If I rub my stomach, people assume it's a baby and not just fat in there... will that work if I rub my butt?

Hi I’m back!

I know, I know I haven’t written in a long time… and you know why. Yes ladies and gentlemen I’m pregnant. While I could blame the lack of inspiration on hormone levels, bouts of projectile vomiting or other fun pregnancy symptoms, those are not the honest reasons I haven’t written. The real reason I haven’t felt inspired to write in quite a while (or at least I haven’t felt inspired to write anything publicly) is because finally becoming pregnant has made me really, Über, super duper… please brace yourselves… happy. Yes it appears that the tiny little human being growing inside of me has somehow depleted my sarcastic bitter edge and here I am, shiny, wide eyed, smiley and lovey dovey… I am the kind of glowy, round pregnant woman who used to make me puke (nowadays lots of other things make me puke though, quite literally).

All you readers followed angry, bitter AnKa… so how will this happy-go-lucky version manage to keep your attention? I am afraid of being a boring blogger, so for these last few months I elected not to blog at all. But now I am back… and what can I do? I absolutely love that there is a little girl growing inside of me. I already love her so much more than I ever thought I had the capacity for… sometimes, when no one is looking, I idiotically hug my stomach. Like a complete moron. Don’t tell anyone. See I may be boring, but at least I still share secrets…

I am sappy and mushy and sentimental. I cry at everything. Thank Gd we don’t have a TV or I would be crying at commercials, guaranteed. At night, when I can’t sleep (or maybe this is the reason I can’t sleep) I worry about raising her…and how exactly I will avoid messing her up... I mean, I feel pretty messed up most of the time, so is it possible for an all-sorts-of-messed-up mom to still raise a healthy and well-balanced child? Sometimes, I make lists of little promises to her.

I’ll share some of these thoughts here.


Dear Daughter,

I will try not to mess you up by moving around too much.
I will try to make sure you never feel lonely or alone.
I will feed you healthy meals which we will eat all together as a family.
I will try to understand you.
I will try not to mess you up by infecting you with my food or self-image issues.
I will try never to fight with your Dad, and definitely never in front of you.
I will try not to spoil you (too much).
I will encourage you to explore.
I will encourage you.
I will be proud of you, even when it’s not for anything in particular.
I will pay attention to you, no matter how tired or bored I am.
I will accept you as you are.
I will teach you not to take shit from anybody.
I will teach you to speak your mind.
I will teach you to always think positive.
I will teach you to believe in yourself.
I will teach you to live life to the fullest and to always appreciate what you have.
I will teach you to look on the bright side.
When the time comes, no matter how it breaks my heart, I will let you go.
And I will always hope you come back.

Love,

Mommy

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

Why I'm Smitten with Ben Gurion Airport

For those of you who may not know, when I am not exposing my personal life for the world, painting dark pictures of little girls, getting blood tests and ultrasounds, reading novels, or watching Entourage, I happen to have a full time job managing a 9-month art program for 18 year old kids from abroad. Today is the day they arrived. Being one of the newest employees here, I was given the unpopular job of going to the airport to pick them up.

Now I won’t pretend that my delight at being given this responsibility (at 6 AM) would have been the same had I not been told by the nurses that I ovulated all by myself yesterday, so today I am as giddy as an infant who just discovered he has control of his own arms (in that a formerly dangerous unpredictable menace suddenly became a delightful new toy and also the stupid wide-eyed grin on my face) but I was absolutely cheek-to-cheek thrilled to go to the airport. My reaction would not have been any more cheerful had they told me they were sending me skinny dipping in cotton candy, or to be a taste tester for Ben n Jerry’s, or on a 5-star all expense paid trip to London to hang out one on one with Paul McCartney. Yes, I am in an excellent mood. And also, I really love Ben Gurion Airport.

