon as he was established. She must have thought, an exciting new land to discover away from home…a husband with a good income…a fine house…. At any rate, she didn’t exactly say No and she apparently continued to answer his letters.
Perhaps it was Greta’s mother who pressured her into marrying Edward after his father was appointed a civil court judge in Vancouver. The marriage would give their family prestige and take one of the four daughters off her hands. At any rate Greta finally accepted Edward’s proposal.
When the news of the engagement was announced, her discarded beaux had incisive comments to make:
“He has a bad temper. He’s terribly spoiled!”
“You’ll never be able to put up with him!”
“I’ll give you one year before you leave him!”
Young ladies did not travel alone in those days, especially by train all across Canada. The family chose her cousin Henrietta, who was a few years older, to accompany her. “She was always the serious one,” Mother explained. However, I can imagine both young ladies flirting (discreetly, of course) with any suitable, unattached gentlemen aboard.
Henrietta had grown up in Greta’s family and received the same schooling. My sisters and I used to laugh to hear the two of them recite poetry together when they were peeling vegetables or doing other household tasks:
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
“Good speed!” cried the watch….
Henrietta remained Greta’s best friend and her most loyal defender. She put us properly in our place one time when we were criticizing the way Mother did her hair—long hair had gone out of fashion, replaced by short bobs—“Not one of you can hold a candle to your mother for looks!”
From her we learned episodes from Mother’s early married life that she herself had not seen fit to tell us. When she was a young newlywed, Edward’s excessive jealousy led to breaks with friends. What quarrels the two of them must have had at home after social occasions! With those big blue eyes, she was a natural flirt—even in old age. It didn’t take her long to learn what would follow if she even smiled at another man. Dances and parties dwindled to nothing, to be replaced by stuffy dinners every Sunday with her in-laws.
Mother told us that once Edward had said in a fit of temper, “I should beat you!”
“You do," she said, "and that will be the last you ever see of me!”
Edward never did any such thing, of course. He was not that kind of person, and in any case, he could not have lived without her. Emotionally, he was completely dependent upon her.
After Mother’s death, I collected all her old photos into one album. Pictures taken on a steep, wooded trail showed two young couples; mountain climbing seemed to have replaced sitting with embroidery hoops, even though skirts were still long. Edward and his friend Max, whom Henrietta had married, had earlier discovered the joys of hiking, and the four of them used to climb Grouse Mountain and Hollyburn ridge. That was before the babies came.
Father was deeply involved with photography, which accounted for the many pictures of children. In one photo, the young mother is pushing the first baby—myself—in a wicker stroller in front of the bungalow that the couple had bought in the Grandview area of Vancouver. In 1913 the east end of the city was a middle class residential district with some aspirations to upper-middle-class status and must have been quite an acceptable address. But Mother probably envied her friends who had made more advantageous marriages and could afford to live in the more affluent suburbs of Kerrisdale or Shaughnessy. Father had only a small salary and because of the Depression was afraid to demand more, although, as an inventive mechanical engineer, he must have been one of his company’s best assets.
In the photograph with the first baby, Mother looks elegant in a well-fitted tailored suit with skirt down to her ankles. On her head is a smart, narrow-brimmed straw hat with flowers and her arms are covered by gloves to the elbow. These must have been clothes that she brought from New Brunswick in her trousseau for I can’t remember her ever wearing new clothes while we were children. In fact, she wore the same felt hat during all the time I was in high school.
I remember her saying, “I had my hands full with four babies in eight years!” I was the eldest; then came my brother Kenneth and my two sisters. Actually after that there was one more baby, a boy, who died at six months from pneumonia—no antibiotics then. For several years after his death, early every Sunday morning she and Father used to walk to the cemetery—quite a distance—and after that long walk she had to get four children ready for morning church service. Tennyson’s words may have come to her mind:
Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
Grandfather, who was very fond of his daughter-in-law, must have seen that she was reaching a breaking point. To give her a holiday away from the demands of four young children and Edward (more oldest child than husband), he presented her with the train fare to go back to visit her family in New Brunswick. For a month, Greta’s children were distributed among family members and Edward had to come home to an empty house. No doubt he wept from loneliness.
