Friday, April 29, 2016

Hair-a-py Ther-ap-y

Ah, dear readers. It's been a long week in the Addiverse. One of my counseling clients committed suicide last weekend. It's taken me a bit to get back into the swing of things. Thanks for your patience as I work my way back to normality, whatever that is. Suicide is a very unfortunate downside to being a counselor. Alas, that is really all I have to say about this. I just had to say something, so thank you for indulging my need.

Let's move on to something more irreverent or shallow or delicious shan't we? Let's talk about my hair. That's pretty shallow, so it works for me.

I'm letting my hair go gray.

Yes, you read that right. I'm stepping away from the hair dye and letting things go. I've decided that dyeing my hair for over 30 years is long enough. Besides, I figure it will be easier to do this now than wait until I'm all gray and have to figure out how to tackle the project.

My goal is to look like Jamie Lee Curtis. She's got kick ass gray hair.

The chances of me actually EVER looking like Jamie Lee Curtis are zero and none, but it's a goal to admire.

Our supposedly-evolved American society is rude to women when it comes to hair. Why is it that men are considered to look distinguished when their hair goes gray but when a woman's hair is gray, it is wrong or old or less attractive or whatever? Men can be thirty years old with graying hair and it's all good. Women? Most of us freak out and start covering that strand of gray hair before it sees the light of day. There is a lot of pressure around here to avoid gray hair like the plague. It's quite the double standard. And, oh the stigma!

Can you imagine if presidential candidate Hillary Clinton showed up with gray hair? Whether you support her or not, let's face it: she'd have no chance whatsoever if her gray roots were sticking out. She'd be considered way too old, just by the look of her hair. People would freak out. Women with gray hair are old, aged, not as able as a younger-looking woman.

Oh, America--we don't value older, wiser women. We are taught to envy youth. We are taught that gray hair makes you older, dumber, feebler, dated....less marketable in the workplace, less valued as a productive person. We don't value widsom.

If I were thinking about changing jobs, I wouldn't do this. I don't want to be considered "too old" to get the job. Awful and shallow as that is, that is exactly what would happen.  I would be judged by my "hair age," even though ageism is protected "class."

Don't believe me? Then, why are scientists wasting time figuring out how to prevent hair from graying, rather than saving the world from cancer? Yes, science is doing this. Find the gene, prevent the gray. (Don't tell my hair-a-pist. That'd be a significant blow to her livelihood.)

I'd like to tell you I'm taking a stand, spitting into the face of American vanity, that I'm shitting all over the belief a woman with gray hair is a lesser person than one with a good dye job....

....but, that'd be a stretch. Oh, sure--I don't cater to society's bullshit (after all, LOOK at me--I'm not exactly a fashionista), but really.....

...I'm just tired of dyeing my hair and shelling out the money it costs to keep up with dyed locks. And, I really want to avoid having to do this later in life. The time is upon us.

To tackle the graying of the hair, I had to (1) convince my hair-a-pist that this was a good idea; and, (2) agree to having shorter than usual hair for the time being.  Neither of these turned out to be a problem. For some reason, my hair-a-pist didn't argue. I was ready for a fight. Having short hair...well, I already have short hair and I've had even shorter hair than this adventure requires. No one would think twice about my shorter hair. It's not exactly a novelty in the Addiverse.

Now, I'm not even close to being all gray, so I won't be showing up at your next social gathering with a tuft of snow atop my head. I'm actually not very gray at all. I'm sure I'll look increasingly gray as my hair grows out (and, obviously as time goes on) but really--this IS the perfect time to take on this endeavor. I won't have to go through that awful "oh-my-gawd, look-at-that-gray-stripe-at-the roots" look.  It'll be gradual. It'll save me money for my retirement. It won't cost me nary a thought.

It will just happen.

I'm sorry to say that the comments have already started. I was standing around yesterday (er--I mean, being a productive member of the workplace), when a client walked up to me and stared at my head. (The chronically mentally ill tend to have a refreshing approach to life, including saying whatever the hell they want to say.) He then stepped around to look at the back of my head. After a few seconds more of staring, he said, "time to get your locks done. You're gray is showing."

Here's a guy who's busy trying to deal with auditory hallucinations, poverty, medication side effects, rejection from society...and, on what does he focus?

My graying hair.

Says a lot, don't you think?

I opened my mouth to justify my decision but then I realized how I really didn't need to do that. It's my hair and it's my gray and I can go gray if I want to. As he continued to look quite concerned about this, I reassured him that I knew about the gray hair and then thanked him for telling me. I figure it was wise to assure him of reality. My hair is really showing some gray. For a guy who's not sure what is real and what is not, it's good to know you're seeing what you're seeing.

I should probably do a photo documentation of the process but I'm not motivated to do so. I figure various non-purposeful photos along the way will document the unfolding event. Besides, who knows if I'll stick to this decision? In three months, I might decide this is the dumbest thing I've ever done and have my hair dyed blue.