The awesomeness of a trip to the airport begins with an early morning phone call, when a cranky Israeli shuttle driver tells you that you had better be downstairs in 5 minutes (or else). So I gingerly boarded the shuttle, 10 minutes early even. I was unlucky enough to be the first pick up, so I spent the next two hours riding in circles around Jerusalem picking up other passengers. But I didn’t care. I love everything today! I loved the smelly garbage cans, the skinny, wild eyed cats peeking out from every corner, the sleepy, grumbly travelers dressed for the long trip ahead; I even embraced that familiar urge to puke from motion sickness.

The excitement of the airport first hits you when you pull up to the security checkpoint. It is always, without exception, guarded by the tallest, most attractive Israelis you will ever see. I remember a few years ago some photographer made a calendar full of sexy fashion models dressed in Israeli army uniforms (it was enough to satisfy any Zionism-fetish). I suspect they then hired those same models to work at the airport. Yes indeedy, if you ever join the Israeli security service and are posted for airport duty you should take it as a huge compliment and assume that you are in the top 1% of Israeli society (in terms of appearance anyway). It is the only pro-Israel propaganda this silly little country has ever gotten right. Nothing like a six pack and bee-stung lips to say “What Are You Thinking Leaving Israel?” or “Welcome to Jewish Heaven, Where Flabby Bellies, Cellulite, Double Chins, Ashkenazi Rear Ends, Nerdy Glasses and Bald Spots Magically Disappear.”

Then you arrive to the actual terminal, which is misleadingly well-organized, new and modern considering the country it represents. Survivors of near-death experiences claim that their entire lives flash before their eyes in the last seconds. My entire Israel life flashes before me each time I enter the terminal. First I am 13 years old and indifferent following my family off the plane and onto the tarmac with my nose in a book, then I am 22 with the birthright group trying to grasp the fact that I am in that very same spot on the map whose right to exist I have spent four years defending. Then I am a counselor on birthright trips, re-experiencing that first-time-in-Israel moment through the participants. And before long I am the Media Darling making Aliyah, my closest friends and Awesome Hubby greeting me in the terminal. A year later Awesome Hubby and I are back here anxiously awaiting our parents, siblings, best friends and grandparents who are arriving for our wedding. My mind pauses on the moment when my grandmother and her sister are reunited after 15 years, not knowing then that it would be the last time they would see each other. Then of course there are the memories of each time I left Israel in the last three years: the excited anticipation of boarding a plane, seeing friends and family after many months. Really, a trip to the airport is always exhilarating. There is almost never a bad reason to go.

But the best part of a trip to the airport is leaving the airport: stepping out into the wet heat, breathing in Israeli air, feeling grounded on Israeli soil. And just like all those times that I was here visiting; I still feel nothing but gratitude that I am here.

I know you may not always feel it, and I don't always say it, but I LOVE YOU!

Last night got a bit crowded in our bedroom. On one side of the-not-very-large Israeli double bed was Awesome Hubby, on the other side was me. In between us, cozily snuggled and hogging the blankets were several rude, uninvited guests: Frustration, Impatience, and their ugly little brothers Self-Loathing and Depression. And of course, lurking in the corner, providing the soundtrack with his screechy lullaby was my old sidekick The Fiddler, back so soon. Who (besides Awesome Hubby who snored cheerfully through the night) could sleep in such a crowd? I couldn’t.


So I said screw you all and got up. I am no stranger to insomnia. I have spent many a night counting sheep (and giraffes, penguins, Golden Retrievers and falafel). Insomnia and I go a long way back. I'm tough, I can take her.


According to “The Secret”, another one of the self-help books I read recently, when you are in a bad mood you should try to “change your frequency.” They suggest doing this by concentrating on things you love or that make you laugh. They say it only takes a few seconds of feeling differently to change a mood. They're probably right in theory, but boy is that easier said than done! Now that I have spent a full 24 hours feeling broody with party crashers following me around like deranged, drooling stray dogs, I will try to change my mood by writing about something I love.


The topic I have chosen is going to surprise some people. I chose the city where I live, which believe it or not, is still my favorite ever of all time. The painting I posted here is the design I created for our Katuba, which was a declaration of love to both my husband and our city.

