The Hummus is Always Creamier on Somebody Else’s Plate…

Even before I was an immigrant child, I was a migrant child. With the explosion of Chernobyl in 1986, my parents rushed me out of radioactive Kiev and I spent the next few months of my childhood travelling all over what was then the Soviet Union, staying with different relatives and friends of my family. Then just a couple short years (memorable for canned food deliveries from friends in Moscow and prohibition from any interaction with nature) later, we packed our bags and set off with a whole lot of other sad-faced refugees on our journey through Austria and Italy to land in icy Chicago. I could write novels about my memories of those years, but that’s not the point of this post. The point is that in my 7 year-old mind, I had pictured America as a magical, glamorous, science-fictitious place, full of lights and colors and faries and flying objects, sort of how I still picture Las Vegas having never been there. I remember very clearly looking out the window at the empty, grey suburban landscape the morning after our landing and feeling overwhelmingly disappointed. This is the magical land we left my grandparents and aunt and cousin for? Of course it didn’t help that my father immediately began referring to “Americans” with the same disgusted tone that one may reserve for cockroaches, blaming all the hardships of immigration on these local Ignoramuses’ small-minded un-intellectualism.

We moved once a year for those first few years. Each year it was a new school, a new group of friends, and a new opportunity to make myself into someone knew. From our first apartment with shedding, long, lime-green carpeting and hand-me-down furniture, in the super ethnic and diverse suburb of Skokie to our second one which I loved because two of my friends lived in the same building, to our final one which would be the witness to my parents’ divorce and eventually to my brother being born, and then right before high school to my first single-family house in white bread snobby Highland Park, which still awakens in me long-dormant teenage angst and inferiority complexes. As soon as it was humanly possible I fled Highland Park, first becoming a permanent guest in my boyfriend’s dorm in college and eventually renting my own apartment. But even once I was on my own, my destiny to some extent in my own hands, I kept moving. I moved around the neighborhood in Chicago, then took the first opportunity, packed my life into a suitcase and relocated to New York, and from there, still unable to commit, filled out the paperwork for my second immigration in 23 years. The longest I have ever lived in one home (since Kiev) is the house in Highland Park, where I spent a total of just over five years, not consecutively.

Of course the minute I landed in Israel, a magical transformation took place in Chicago. Rather than being the cold, moody, colorless city I grew up in, it became an enchanting, ultra urban and cutting edge utopia. Even the weather became better! And Israel, the land I had spent so many years irrationally drooling over, became a chaotic, frustrating nuisance of a place, full of “local, small-minded un-intellectual ignoramuses.” Yes sir, it seems to be true, the apple indeed does not fall far from the tree.

But even within Israel, my love for hippy, laid back Jerusalem fades and Tel Aviv, which I used to look to me like a materialistic yet provincial New York-Wannabe suddenly starts seducing me. It seems I have a commitment problem. Whenever I move to a new place, as I unpack I am already thinking what a headache repacking will be. Owning anything that doesn’t fit into a suitcase or that is too heavy to fly with makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Today during lunch my coworkers were talking about how amazing it is to go Home and stay with your parents, how they would take their Home over any hotel in the world. Without thinking, I blurted, “I’ll take a hotel, thanks.” Everyone looked at me in shock. The truth is, I don’t feel much of sentimentality for any of the apartments or houses I grew up in (and I loooove hotels!). None of them were ever Home in the way that my coworkers mean. Sure I love going to visit Chicago because I love seeing my family – but if they could come meet me in Paris or Beijing or any other city the world, I would be just as happy. Sure there is an ease and a familiarity to good old White Bread HP, I even occasionally get a ping of nostalgia which I very quickly and systematically suppress, but certainly it doesn’t have the comfort for me which I think most people associate with Home.

When we went to Argentina a few years ago, Awesome Hubby took me all over Buenos Aires, eagerly showing me the apartment where he grew up, where he and his brother and sisters played, where they went to preschool, where his Mom grew up, where his Grandma grew up for Gd’s sake! There is no such place for me. And I see my little brother, born and raised in the Chicago area seems to be a much more balanced person, totally comfortable and happy in HP and in his house, which he has inhabited for 13 out of his 15 years. He doesn’t seem to have that need to constantly change his surroundings and reinvent himself the way I do.

Now that we are planning to start our own family, the imminent question is no longer when will I ever settle down, but how? I know what kind of childhood I want for my hypothetical children. I certainly don’t want them to be unstable and antsy like me! I want them to grow up their whole lives in one place… the question remains though, where will that place be? And how will I handle staying put for long enough for them to grow up?

Argentinian Goddesses, Ancient Goddesses, and the Big Guy Upstairs

I was very flattered this morning when I got an actual real life complaint that I haven't updated my blog in too long! The smile on my face lasted a good half hour! Thanks, my friend.