I wish I could say gray is the new black....but, it's not. Not yet. I intend to change that. Stand back, world. Salt and pepper, I embrace your arrival.

Jamie Lee Curtis, here I come.
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Saturday, April 16, 2016

Breaking Up with the Flatlands

Readers: Safe surfing! Use https://addiwp.blogspot.com/  Secure surfing is happy surfing.

And now, for a (non-presidential-related) political message.

Dear Illinois,

I have been with you since birth. I have embraced you, loved you, given you all my time and money. I adore your big towns, small towns, soot and beauty. Illinois, you break my heart. I've defended you time and time again. I've stood by your side when teased by those I know outside the state, especially with those north of the cheddar curtain. I've joined the chuckles about our imprisoned governors. I've patiently listened to others make fun of our tollways (where DOES that money go, anyway?). I've defended you when corruption and greed is tossed around in conversation. I've tried not to scowl when the issue of not paying lottery winners their winnings.

You make a fool of me.

Still, here I am. In the flatlands. I'm a dedicated "Penny Head" through and through. I'm a FIB and I know it and I'm glad of it. I've been so proud to be yours since birth.

But, now--now, Illinois you have gone too far. I don't see how we can go on. I've lost my faith in you. Over and over and over you break my Chicago-style hot dog heart into pieces.

It's not that I don't still love you--I do. But, news that there a legislation being bantered around that wants to tax us for how many miles we drive is too much.  Too, too much.

You want to tax us for driving. Who the hell came up with that? Some mistress on crack cocaine? If I wanted to pay per mile, I'd be an over-the-road truck driver, not a citizen in this great state.
I pay my taxes. I pay my bills. And, this is how you repay me. Oh, you think it's okay because we can choose to pay a flat yearly fee instead of keeping track of all our miles. Sick bastard. You really have lost your mind.

You don't pay your bills. You rob from my friends' pensions. You punish the poor and disenfranchised. You take your pay but don't pay up. You watch with a callous eye as agencies close because you don't pay for work done, for services desperately needed. You act like a spoiled child, not willing to share a toy, not willing to talk, only willing to play nice in the sandbox. Spoiled, spoiled brat. We are a laughing stock. When compared to other states, we are last or near last in many categories. And, yet you insist you are great, worthy, right.

You spit on Lincoln. You realize that, don't you? This great man, whose face shines out from the penny and the five buck bill, is weeping because of you. Forget saving a penny. You take our pennies and tarnish them, steal them, lose them. Honest Abe is honest no more. He is broken, perhaps beyond repair. I don't even recognize him anymore.

How you can continue take a paycheck is beyond me. How you can sit and refuse to work is disgusting. I go to work, I pay my bills, I stand up for you. You give nothing in return except more demands, more heartache, more filth. You wouldn't stand for me to not pay my bills or refuse to work and then demand to get paid. What's good for the goose is certainly not good for the gander. Your actions--and, inaction...

I am not sure I can remain in your borders. Wisconsin is looking more and more attractive. Oh, nothing is perfect but at least I'll be able to drive there without having to pay per mile. I know they have a budget. I don't like their governor and I know the grass isn't fully greener.  The thought makes me a little bit sick inside. Still, I'm looking north, away from you and toward your sister to the north. I hear she pays her lotto winners and she doesn't tax for driving. She doesn't even ask for money via toll roads. She may have a bit of moldy cheese but cheese doesn't tarnish like a penny does.

Everyone loves cheese. There's talk of discontinuing the penny but there is no discussion of discontinuing cheese.

How can I stay with you? I can't stand up for you. I can't love you. I need to find love elsewhere. I need to break up with you, Flatlands. I know you won't miss me but I'll miss you. I hope those in the legislature grow up. I hope you pay your bills. I hope you get your act together. I wish you only the best of luck as I look to the north. Your loss, Illinois. Your loss.

I haven't left yet but I don't see how you can convince me to stay. I'm a broken-hearted penny head....but. I'll always be a Cubs fan. You can't take everything from me.
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Tuesday, April 05, 2016

Head's Up

Good news! As of the end of this month, the Addiverse will be available in https mode. Or, so says Blogger and I choose to believe them. That's good news for you safety fans. You don't have to do anything. Just smile and be safe. Safe blogging, people.

Lest you think I was sitting around eating bon bons last week, I am here to tell you that I unfortunately spent the week writing a funeral service. It was a very distinct honor but still.... it was a funeral service. I chewed on it, pondered on it, wrote it, re-wrote it, pondered some more. In then end, I was satisfied with the resulting "script." It read well at the service and it conveyed what I was trying to say. It seemed well-received.

The only problem? It was a funeral script....

...a funeral script for MJagger's brother's memorial service.

It was a huge honor to be asked to serve as the minister for the service, but I would prefer not to have to do such things because in order to do it, someone had to die. Now, that may seem like a stupid sentence, but it's true. To capture a life in a service is difficult; to do it for the sibling of a dear, dear friend is much more difficult.