By 1919 our parents needed more room for their growing family. They took out a mortgage on a larger, three-bedroom house only a few blocks away from their first bungalow. It had a handsome living room and front parlour and must have meant social prestige to my mother, but with the Great Depression of the 1930s it really meant doing without many things. Because Father feared being laid off, he was afraid to demand higher wages from his employers. Mother had to count every penny and work harder than ever to compensate.
To make clothes for the first two children she had been able to afford a dressmaker from whom she quickly learned the skills she would need later. Later, when the four of us came home from school, the sewing machine was nearly always open in front of the big window in the living room. Her children would be well dressed no matter what! She could do wonders with hand-me-downs and garments turned inside out and re-sewn when the colours had faded. A favourite dress I wore in high school days has remained forever memorable because it was actually made from new material, sent by her sisters “back East” who deplored Mother’s foolishness in having so many children.
“I don’t see old friends often now, the ones who live in Shaughnessy. No car, too little money, too many children!” She said that in fun to some visitor, but to her it was no joke.
Once a year she gave an elaborate afternoon tea for those well-to-do friends. She must have spent days house-cleaning, re-decorating and baking. Probably none of those visitors suspected that Greta herself had painted the outside steps and varnished the floor in the front hall.
She would lay a fine cutwork cloth on the living room table, and bring out the good china and the silver tea service that must have been a wedding present. On hand-painted, gold-edged plates, goodies of all kinds would be displayed—not the large oatmeal cookies that she made for us, but fancy delicacies like coconut macaroons. Just before the tea she would prepare tiny, open-faced shrimp sandwiches. Flowers from the garden would make the table look elegant. She had a way with flowers.
When Father came home tired at six in the evening, we were expected to keep quiet. Children never talked at the table. Father did all the talking, mostly about his bad day at the office. We were scolded for improper manners and fled from the table as soon as possible, outdoors or up to our rooms where we were to do our homework and keep out of the way. Mother had her hands full with Father. It upset her badly when he lashed out in anger at her or the children. I can see now why she became such an expert manipulator.
Sunday dinners were at the home of Father’s parents or alternately at our dining room table. “They had to make do with macaroni and cheese or scalloped potatoes with ham. I couldn’t afford their big roasts of beef,” I heard mother say.
The most relaxing times for her, as well as for her children, were the two summer months spent at Gibsons. Camping with the “in” thing in those days. Three families, all related, put up tents on waterfront property in Gibsons Bay. It must have been pleasant for Mother to have sisters-in-law close by for company. Other families camped around the bay, and the ladies had tea parties to which children were not invited. Adults went swimming in those droopy bathing suits that look so ridiculous now in photos and children spent most of their time in or on the water. There began my brother’s infatuation with the sea.
It amazes me now to realize how free from supervision we were as children at Gibsons. Did Mother worry about us if we were absent for half a day? I think not. She was busy again with friends her own age and with her flowers and a vegetable garden. From a small iron camp stove, apparently without effort, she produced pies and cornbread and her delectable chowder from clams that were there for the digging on the sand bar at low tide. The enormous washings she hung on the line in Vancouver gave place to a much smaller wash since her children lived mostly in bathing suits.
On weekends life became tense again when the “Daddy Boat” brought fathers up from jobs in Vancouver. Mother had to see that we wore shoes and clothes and were properly dressed for Sunday church. When the weekend was over, we were back in bathing suits and she had time to sit under the trees…
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half dream!
or to sit by the shore…
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach
And tender curving lines of creamy spray….
Because of Father’s jealous nature, Mother’s friendships were restricted to women. She was by nature a sociable person, but since she had married into a rigid Protestant family, church groups were her main social outlet. For some years she was president of the Ladies Aid Society. She may not have been business-like in that office, but everyone liked her, and her skills at manipulation, learned the hard way, must have ensured harmony among the women.
Somehow she survived the years of our growing up with the attendant problems of lack of money, teen-age rebellions and the necessity of keeping peace in the family. Perhaps because she had lost a son in infancy and her own brother in time past, her only son Kenneth was very important to her. I remember Father saying, "Greta, you spoil that boy. He’ll never amount to anything!”
Eventually we all married and went our different ways. For her, life must have been easier for a few years with more disposable income and peace at home. The house mortgage was finally paid off and I wonder now how they had ever kept up with the payments when we were all to be fed, clothed, and educated.
As for many women, World War II disrupted her life since her son was the right age to enlist in the Navy. But how proud she was of him as he rose through the ranks to become Lieutenant Commander!—although she must have worried continually and prayed for his survival.
