Goddess of the Week: Baba Yaga

Image via WikipediaDaisy wonders if there is a goddess "for those of us who are getting all wrinkly and saggy of body." Hmm. I guess my profile photo fools no one. I hear you Daisy! I'm giving us Baba Yaga, the slavic goddess of death and regeneration.

Baba Yaga, whose name means grandmother death, is definitely wrinkly and saggy of body. She lives deep in the woods in a house standing on giant chicken legs surrounded by a fence made of human bones and topped with skulls. She flies around in a giant mortar, which is convenient because her head doubles as a pestle! In the days of Christianity, poor Baba Gaga was reduced to a scary witch. (Think Hansel and Gretel.)

In our youth-worshipping culture, it is sometimes hard to see older women as anything but witches. Indeed, in our youth-obsessed popular culture it is sometimes hard to see older women at all, and even when you see them they have the lips of halibut, as if somehow that's supposed to make us think they are mere guppies. I mean, have you seen Goldie Hawn lately?

Baba Gaga reminds us that sags and wrinkles are the victory marks of hard-fought lives. And believe me, if you've made it past 40, your life has been hard fought. You have worked hard, you have made sacrifices, you have learned that you can't help everyone, you can't even always help yourself. You've lost some battles, and you've won some, but -- like Gloria Gaynor -- you have survived. You've kept going, and you are stronger for it. You are wiser for it. You have learned things that 20-year-old you just couldn't know. Thank God! Do you really want to spend all your money on skinny jeans again? Do you really want to spend all your lunches eating low-fat yogurt.

No way. You have worked hard for those wrinkles, and -- damn it -- you deserve a house on chicken legs. You've earned the right to grind and grind and grind away at your old doubts and insecurities. Enough of them! Pound them into dust! Likewise, you have every right to grind and grind and grind away at your son until he gets a hair cut. He looks better with short hair. Everyone knows that. You're only trying to help.

Oops. Recent evidence suggests that the pounding away about hair cuts may not be in your best interest. Baba Gagas must use their mortars and pestles wisely. But see, you knew that didn't you? Time already taught you.

Channel this goddess: When you're feeling old, when your ass is flatter than your stomach and you feel like your neck is your best feature. If you do it right, wrinkles mean wisdom and the nerve to stare down uppity salesclerks. No shame, ladies. No shame.

Need a goddess? Let me help! Post a comment telling me what you need and I'll see what I can find.

Carpool Confessions

Image by craigallyn via FlickrThe following is true. Names have been withheld to protect the goofy.

A: Have you ever kissed a boy?

M: No.

A: Well, then, on the one hand I feel sorry for you because you've never been kissed. But on the other hand I feel happy for you because some boys kiss like dogs. No. Literally. They kiss like dogs.

M: They lick you?

A: That's all I can say.

Goddess of the Week: Oonagh

Image via WikipediaStar needs a goddess of perseverance, or, as she says, a "put your head down to the wind-keep on keepin' on-you can do it-this, too, shall pass-there's light at the end of the tunnel" goddess." I Thought long and hard about this one because -- sister -- I need her too. And I know who we need: we need Oonagh.

Oonagh is an ancient, ancient Irish goddess. She and her tribe were the Tuathas de Danaans -- children of the mother goddess Dana. They arrived in Ireland on dark clouds and lived there all magically immortal for a good long time until the Celts came with the one weapon that could vanquish their magic: the iron sword.

Ain't that just the way things always go? You're hanging out, doing your thing, feeling all good and secure, and -- suddenly, out of nowhere -- come those upstart interlopers with their damn iron swords chopping the legs right out from under you. Ok. Maybe your particular iron sword looks more like a lost job, a sick kid, a new boss, or some trollop in a D cup. But you know what I mean: something comes along and your magic -- your mojo -- is sucked away. You're left panting for breath, fighting against the wind, wondering how long you will have to endure this nightmare.