The reason I haven't written is because almost a week ago, my mother in law landed in Israel, luggage in hand, and asked to kindly please be pointed in the direction of the beach. Exact quote was something like, “I just want sun. If you have sun in the living room, I lay here in the living room. It is the same to me.” Clearly news of the possible ill effects of sun exposure has not hit Argentina... or more likely, it just does not apply to Argentinian women. Most laws of nature do not apply to Argentinian women: a species of primarily Italian, Russia and Spanish (all cultures not known for skinniness) descent who seem to survive solely on red meat, pasta, cheese, pizza and dulce de leche desserts and yet look like they walked off of a runway in Milan and accidentally found themselves in the grocery store, or catching a bus, or cleaning your kitchen. Which is exactly what Supermodel Mother in Law has been doing since she arrived here. When she is not roasting in the Israeli sun, she is scrubbing, polishing or dusting. Our apartment hasn't looked this shiny, organized and sparking since her visit last year. Some people have Passover cleaning, I have Supermodel Mother in Law's yearly visit. Just imagine having this incredibly attractive blond woman cleaning your house out of the sheer pleasure of cleaning! As far as I am concerned, she should just go ahead and make Aliyah and move in with us.

Unlike Supermodel Mother in Law, I am shaped like an ancient fertility goddess (which is ironic considering my current predicament). If you think I am flattering myself by comparing myself to any kind of goddess, please google “ancient fertility goddess” and see what our ancestor's idea of fertility actually looked like. I haven't felt as chubby and awkward as I felt on our honeymoon in Argentina since 7th grade when I found myself wearing a granny bra when most girls my age were in trainers. Yes, if G-d didn't give me this body to bear children, then he is just mean.

Which brings me to today's story. Awesome Hubby and Supermodel Mom in Law planned to go to the Wailing Wall today. Normally, I take the stance of most secular Israelis on the wall... that is, never ever going there. But today, I left work early, waited 30 minutes in the heat, sat on the baking bus for 45 minutes of bumper to bumper Jerusalem loveliness, and then walked, shfitzing, the other 35 minutes or so with Awesome Hubby stopping every few seconds to take pictures like the biggest nerdy tourist on his first Holyland visit. Why did I do this? Well, basically, G-d and I have some business to take care of.

I have a hard time with the Kotel. First and foremost, I find myself frustrated by my inability to connect. To be honest, I feel more of a spiritual connection during my yoga classes than I do standing in the holiest place in our religion. Perhaps it is because I am too easily distracted by the social issues surrounding the Wall. For example, on the walk through the old city, you are constantly accosted by religious men demanding “tzedaka”, charity. They don't act like your typical, pitiful street beggars with sad faces and sadder stories, instead they manage to demand money from you as if you owe it to them, while at the same time frowning down upon you from their ginormous religious high horse. This walk of shame and frustration already puts me in a crabby mood as I walk down the steps, past thousands of years of history to the place Jews all over the world pray towards every day and I just happen to live a short bus ride from.

Then of course I get there and I am immediately frustrated by the vast differences between the men's and women's sections. I just think it's so unfair that we women have such an obvious advantage. The poor men have so much empty wall space they could start a gallery, whereas we get all the pleasures and lovely body odor of some serious female bonding as we quietly and passive aggressively trample each other in a slow motion scramble to touch the holy stones in our tiny little section. On top of that, while men get approached about trivial things like putting on teffilin, we get these awesome poncho/shawl thingies thrown at us by angry old women who are clearly disgusted by our existence and only allow us the honor of worshiping at their wall because... well...um... they don't actually own it. Seriously, what girl can resist being looked at like a hooker at a diplomatic reception by an angry old woman who with one hand hands you a new accessory that has only been worn by like 200 sweaty secular women before you and with the other hand asks you for money? I know I can't. And I must give credit where credit is do – the shawls have an awesome new color! I like these new neon turquoise ones much more than the previous gloomy black ones, well done, Angry Ladies of the Kotel... I wonder if I could ask them where I might purchase my own?

Anyway, once I finally make it up there, I stand on tippy toe desperately stretching my pudgy arms, feeling more betrayed by their shortness than ever, out past the heads and around the shoulders of all the praying women in a dire attempt to touch the stones, while at the same time begging my mind to please focus and have a serious conversation with the Almighty, because supposedly, this odd balancing act is as close as I can ever get to Him. I am not going to tell you exactly what my conversation with the Big Guy Upstairs goes like, because I do think that some things should be kept private – or holy, if you will -- but I will assure you that there is a lot of talk about those childbearing hips of mine.

You can probably tell, I am not in a great mood. Sorry about that, I really do try to keep this blog positive. The thing is, now that I have ovulated, my obsessive baby-wanting syndrome is at its all time high. See, now I just have to wait and patience is a virtue I haven't quite mastered. I could be pregnant...I could not be. There is no way to know. Trust me, I did sooooo, so much internet research. This is my last opportunity to get pregnant before I get pumped so full of hormones I might as well be a Macdonald's chicken breast. And another cruel law of nature, the early symptoms of pregnancy are exactly the same as PMS – present irritability included. So forgive me, and please send positive baby energies my way. I promise, if that blood test comes back positive, I will curb all the hormone-infused moodiness and it will all be fluffy clouds, lollipop houses and gingerbread streets from here on out.

Typical Morning