Then, one day in 1943, Father arrived home unexpectedly at noontime. “I’ve quit my job—can’t take it any longer. We’re going to sell this house and move to Gibsons.”
He was then sixty-nine and had already survived a heart attack. Always impatient, he sold the house at the first offer for far less than it was worth although this would be all they had to live on for the rest of their lives. Old Age Pensions were not introduced until a few years later—at all of thirty dollars a month.
The summer cottage, not well insulated, now became their home, and Greta commenced to turn the grounds into a beautiful garden. In spite of the hard physical work, her life must have been less stressful—except when her daughters visited with all their children. To feed visitors was not easy. She managed somehow, again making her famous clam chowder and pies from the fruit tress that Grandfather had planted years before.
She gained a certain distinction in Gibsons because of her son’s continuing letters from the Battle of the Atlantic. Acquaintances frequently asked, “Have you heard from Kenneth lately?” Because of the lack of war news his letters were eagerly awaited, and she must have read them over and over before she proudly let them be circulated among friends in the community.
Because of his bad heart, Father spent most of his time lying on his leather couch or sitting in the garden on warm days. To keep him from being bored, Mother urged friends to drop in; she enjoyed being hostess and offered tea and her coconut macaroons. There were always cards in the evenings; if there was no other company, Father and his sister—who after retirement came to live in the house next door—joined her in a game of rummy.
Five years after moving to Gibsons, Father died quietly at home. The daughters who lived far away came back for his funeral. There was grieving, of course, but Mother adapted to the change as strong women have always done.
Her much-loved son lived through the war, and Mother had even more reason to be proud of him when he attained the rank of Commander in the Royal Canadian Navy.
Then her life fell apart completely. After five years of surviving Nazi submarines, Kenneth was killed, not at sea, but in the air, in a plane crash near Toronto.
Mother never fully recovered from that tremendous blow. Whatever direction her conversation took, it always returned to Kenneth. But life had to go on, and she was to fulfill one of her dreams. When she was eighty-two, one of her sisters in New Brunswick, who has “married well”, died and left her some money with the proviso that she spend it all on herself, NOT ON THOSE CHILDREN! All on her own she arranged to fulfill her lifetime dream of travelling. This was not to be just a trip to the Maritimes or even to Europe but around the world by rail, ship, and air. In her album is a large coloured photograph taken in a dining saloon on shipboard somewhere on the Pacific. She is resplendent in a long turquoise dinner gown and is wearing diamond earrings, rings and bracelets, which had also come from her sister. (Mother always did love jewellery, and wore it with elegance.) Her companions on the ship must have seen her as a gracious, wealthy, elderly lady. She was all that; all except wealthy. Perhaps she had told them that she lived in a house by the sea in a beautiful garden. They would not know that the house was only a summer cottage, not quite warm enough in winter, and that her income was very limited. She would have no inherited money left after spending it all to see Mount Fujiyama and the Taj Mahal.
On shipboard she acquired another “beau”. In the photo he is sitting beside her at the table: a handsome, elderly man from New York; a retired magazine editor. After the trip he came all the way across the continent to ask her to marry him.
“Why didn’t you?” I once asked.
“I didn’t want another old man to look after!”
Even into her nineties, Mother managed to live alone, with some help from two close friends. She had lost the son who had promised to look after her in old age, and her daughters were too involved with their large families although we visited of course. She rarely mentioned the aches and pains that kept her awake at night. I was visiting her one day when her doctor called. The young man seemed to regard her as a special friend, even using her first name.
“How are you today, Greta? Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, no, I’m feeling fine. Thank you for dropping by when you must be so busy.”
“Mother, I said, when the young man had left, “why didn’t you tell him about your aching bones? He could give you something to help.” She smiled and did not answer. Old warriors refuse to admit defeat.
In a local newspaper of 1977, a young journalist who was doing a series on pioneer women reported as follows on his interview with her:
She lives in a long, low house just back from the Bay in Gibsons. A small brook wanders through her property, making its way to the sea. Sitting in her kitchen you can just make out the noise of the water. Greta, whose lively eyes and quick movements belie the fact that she was ninety-four last October, likes the sound of her brook. “It sings to me,” she says. From talking to her you realize that, if anyone can hear a brook sing, she is the one. She’s a lady with a touch of poetry in her.