Oonagh had a better idea. Instead of waiting for the end to come, she and her people wrote themselves a new narrative. Instead of becoming the gods defeated by the iron sword, they became the gods who re-invented real estate. That's right! They moved underground and made little magical tree and bush entrances into their new homes so that they could come and go into our world as they pleased. These days, they are known as Leprechauns.

It is really hard to be in that place where everything stinks and you're just trying to get by everyday. Believe me, I know. But Oonagh teaches us that sometimes the way to survive is to re-write the story, or at least re-define the story, or a least re-define how you participate in the story. Only then, will you defeat the iron sword.

Channel this goddess: When you feel your endurance wearing thin, when your troubles seems unbeatable, when your moxie is on empty.

Need a goddess: I got goddesses! Post a comment telling me what you're looking for. I'll take care of the rest.

Seesaw

Image by machbel via FlickrOne of the hardest parts of parenting a child with a disability is that you know your other child, the one without the disability, is sort of screwed too. Managing the disability is a full-time job. There are doctor appointments: many, many doctor appointments. There are medications that are always being tinkered with, and side effects, and rooms that must be kept quiet, and happy events that must, at the last minute, be cancelled. And that's just life.

To the healthy child, it's like an unbalanced seesaw that always leaves her hanging in the air. In her heart, the healthy child knows that she would not want to change places with the disabled child, but the heart is a very conflicted organ, as we all know, and the healthy child also knows that she is getting the short end of some stick, somewhere, and life is totally unfair, especially to her. And it is.

In the end, on both sides, there is much rivalry, much bitterness, much venom.

It is ugly.

But one must live the life one is given, and one must endeavor to do the best one can, and so last weekend we separated the vipers. My husband took my older girl to the San Diego Wild Animal Park, and I took my younger girl, my healthy girl, shopping in Orange County.

I told the most junior Finnegan that this was her weekend. My attention was hers. We would do what she wanted. We would eat where she wanted. We would watch the Food Network as much as she wanted.

Much girliness ensued. I probably should not say too much because the details might make you explode into pink confetti, but know this: ears were pierced.

Life isn't just everyday reality, right? It's the extras too. Isn't it? She'll remember this. Won't she? She'll remember that I did my best? That I tried?

Goddesses of the week: Pasithea and Nuwu

Image by epSos.de via Flickr

First, I give them Pasithea. Pasithea is one of Greek graces, minor goddesses who had a good time and were really worth having on your side. Most of them, including Pasithea, were also handmaidens to Aphrodite, the goddess of love.

Pasithea was the goddess of relaxation. Some people will tell you she was also the goddess of hallucinogenic drugs, but this is a family blog, and I think all you really need for a relaxing vacation is a hammock and just enough hearing loss so that you can't hear the higher decibels of youth whining. (Also, and this is for the eyes of the Foster parents, as opposed to the eyes of the adorable Foster children, margaritas don't hurt.)

The problem with channeling Pasithea, however, is that you're likely to become as motivated as overcooked linguini, and, alas, all vacations come to an end. But -- ha! -- I totally have you covered. In between bites of ice cream bons or trendy little cupcakes, you must channel yourself the other vacation goddess: Nuwu.

Technically, Nuwu is not a vacation goddess. She won't make you a cocktail. She won't slather you in sunscreen. She is a Chinese creation goddess. She created mankind out of mud. Here's what I'm thinking: just when you're all happy and relaxed from Pasithea, you get yourself a little Nuwu and have her make a mud avatar of yourself that can take your place at work for a while -- thus extending your vacation. Your co-workers might wonder why you're less articulate than usual and why you walk like a clay elephant, but I'm guessing they'll just think you're still getting your bearings after time away. As long as you don't have, like, a new boss who expects you to be actually productive you should be good.