I give huge credit to his mom, as she did what he would have wanted. Instead of a full Catholic mass, of which I'm 99% sure is what she would have preferred and which I'm 100% sure he would have hated, she gave him a send-off like no other, complete with Rolling Stones music (playing from his iPhone) and sports-themed attire (Bulls, Bears and Cubs only, please). At the visitation, the family stood in formation, proudly wearing their sports jerseys and Stones T-shirts. Out of respect to his family, I won't describe the wake any further than that...except to note the three sisters had a Rolling Stones logo made out of roses placed next to the (thankfully closed) casket. It was an amazing floral feat.

The memorial service was like no other. After all, how often do you see a minister wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt under the suit? I got rave reviews for that mark of originality.

The service was more than fitting. MJagger knocked it out of the park with her 20 minute eulogy.  I loved that she confessed her first illegal act was at age seven and prompted by her brother. I laughed so hard that it made me cry.  She brought that story to life. It's exactly what he would have wanted.

The service was filled with love, laughter and tears. A whole lot of tears.

I shall say no more. Respect is appropriate. 

As for the actual graveside "event," I wasn't very well versed at that. I had reviewed what the minister was supposed to "do" and was sure I would be able to perform the five minute service without a hitch. I rode in some big-ass car with the funeral director--first car in a line of cars as long as the eye could see. We had 20 or more minutes to chat, as it was quite the drive to the cemetery. I quizzed him on graveside expectations and was relieved to hear I had it "right." (That ride was very interesting, by the way. The funeral director and I had a lot in common, including his in-laws being from the town I was raised. It's a small world.)

It was freezing outside. I had a coat but thought better of wearing it. I thought my black pants suit more appropriate for the solemn occasion.  (Next time, I'll wear my coat. I was shaking I was so cold. I'm afraid my lips might have been turning blue by the end of our time at the cemetery. You don't want blue lips when serving as a minister OR when standing in a cemetery. Those grave diggers might get a little feisty, seeing those blue lips.) It was spitting out a little bit--just enough to be obnoxious for persons wearing glasses. The wind was howling. Everyone was gathered under the little canopy covering provided by the cemetery. Such a gloomy day, right in line for the gloomy occasion.

When we arrived, I met the hearse, just as planned. I walked along with the pall bearers as they headed to the graveside area. I had my little black minister's book. I took my place at the head of the casket and began the short service, visibly shaking with coldness.

....Now, it's probably not nice to make fun of anything about a graveside service but I'm about to make fun of myself. Brace yourself as I poke a little fun at me....

...I'm reading the 23rd Psalm when I suddenly realize I am standing at MJagger's brother's feet, not his head.

I'm here to tell you that it's hard to tell the "top" (head) from the "bottom" (feet) when looking at a closed casket. I didn't realize  anything was amiss until I was reading that Psalm and took a good look at the casket. OMG, how did this happen? I had practiced this in my head a dozen times. I knew where I was supposed to be. I kept track of what was going on as we processed to the canopy-covered area. I had been in proper position as the pall bearers carried the casket from the hearse to the graveside....

...I didn't pay close enough attention when they placed the casket on the stand. Although I had led the procession, I didn't notice that they swung the casket around as they placed it where it was supposed to be. Thus, I most unfortunately found myself at what was once was his head but now was his feet.

There was the crucifix-on-the-casket, facing me. That meant I was in the wrong place. I should be looking at the crucifix upside down, not right-side up. Jesus was looking down upon me, not up at me!

This probably didn't matter to anyone and I don't think it negates the prayers said and I'm pretty sure no one noticed except the funeral director and one of MJagger's cousins, but it REALLY befuckled me. My reading of the 23rd Psalm left a LOT to be desired. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? Sashay my way toward the top of the casket? I stood there, shaking, befuckled, pressing on. I wanted to move toward the "top" but stood firmly in place. I figured it would be less noticeable if I stayed put, even though it was driving me bonkers. I dared not look up at the funeral director.

I think I may have slaughtered the "Our Father" out of my befucklement. It was very distracting, this being at the wrong end. The service was much shorter than I planned and that's saying a lot, considering the actual service I planned was only 5 minutes in duration.

In hindsight, I'm sure MJagger's brother was laughing at me. I'm confident he didn't mind and perhaps savored my error. I never said anything to the family, so who knows if they noticed. (They aren't blog readers, so they are none the wiser from this confession.) I will admit to my snafu if asked; I'm going with lying by omission for the time being.

Some day, when time has passed and the pain has dissipated a wee bit, I will tell this to MJagger.  She will laugh. She will laugh a lot. It's too soon for such laughter, but the day will come.

The next time I do a funeral, I'm going to put a little sticker or mark on the "feet" side of the casket so I get it right. I'm not making that mistake ever again.

Head's up. Here's a head's up that I'll be head's up. I'll have my coat on, I won't be wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and I will be head's up.

Please, oh-Jesus-on-the-cross, look up upon me instead of down upon me.

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