Greta outlived most of her generation. The old camping days were long gone and all the older folk as well, even her cousin Henrietta and the sister-in-law who had lived beside her for many years. A niece who now occupied the house next door looked in on her every day, and a friend stayed with her at night. I was away on the last day of her life in September 1979, only a month from her ninety-fifth birthday. It was from the niece that I heard the ending of her story.
There is a mirror in my front hall where I look to see if I’m presentable before going out. I’ve also noticed visitors stopping to take a quick glance and pat their hair in place.
The psychologist Carl Jung had a name for this common behaviour. He explained that we were putting on a persona—a mask.
There are other names for it. My mother called it “putting your best foot forward”.
Greta Ethel Jones was born in 1884 on a farm near a small town in New Brunswick. Life in those days was still ordered by the rules of the Victorian era: young women were carefully chaperoned, were required to sit stiffly upright on chairs, and never hung their undergarments on a clothesline without first hiding those unmentionables under towels or pillowcases. In Greta’s family such rules were all the more strict because her forebears had come as United Empire Loyalists from Boston, known then as the most conventional of cities.
In her family the women would work their fingers to the bone to cover up the fact that money was scarce. “We kept the house shining and always had fresh baking on hand for visitors. My sisters saw to that. They thought I was hopeless in the kitchen, except for cleaning up. I dusted furniture and plate rails, polished banisters, scrubbed floors and helped beat the dust out of carpets every spring. Most of the time we couldn’t afford a hired girl.”
Absorbed in the world of childhood, I paid little attention to Mother’s stories of her young days. Later I understood that not all had been well at her home. There must have been at least one family secret. When her father came in weaving unsteadily on his feet, probably no one would say a word although all knew he had been imbibing with the hired man in the barn.
Greta had three older sisters. There is a photograph of the family posed outdoors in front of the farmhouse veranda. Mother and daughters are seated in front of Father and a brother. The girls sit prim and ladylike, decorously clothed in long-sleeved, frilly blouses and dark skirts down to their toes. All four of them wear their hair in high puffs over the forehead in the fashionable Gibson Girl style of the day. Their mother, sitting stiffly erect, wears a black dress with high-boned collar. Father stands in correct patriarchal pose, thumb hooked into waistcoat above a gold watch and chain.
Masks are in place. They have all assumed their personae.
Since my mother never spoke about a brother, I had forgotten that she ever had one. Much later I found in her scrapbook of baptismal certificates and school diplomas a clipping from a Texas newspaper, the obituary of a Charles Jones. When I asked about him, she admitted that he was indeed her brother, written off long ago by his family. It embarrassed her even then to speak of the reason for his exile. His crime? His wife had divorced him. At that time the only legal reason was adultery. I think Mother somehow avoided using that wicked word.
I envied her childhood growing up on a farm. Imagine, being allowed at age fifteen to drive the horse-drawn buggy into town! There were other entertainments as well. She mentioned dips in the sea when she went “down to the Cape” in the summer holidays. One can imagine the ladies well covered in voluminous bathing costumes, including long stockings since legs—limbs, rather—were classed among the unmentionables. Back at the farm on hot summer afternoons they no doubt relaxed on wicker chairs in the shade, chatting as they bent over embroidery hoops. Greta would be doing fancy stitches on pillowcases for her “hope chest” until her mother sent her in to get lemonade for the visitors when the gossip began to get spicy.
It was winter fun that she enjoyed the most: riding in a horse-drawn sleigh with everyone singing, skating in the moonlight on a pond swept clear of snow, and, on Saturdays, skating to music in the indoor rink.
One winter, my sisters and I (all born in Vancouver) persuaded her to go skating with us on False Creek on one of the rare times it froze. We smiled at her old-fashioned skates, but in spite of middle age she outclassed us all. She was a girl again, whirling and dipping as if she was waltzing, with no lack of partners, to the music of a band.
Greta enjoyed school and developed an enduring love for poetry. As young ladies did then, she memorized reams of poems. She especially admired Longfellow. I remember, as a teen-ager, wriggling with embarrassment in case one of my girl friends should happen to hear her recite:
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town
And my youth comes back to me.
She admitted that she had many “beaux”. The most devoted one (and the one she found least interesting) was Edward. “He used to moon at me with big sad eyes,” she said. She ignored him right up to the end of high school days, but at graduation they had to go up together to receive their prizes as the two top students.
