To:
Demeter
Goddess of Grain and the Harvest
Goddess Quarters
Mount Olympus

Dearest Demeter,

After the horrendously cold weather on Thursday, I intended to file a scathing report with the Mount Olympus Complaints Department. My eyeballs almost turned into powder during my block-and-a-half walk from the subway to my apartment, it was so cold.

I mean, really, Mme. Demeter, I understand that you're worried about your daughter, and disappointed by your current family dynamic, but don't you think it's high time you buried the hatchet? It's been eons. And, truth be told, your situation is largely your fault.

Persephone's a big girl. She can make her own decisions. With all due respect, Ma'am, how old are you by now? You should know better than to carry on with this childish, manipulative guilt-trip. It hardly befits your respectful title.

Try to think about it from Persephone's point of view. She was young, beautiful, and wooed by Hades, for gosh sakes, who I assume is hot as hell (no pun intended), and wickedly charismatic. You were young once, Madame. I'm sure you remember how sexy those bad boys can be. You should be proud: Your daughter is the First Lady of the Underworld. Yes, so she was actually abducted rather than "wooed," which hardly seems fair. But she loves him now, and I don't blame her. I'll bet Hades is quite the catch.

I can see how this:

... might cause a mother to worry. How, after seeing that, a mother might hate her macho son-in-law. Might refuse to accept her daughter's union with said son-in-law. Might even refuse to see that son-in-law. But, for that third of the year when you allow Persephone to live with her husband, it seems a little extreme to continue year after year with this juvenile mourning period. Not to mention how it affects us clear-thinking mortals.

DEMETER, IT'S COLD OUT! You're a lady: have some pity on a mortal girl who likes to wear strappy shoes and shortish skirts, even in the dead of January. Those gauzy, diaphonous togas of yore have been replaced by more substantial fabrics, but clothing is ... littler, and no more protective. We're mortals. Have a little sympathy.

Also, look at your girl now:

... sittin' pretty on the throne of the Underworld, right next to her undoubtedly supportive and strapping husband.

Demeter, maybe it's time to let bygones be bygones. Invite Hades and Persephone up for some tea, or go visit them for a long weekend. You might find out you have a lot in common. For one thing, you're both rather drastic, sort of all-or-nothing deities. All you need to do is find one common passion, and I'm sure you'd be able to talk about it long into the night.

Ooh! An allegiance could be formed! Imagine the possibilities, M'lady. You could kick some serious ass as First Mother-In-Law of the Underworld. One word, Madame: Power. Someday, maybe you can start a war. Maybe Zeus will let you have some thunderbolts of your own.

Give it some thought.

Now, Demeter, you're probably wondering why I've sent this letter directly to you, and not to the Complaints Department.

It's this: your sorrow can create scenes of otherworldly beauty. I was all set to compose my virulent memo, had all my bullet-point arguments listed in my head and ready to fly from my fingertips, but then I stepped outside into the most perfect snowfall. My anger subsided as the flakes collected on my shoulders and caught in the fuzz of my scarf. I marched, head down, on the sidewalk, and wondered if the processed salt felt inadequate and clunky in comparison to the dainty flakes that covered them.

I don't suppose you've ever noticed, Demeter, that when you wear a black coat, your sleeves provide the perfect backdrop to examine the symmetric wonder of individual snowflakes. I don't suppose you've unearthed yourself from your mourning long enough to notice how, in the aftermath of an ice storm, the branches of trees are encased in a sparkly delicate armor of ice. Or that joyful, squishy sound and yielding crunch when your boots step through a pile of dirty slush.

I suppose I should thank you for that. After all, these things wouldn't come about without your sorrow.

Another thing: With Persephone in Hades and all, (even though you have twelve other daughters whom you seem to have forgotten,) are you looking for an outlet for those pent-up maternal instincts? If so, you've created a perfect environment for it. People are DEPRESSED in the winter, and just longing for a divine bosom to cry upon. Believe me. A visitation from a goddess would provide a welcome respite from winter doldrums.

Maybe this frank letter isn't the greatest idea, considering the bouts of petulant wrath of which you Greek deities are so fond. All due respect, but you guys can be such babies.

Be well, Madame. Be merciful.

Yours respecfully,

Kelly

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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