“For some, I have seen them, or I know their parents. You take weighted average, giving the father seventy percent more weight. If I haven’t met them, I look at Facebook, see them next to others, and guess.”
“That’s very...” I try for euphemistic. “Well thought out.”
I turn back to the spreadsheet and press on, hoping we can get through this quickly so I can head upstairs and daydream about making out with a witch. “Sako the real estate agent. From Syria. Okay, okay. He’s fine-looking.”
Mom annotates excitedly, “I’ve heard he’s the number one agent in San Francisco. I got it from Angelina, who is also real estate.”
I nod to let her know I’m listening, even though I am not feeling the same thrill about real estate sales. I wonder if it’s because of Erebuni. God, I have no idea if she likes me like that; I wish I could shut down the Erebuni part of my brain. I squint at the spreadsheet, feigning interest. “Ara, an entrepreneur. That’s a little vague. Oh, his mom was a seamstress, are you sure you want someone whose parents aren’t Rhodes scholars who work at a think tank?”
“I don’t discriminate!”
Says the mom who literally put a list together of men with promising careers and included their parents (aka family pedigree) in the spreadsheet. I don’t fight it, don’t quit now, though this is ridiculous, and it’s all because my mom is having such a good time. I love seeing her this vibrant, her face rosier, eyes brighter than I’ve seen in years. I want to give her this. Let her be happy now, at least, because if by some chance I end up with a woman, it’s going to crush her.
“Kevork the jeweler. Obviously, I was waiting for a jeweler to appear on this list. He’s cute, too.”
“His family owned it, now they passed it down to him. Very good at business, well respected in the community.”
I’ve heard of him. He’s always seemed nice from afar, but I don’t know why any of these guys with their deep networks of friends would be interested in rubbing elbows with an almost stranger. I doubt they’re all wife hunting, but then again, what do I know?
“Zareh, lawyer. Ugh not another lawyer.” My mom has written “Lawyer, prosecutor” in the box. “Can I veto him? He looks like he takes pleasure in throwing innocent people behind bars.”
My mom looks upward, considering. When she’s ready with her judgment she says, “Okay. Only because I don’t like his father so much. Two-faced type of man.”
“See, knew it. And next Artur, who is a... Sargavak? Uh, doesn’t that mean, like, a priest?”
“Yes, the apprentice.”
“How am I supposed to marry someone who’s married to God?”
My mom seems exasperated like it’s so obvious. “Uffff, he’s not a celibate priest. This kind gets married, and I heard he’s looking for a wife.”
I turn to her and try to arrange my face into normalness and not something that reads, “Are you serious?”
“Mom. Do you expect me,me—your daughter who art not heavenly at all, who got kicked out of Sunday school for insisting about dinosaurs and evolution—to be a priest’s wife and live at the church? It’d be so hypocritical.”
She is shaking her head defensively. “Things are different now with the church. More modern. Besides, he’s very well educated.And his mom’s a caterer. You’d never have to lift a finger and have all the kuftes and sarmas you want.”
“While that is tempting, I don’t see myself there. Nene”—I switch to Armenian—“do you think I should marry a priest?”
But instead of Sargavak I use the wordSrpazan, which is a celibate priest of a higher rank, almost like a bishop. I hope she’ll smile.
To my delight, Nene starts to laugh, a joyous cackle. She says in Armenian to my mom, “Did you know, your uncle Varouj despised our Srpazan. At Nervant Boudikian’s funeral, Varouj was spinning all these nasty stories about the man, who had come briefly to give the final blessings. Now, why do you think your uncle Varouj would hate the Srpazan?”
My mom is smirking because she knows the answer, and I am sort of dying to know what’s tickled Nene so. Mom waits to let her continue.
“They had the same mistress!” Nene hoots and clutches herself with laughter. I join in because I definitely did not know that about my great-uncle or about Srpazans in general. My poor great-aunt, though. We weren’t that close, but I was just thinking about her yesterday and her perfect mutabel. Uncle Varouj was always kind of a skeeze. I am so not surprised.
My mom is equally chuffed and adds, “A lady from Greece—not even Armenian. She had her condo all bought and paid for. By the Srpazan of course.” She clucks and shakes her head. “All our tithings going to a seafront property overlooking the Aegean.”
Just then my phone rings. It’s Diana. I put her on speaker since I’m sure Mom will want to hear from Diana, too (and dominate the entire conversation).
She sounds breathless in anticipation of getting the Nar Armenian Man Setup update. “Nar! Tantig Anahid. Hi, Nene. Did I miss everything? Did you already go through the list?”
Wait. “How do you know about the list?”
Without hesitation, Diana answers, “I helped fill in some of the gaps.”
These two. My mom’s and cousin’s names, Anahid and Diana, are near palindromes, and I’m starting to think Diana’s mom is a psychic for naming her after my mom.