She dreamed of travelling, but with no money that was impossible. With school days over she found a “position” in a jewellery shop. It must have been then that she acquired the red satin evening gown that, as small girls, we liked to use for dress-ups, though we always tripped over the hobble skirt.
“I went to all the parties with different beaux—chaperoned, of course!” said Mother.
“Did you ever go to parties with Father?” I asked.
“Oh no. He wasn’t a good dancer. If he were at the same party, he would stare at me from the edge of the dance floor. I used to flirt with my partners just to tease him.”
Edward’s father was a lawyer who saw little future in the depressed economy of the Maritimes. Like many others, he responded to the lure of the West and in 1908 moved with his wife and younger children to the growing city of Vancouver. Edward joined them after finishing an apprenticeship in mechanical engineering.
Before he left, he begged Greta to come out west to marry him as soon as he was established. She must have thought, an exciting new land to discover away from home…a husband with a good income…a fine house…. At any rate, she didn’t exactly say No and she apparently continued to answer his letters.
Perhaps it was Greta’s mother who pressured her into marrying Edward after his father was appointed a civil court judge in Vancouver. The marriage would give their family prestige and take one of the four daughters off her hands. At any rate Greta finally accepted Edward’s proposal.
When the news of the engagement was announced, her discarded beaux had incisive comments to make:
“He has a bad temper. He’s terribly spoiled!”
“You’ll never be able to put up with him!”
“I’ll give you one year before you leave him!”
Young ladies did not travel alone in those days, especially by train all across Canada. The family chose her cousin Henrietta, who was a few years older, to accompany her. “She was always the serious one,” Mother explained. However, I can imagine both young ladies flirting (discreetly, of course) with any suitable, unattached gentlemen aboard.
Henrietta had grown up in Greta’s family and received the same schooling. My sisters and I used to laugh to hear the two of them recite poetry together when they were peeling vegetables or doing other household tasks:
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
“Good speed!” cried the watch….
Henrietta remained Greta’s best friend and her most loyal defender. She put us properly in our place one time when we were criticizing the way Mother did her hair—long hair had gone out of fashion, replaced by short bobs—“Not one of you can hold a candle to your mother for looks!”
From her we learned episodes from Mother’s early married life that she herself had not seen fit to tell us. When she was a young newlywed, Edward’s excessive jealousy led to breaks with friends. What quarrels the two of them must have had at home after social occasions! With those big blue eyes, she was a natural flirt—even in old age. It didn’t take her long to learn what would follow if she even smiled at another man. Dances and parties dwindled to nothing, to be replaced by stuffy dinners every Sunday with her in-laws.
Mother told us that once Edward had said in a fit of temper, “I should beat you!”
“You do," she said, "and that will be the last you ever see of me!”
Edward never did any such thing, of course. He was not that kind of person, and in any case, he could not have lived without her. Emotionally, he was completely dependent upon her.
After Mother’s death, I collected all her old photos into one album. Pictures taken on a steep, wooded trail showed two young couples; mountain climbing seemed to have replaced sitting with embroidery hoops, even though skirts were still long. Edward and his friend Max, whom Henrietta had married, had earlier discovered the joys of hiking, and the four of them used to climb Grouse Mountain and Hollyburn ridge. That was before the babies came.
Father was deeply involved with photography, which accounted for the many pictures of children. In one photo, the young mother is pushing the first baby—myself—in a wicker stroller in front of the bungalow that the couple had bought in the Grandview area of Vancouver. In 1913 the east end of the city was a middle class residential district with some aspirations to upper-middle-class status and must have been quite an acceptable address. But Mother probably envied her friends who had made more advantageous marriages and could afford to live in the more affluent suburbs of Kerrisdale or Shaughnessy. Father had only a small salary and because of the Depression was afraid to demand more, although, as an inventive mechanical engineer, he must have been one of his company’s best assets.
In the photograph with the first baby, Mother looks elegant in a well-fitted tailored suit with skirt down to her ankles. On her head is a smart, narrow-brimmed straw hat with flowers and her arms are covered by gloves to the elbow. These must have been clothes that she brought from New Brunswick in her trousseau for I can’t remember her ever wearing new clothes while we were children. In fact, she wore the same felt hat during all the time I was in high school.
