What My Mom Told Me About Happiness

“We have to make a decision today.” My friend came over yesterday. I could tell something was getting her down. “My husband and I put an offer on a house. And… it was accepted.” When she said it, her shoulders fell. She was visibly upset, and I was surprised. In the crazy Twin Cities housing market, having an offer accepted on a house you want is like winning the lottery, something that elicits a champagne-popping, streamers and shouts of “Eureka!” kind of affair. “We’re just not sure if we can make it work,” she said. Budgets. Mortgage. Changes ahead. It…

my mom is a wonder

My mother is a jeweler. She’ll sit through a couple hours of shows with baskets of beads and findings and thousands of other little pieces. With whip-quick hands she’ll snatch up a few kernels of turquoise, a few gems and a charm or twenty, and before you know it there are fifteen works of art waiting to dress the neck of as many Texas gals. I’ve been living in my home town these last couple of months post Peace Corps, and I still can’t get enough her creative spirit, nor the kitchen chats, floats in the pool, estate sale sweeps,…

my texan mother in armenia

Most of the past week I think I’ll save for my novel/memoir/perpetually-put-off-piece-of-literature.  That is both a artistic decision, and a way of avoiding the impossibility of putting into words this past week with me, Mom, and Armenia. But, despite the length, consider this a taste. I saw her at first down the hallway, behind the glass partition, my mother looking much skinnier, a little lost, and washed over with anticipation.  She saw me jumping up above the crowd, waving one arm and holding a bouquet of flowers in the other, this little collection of green, white and lavender, a message…

hugging hugging and hugging

Clearly I can’t be spending a lot if time interneting, but y’all, MY MOTHER IS HERE.  In Armenia.  In my little house. Drinking my little tea.  Having little conversation into the little night. It fits better than your favorite jacket, me and my mom sitting together, talking.  And yet, a wave of oh-my-good-god-here-is-my-own-sweet-mother washes over me, and I have to get up and hug her.  Like right now.  I’m going to give her a hug.

slow roll

I was handed a drink the other day with these little eyeballs floating around in the juice.  I wondered where I can find said drink for the upcoming Halloween party.  I mean, look at all the eyeballs! In totally unrelated news, my mother just pulled out of the driveway.  She called me to tell me she was doing so.  Normally insignificant, this morning’s 4am slow-roll down our sloping cement is her first movement towards Armenia.  Within a collection of mere moments I will be standing face to face with my own mother, bursting at the seams. I’m hoping to video…