When Your Grandma is Your Religion

Anyone will tell you to get someone's name tattooed on your body is the swiftest route to excommunication. Except when it's your grandma. Josephine was a woman I was in part raised by.  A woman who I got a bitter streak from, whilst my nineteen year old neo-hippie mother encouraged me to "use my words." A woman who didn't like you until she liked you. One of those; beautifully, one of those kind of women. I was witness to consistent dichotomies in the two faces of the women with whom I spent my most formative years. Old world, first generation Armenian immigrant in my grandma, versus bright-eyed idealist sixties baby in my mom.

My mother and I lived with her until I was eight years old. It was the three of us under her roof with the occasional long term visit from one of my uncles. The bond that she and I shared was one I still palpably feel today. We were probably a sight to be seen, my blond haired, blue eyed-ness next to her olive skin and pronounced nose.

Her passing in our living room while I held her hand at the age of ten was a moment that excelled me into many emotions, ones which alter and dampen the sun of childhood. And I am aware now in my adulthood that she had a lot of dark times; none of which I ever sensed. I think I was a kind of magic for her back then as she is for me today in my dark times.

Josephine is someone I pray to. I see her in sunrises, but mostly sunsets. I think she indirectly taught me the way I wanted to be. I imagine what my grown woman self would have to say to her. Who we would talk shit about, what soap opera characters  we'd root for. What she'd think of my choices, my husband, my life. And I imagine she wouldn't think too highly of my tattoos. Except for maybe the one that says Josephine.

Are you Spanish or an Alcoholic

I love wine. I love funny ecards about wine. I love the sense of comfort I feel driving through wine country with a backdrop of rolling, manicured vineyards sponsored by Mother Earth (and the back-breaking work of those employed to tend them). I was fortunate enough to spend a year in La Rioja, Spain, better known as the country's wine region, at a pivotal point in my early thirties. A girlfriend and I left our jobs, cars, apartments, shitty relationships, and basically Eat, Pray, Loved (post-book, pre-movie) ourselves through one of the richest experiences of my life.

Living in the wine region of any European country will eventually leave you unphased by five year olds sipping from their father's wine cup on crisp winter evenings to stay warm, or by watching old men having a 'copa' with their breakfast omelettes at the café. I didn't meet or hear of anyone who 'didn't drink' a' la AA. Wine was as much a part of the culture where I was living as was the food, music, dialect. And so, it also became customary to finish up an evening of  pinxchos or dinner, accompanied by what turned out to be a few glasses of wine per person. Like about four. Four glasses in a bottle. So there's that math. And that became my new Spanish normal. Not every night.  But definitely the fun ones. 

Looking back on my time there, now about six years out from the experience, I can say I imported an appreciation for wine. But it's what it represents. The food, the culinary experience, the merriment, the social aspects. I drink about a glass of wine a day. And when I have two or more it's usually on the weekend. My American girl still checks in with my inner Spaniard, and my inner Spaniard always says, "Chin Chin."

On being a two legged mermaid

It's an issue for those who long for sea salt in their hair, feel naked without a sprig of sequins, or those who simply find their wanderlusting souls preoccupied with thoughts of oceans and magic. I grew up, like many people raised in coastal towns, at the beach. I also saw the movie Splash in theaters at the beautifully impressionable age of 6. Naturally I've thought of myself as being part mermaid ever since. And not the frilly, pink kind with a seashell bralette. I covet the idea of a muscular, iridescent-skinned, stream lined gypsy. She competes with her shark finned contemporaries and wins. She is the muse of pirates and poets. She stays elusive enough to be fantasized about by the masses.

So I know women whose eyes sparkle. And those who salute the moonlight when it's full and reflecting shimmers on the surface of the deep blue sea. These are my fellow two legged mermaids. I'm glad you're all here.