I remember her saying, “I had my hands full with four babies in eight years!” I was the eldest; then came my brother Kenneth and my two sisters. Actually after that there was one more baby, a boy, who died at six months from pneumonia—no antibiotics then. For several years after his death, early every Sunday morning she and Father used to walk to the cemetery—quite a distance—and after that long walk she had to get four children ready for morning church service. Tennyson’s words may have come to her mind:
Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
Grandfather, who was very fond of his daughter-in-law, must have seen that she was reaching a breaking point. To give her a holiday away from the demands of four young children and Edward (more oldest child than husband), he presented her with the train fare to go back to visit her family in New Brunswick. For a month, Greta’s children were distributed among family members and Edward had to come home to an empty house. No doubt he wept from loneliness.
By 1919 our parents needed more room for their growing family. They took out a mortgage on a larger, three-bedroom house only a few blocks away from their first bungalow. It had a handsome living room and front parlour and must have meant social prestige to my mother, but with the Great Depression of the 1930s it really meant doing without many things. Because Father feared being laid off, he was afraid to demand higher wages from his employers. Mother had to count every penny and work harder than ever to compensate.
To make clothes for the first two children she had been able to afford a dressmaker from whom she quickly learned the skills she would need later. Later, when the four of us came home from school, the sewing machine was nearly always open in front of the big window in the living room. Her children would be well dressed no matter what! She could do wonders with hand-me-downs and garments turned inside out and re-sewn when the colours had faded. A favourite dress I wore in high school days has remained forever memorable because it was actually made from new material, sent by her sisters “back East” who deplored Mother’s foolishness in having so many children.
“I don’t see old friends often now, the ones who live in Shaughnessy. No car, too little money, too many children!” She said that in fun to some visitor, but to her it was no joke.
Once a year she gave an elaborate afternoon tea for those well-to-do friends. She must have spent days house-cleaning, re-decorating and baking. Probably none of those visitors suspected that Greta herself had painted the outside steps and varnished the floor in the front hall.
She would lay a fine cutwork cloth on the living room table, and bring out the good china and the silver tea service that must have been a wedding present. On hand-painted, gold-edged plates, goodies of all kinds would be displayed—not the large oatmeal cookies that she made for us, but fancy delicacies like coconut macaroons. Just before the tea she would prepare tiny, open-faced shrimp sandwiches. Flowers from the garden would make the table look elegant. She had a way with flowers.
When Father came home tired at six in the evening, we were expected to keep quiet. Children never talked at the table. Father did all the talking, mostly about his bad day at the office. We were scolded for improper manners and fled from the table as soon as possible, outdoors or up to our rooms where we were to do our homework and keep out of the way. Mother had her hands full with Father. It upset her badly when he lashed out in anger at her or the children. I can see now why she became such an expert manipulator.
Sunday dinners were at the home of Father’s parents or alternately at our dining room table. “They had to make do with macaroni and cheese or scalloped potatoes with ham. I couldn’t afford their big roasts of beef,” I heard mother say.
The most relaxing times for her, as well as for her children, were the two summer months spent at Gibsons. Camping with the “in” thing in those days. Three families, all related, put up tents on waterfront property in Gibsons Bay. It must have been pleasant for Mother to have sisters-in-law close by for company. Other families camped around the bay, and the ladies had tea parties to which children were not invited. Adults went swimming in those droopy bathing suits that look so ridiculous now in photos and children spent most of their time in or on the water. There began my brother’s infatuation with the sea.
It amazes me now to realize how free from supervision we were as children at Gibsons. Did Mother worry about us if we were absent for half a day? I think not. She was busy again with friends her own age and with her flowers and a vegetable garden. From a small iron camp stove, apparently without effort, she produced pies and cornbread and her delectable chowder from clams that were there for the digging on the sand bar at low tide. The enormous washings she hung on the line in Vancouver gave place to a much smaller wash since her children lived mostly in bathing suits.
On weekends life became tense again when the “Daddy Boat” brought fathers up from jobs in Vancouver. Mother had to see that we wore shoes and clothes and were properly dressed for Sunday church. When the weekend was over, we were back in bathing suits and she had time to sit under the trees…
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half dream!
or to sit by the shore…
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach
And tender curving lines of creamy spray….
Because of Father’s jealous nature, Mother’s friendships were restricted to women. She was by nature a sociable person, but since she had married into a rigid Protestant family, church groups were her main social outlet. For some years she was president of the Ladies Aid Society. She may not have been business-like in that office, but everyone liked her, and her skills at manipulation, learned the hard way, must have ensured harmony among the women.