Channel this goddess: Friends, channel Pasithea NOW, whether you are on vacation or not. Believe me, we all could relax a bit. As for Nuwu: channel her to keep your vacation fun going, but remember that mud avatars are pretty messy. Do you really want to come home to one? That's worse than the rebelling dust bunnies.

Need a goddess! I've got goddesses! Post a comment and I'll put you in the queue. Just tell me what you need.

Goddess of the Week: Holda

Image via Wikipedia

In light of my traumatic dust bunny invasion, I have claimed this week's goddess. She is Holda, the Germanic goddess who overseas women's domestic tasks.

Here's a story about her:

Once there was a mother and two daughters. Everyday one of the daughters -- the good daughter -- would go outside and spin her flaxseed into linen over by the well, while the other daughter slurped up caramel frappachinos at the nearby Starbucks.

One day, the good daughter pierced her finger while spinning and accidentally dropped her spindle into the well. Knowing that her mother would disown her for her carelessness, the good daughter threw herself down the well to die. But -- HA -- Holda found her and took her to her house. There, Holda tested the good daughter in all manner of domestic tasks. When the good daughter proved industrious and obedient, Holda covered the good daughter in gold and sent her home to her mother.

The frappachino-slurping daughter got totally mad. "Why does she get to be covered in gold?" She asked. "What about me? Why don't I ever get anything good? It's not fair." And she jumped down the well to find Holda.

Well, she found Holda all right. The sister was all, "How come you like my sister better than me? How come you gave her all that cool stuff? How come you live in a well? It's really wet down here, you know that? Plus, it's cold."

Holda said, "Spin, maiden."

The sister said, "Ok." And she twirled in circles.

Holda said, "Sweep up these viperous dust bunnies, and absorb their minion dust particles in this rag.

The sister said, "Don't you even have cable?"

So Holda covered the girl in tar and sent her back to her mother with a note that said, "I would advise you to hone this one's administrative and managerial skills. It's your only hope."

Holda teaches us that women who spend three days staring down viperous dust bunnies before actually getting out the vacuum should not expect any rewards when they are finished. They should definitely not expect their modeling of poor housekeeping skills to inspire their children in any positive way. And they should absolutely not think that said vacuuming absolves them from dusting or cleaning toilets.

For, indeed, as I bent said dust bunnies to my very will this morning, as I sent them fleeing from the house, I heard them murmer: "We'll be back! And we'll be more powerful than before."

Holda -- who I begged for helped -- told me she would only chip in if I developed some sort of regular cleaning system. A regular cleaning system.

I just...well, I couldn't commit.

Sigh.

So she left. And the toilets are still dirty.

Channel Holda: If you are a better person than I. Believe me: the tar, not such a great fashion look.

Need a goddess: I'm your gal! Post a comment and I will find you what you need. Or -- hey -- maybe you want to give someone a goddess! I can do that too! Just let me know.

Women Who Stare Down Messy Houses

Well, friends, I'm going to be honest with you. I am just back from a week at the beach. I understand that not everyone has the time or resources to take a vacation and I that I should be brimming with gratitude.

But let me you: what I'm feeling now is not gratitude. What I am feeling now is terror.

The dust bunnies have actually done it this time. They have taken over.

Here you see them devouring what was once a lovely needle-pointed cushion:

Here -- in an even bolder strike -- you see them chasing away the dog. She tried her best to fend them off, but they're monsters I tell you -- Monsters.

Most horrifying of all, here you see their devil minions coating my table. If you get close enough you can hear them coughing. They are so evil that they are even allergic to themselves.

On Facebook yesterday, I noted that I was staring down a messy house and my sister said that that was actually the title of Julia Roberts' newest movie: "Women Who Stare Down Messy Houses." Then she gave me this great advice -- advice that she always follows because she is an exemplary person. She said that you should clean your house before you go on vacation so that it will be nice and tidy when you get home.

Sigh.

Do I need to mention again that she is the exemplary sister?

I am the sister communicating with dirt. And I think it can use the Force.

Help me Obi Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.