Somehow she survived the years of our growing up with the attendant problems of lack of money, teen-age rebellions and the necessity of keeping peace in the family. Perhaps because she had lost a son in infancy and her own brother in time past, her only son Kenneth was very important to her. I remember Father saying, "Greta, you spoil that boy. He’ll never amount to anything!”
Eventually we all married and went our different ways. For her, life must have been easier for a few years with more disposable income and peace at home. The house mortgage was finally paid off and I wonder now how they had ever kept up with the payments when we were all to be fed, clothed, and educated.
As for many women, World War II disrupted her life since her son was the right age to enlist in the Navy. But how proud she was of him as he rose through the ranks to become Lieutenant Commander!—although she must have worried continually and prayed for his survival.
Then, one day in 1943, Father arrived home unexpectedly at noontime. “I’ve quit my job—can’t take it any longer. We’re going to sell this house and move to Gibsons.”
He was then sixty-nine and had already survived a heart attack. Always impatient, he sold the house at the first offer for far less than it was worth although this would be all they had to live on for the rest of their lives. Old Age Pensions were not introduced until a few years later—at all of thirty dollars a month.
The summer cottage, not well insulated, now became their home, and Greta commenced to turn the grounds into a beautiful garden. In spite of the hard physical work, her life must have been less stressful—except when her daughters visited with all their children. To feed visitors was not easy. She managed somehow, again making her famous clam chowder and pies from the fruit tress that Grandfather had planted years before.
She gained a certain distinction in Gibsons because of her son’s continuing letters from the Battle of the Atlantic. Acquaintances frequently asked, “Have you heard from Kenneth lately?” Because of the lack of war news his letters were eagerly awaited, and she must have read them over and over before she proudly let them be circulated among friends in the community.
Because of his bad heart, Father spent most of his time lying on his leather couch or sitting in the garden on warm days. To keep him from being bored, Mother urged friends to drop in; she enjoyed being hostess and offered tea and her coconut macaroons. There were always cards in the evenings; if there was no other company, Father and his sister—who after retirement came to live in the house next door—joined her in a game of rummy.
Five years after moving to Gibsons, Father died quietly at home. The daughters who lived far away came back for his funeral. There was grieving, of course, but Mother adapted to the change as strong women have always done.
Her much-loved son lived through the war, and Mother had even more reason to be proud of him when he attained the rank of Commander in the Royal Canadian Navy.
Then her life fell apart completely. After five years of surviving Nazi submarines, Kenneth was killed, not at sea, but in the air, in a plane crash near Toronto.
Mother never fully recovered from that tremendous blow. Whatever direction her conversation took, it always returned to Kenneth. But life had to go on, and she was to fulfill one of her dreams. When she was eighty-two, one of her sisters in New Brunswick, who has “married well”, died and left her some money with the proviso that she spend it all on herself, NOT ON THOSE CHILDREN! All on her own she arranged to fulfill her lifetime dream of travelling. This was not to be just a trip to the Maritimes or even to Europe but around the world by rail, ship, and air. In her album is a large coloured photograph taken in a dining saloon on shipboard somewhere on the Pacific. She is resplendent in a long turquoise dinner gown and is wearing diamond earrings, rings and bracelets, which had also come from her sister. (Mother always did love jewellery, and wore it with elegance.) Her companions on the ship must have seen her as a gracious, wealthy, elderly lady. She was all that; all except wealthy. Perhaps she had told them that she lived in a house by the sea in a beautiful garden. They would not know that the house was only a summer cottage, not quite warm enough in winter, and that her income was very limited. She would have no inherited money left after spending it all to see Mount Fujiyama and the Taj Mahal.
On shipboard she acquired another “beau”. In the photo he is sitting beside her at the table: a handsome, elderly man from New York; a retired magazine editor. After the trip he came all the way across the continent to ask her to marry him.
“Why didn’t you?” I once asked.
“I didn’t want another old man to look after!”
Even into her nineties, Mother managed to live alone, with some help from two close friends. She had lost the son who had promised to look after her in old age, and her daughters were too involved with their large families although we visited of course. She rarely mentioned the aches and pains that kept her awake at night. I was visiting her one day when her doctor called. The young man seemed to regard her as a special friend, even using her first name.
“How are you today, Greta? Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, no, I’m feeling fine. Thank you for dropping by when you must be so busy.”
“Mother, I said, when the young man had left, “why didn’t you tell him about your aching bones? He could give you something to help.” She smiled and did not answer. Old warriors refuse to admit defeat.
In a local newspaper of 1977, a young journalist who was doing a series on pioneer women reported as follows on his interview with her:
She lives in a long, low house just back from the Bay in Gibsons. A small brook wanders through her property, making its way to the sea. Sitting in her kitchen you can just make out the noise of the water. Greta, whose lively eyes and quick movements belie the fact that she was ninety-four last October, likes the sound of her brook. “It sings to me,” she says. From talking to her you realize that, if anyone can hear a brook sing, she is the one. She’s a lady with a touch of poetry in her.
Greta outlived most of her generation. The old camping days were long gone and all the older folk as well, even her cousin Henrietta and the sister-in-law who had lived beside her for many years. A niece who now occupied the house next door looked in on her every day, and a friend stayed with her at night. I was away on the last day of her life in September 1979, only a month from her ninety-fifth birthday. It was from the niece that I heard the ending of her story.
She was having trouble breathing. I’m sure she knew she was nearing the end. I phoned her doctor and called the hospital, and then I helped her dress. A friend had come to drive her to Emergency, and the car was already at the door.
“Wait just a minute, dear," she said.
She started down the hall, and I followed, afraid she would collapse.
You won’t believe what Aunt Greta did! She went into her bedroom, looked in the mirror, and put on her earrings!
Friday, January 11, 2008
A Canadian WASP sings the blues
On a recent flight I was listening to the blues music channel on Air Canada's "personal entertainment system". It cut out right in the middle of a good song when we started descending, and I felt bereft for a moment. "No," I thought, "Blues all gone! ... I'm sad! ... I have...no-blues blues.....heyyyyy...."
I should note that the Frantics sang a rather different song called "The no-blues blues" on CBC radio back in the late eighties.
I should also note that I personally own neither a Prius, an iPod, nor a condo.
Woke up this mornin':
Couldn't sing the blues.
You know 'bout that, baby--
Got them no blues blues.
I got me some money;
My man ain't done me wrong.
I ain't had nothin' to sing about
In oh! so very long.
I ain't got no street cred
cause I never seem to lose
my case of---no blues blues.
Got into my Prius
Drove on downtown:
Gotta see my accountant
'Bout my retirement plan.
He said, "Honey, you're laughin',
Got it made in the shade."
I asked him, "Should I be happy
With my mortgage all paid?
How can I be down and out
With brand new Prada shoes?"
Well, I got them---no blues blues.
So I turned up my iPod
'til I got to the mall.
If it weren't for good luck
I'd have no luck at all.
Got back to my condo
Put my key in the door:
There's my baby, vacuuming,
With piles of clean laundry all over the floor.
He says, "Honey, I missed you,
Now tell me, what's the news?"
Well I gots them low down no good---no blues blues.
I'm crying into my latte
'coz my life story is a snooze.
All us bourgeois bohemians got them---no blues blues.
I should note that the Frantics sang a rather different song called "The no-blues blues" on CBC radio back in the late eighties.
I should also note that I personally own neither a Prius, an iPod, nor a condo.
Woke up this mornin':
Couldn't sing the blues.
You know 'bout that, baby--
Got them no blues blues.
I got me some money;
My man ain't done me wrong.
I ain't had nothin' to sing about
In oh! so very long.
I ain't got no street cred
cause I never seem to lose
my case of---no blues blues.
Got into my Prius
Drove on downtown:
Gotta see my accountant
'Bout my retirement plan.
He said, "Honey, you're laughin',
Got it made in the shade."
I asked him, "Should I be happy
With my mortgage all paid?
How can I be down and out
With brand new Prada shoes?"
Well, I got them---no blues blues.
So I turned up my iPod
'til I got to the mall.
If it weren't for good luck
I'd have no luck at all.
Got back to my condo
Put my key in the door:
There's my baby, vacuuming,
With piles of clean laundry all over the floor.
He says, "Honey, I missed you,
Now tell me, what's the news?"
Well I gots them low down no good---no blues blues.
I'm crying into my latte
'coz my life story is a snooze.
All us bourgeois bohemians got them---no blues blues.
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