Dear Jerusalem,


I know you and I have been fighting lately, but I will always love you. You can be emotionally abusive, infuriatingly contrary, passive aggressive and hard to understand, and I will admit that so can I. But even if I leave you, My Dear, you should know how I feel.


I first fell for you because of your smell. I remember so many guided tours, where I would look longingly at your winding roads through the tour bus window, just waiting for the moment where I could finally hop off and breathe in your sweet, bewitching mountain scent. You smell like exotic flowers and trash in equal parts. I would stand with my head thrown back arms stretched out breathing loudly while my fellow travelers looked on with a mix of worry and amusement. You are a great seductress, my Jerusalem.


When I moved to Israel people wondered why a secular, modern, girl like me would chose this theocratic, conservative city full of conflict. But those who see you that way just don’t know you very well. I was completely enthralled by your mystery. To this day, I walk up and down your narrow cobble stone streets and I feel thousands of years of lives and stories and destinies. Your hills radiate with the energy of a thousand fires; late at night you can still smell the smoke.


You are complicated, Jerusalem, a city of many levels. Each of your neighborhoods is a separate universe. Those of us who live here tend to be quite territorial about our shchunot, but I will confess that I am not entirely loyal to the German Colony where I happily live. Emek Refaim street, translated as The Valley of the Ghosts, is anything but: a very much alive street full of coffee shops, restaurants and gossipy, giggling American teenagers living the time of their lives. But there are many neighborhoods that I love. Slightly up the hill from us is Baka, the German Colony's less touristy cousin, with her grandiose historic homes, orange and lemon trees and fuchsia flowers. Then there is Rehavia, dotted with your most authentic, dimly lit hole-in-the-wall bakeries, chocolate shops and cafes. And my favorite neighborhood of all is Nachlaot with her tiny pedestrian walkways, crumbling buildings stacked on top of each other like one of Chagall's shtetl paintings. Home to a mix of young artists, secular students and ultra Orthodox families, it is a microcosm of your spirit.

And of course, I must reserve a full paragraph to your pulsing heart: the Mahane Yehuda Shuk, our outdoor market, which moonlights as a dance party, jazz club and badminton court depending on the night of the week. Mahane Yehuda is over 100 years old, dating back to the early 19th century (at least according to Wikipedia). Spread between the city center and spilling over into Nachlaot, I would bet you can travel the world and never see a more chaotic and diverse scene than our market on a Friday afternoon. When I first moved here, when the shuk was still a source of culture and language shock, I wrote an email to my family trying to describe the madness. Until this day my mom reminds me of this email, so with just a few edits, this is what I wrote back then:

I still love the shuk, but I loved it more when I could just walk around and observe and enjoy the sites and sounds and smells... it's much more tricky when you actually have to buy something and everybody is yelling and pushing and elbowing and you don't understand what they are saying to you and you can't remember for the life of you how to say cucumber in Hebrew, and some angry woman won't let you grab the plastic bag that the man is trying to hand you and when he says something to her, she answers something about me being American and then yells at me (I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I think mostly Israelis just like to yell)
And at the same time there are the greasy men wearing wife beaters selling Iraqi food and just yelling and yelling and yelling "food for Shabbat! food for Shabbat!!!" like you don't hear them when you are standing less than 2 feet away... but then when you sit down to take a break, the same annoying yelling wife-beater wearing man comes up to you and tells you to close your purse and keep it closer so no one takes it. Oh Israel. On your right a Russian is fighting with her husband and on your left a little Orthodox girl is handing you free Shabbat candles, while Hasssidim with black top hats are walking by with huge yellow flags that say "Mashiah" (messiah)... and a Shanti Kabbalist hippie dude in a floor-length white robe with long, dangling side curls, arms spread wide is chanting at the top of his lungs in the middle of it all.

And this email doesn’t even mention the aisles of exotic spices, each with its own sharp scent, the rooms stacked with cheeses of every shape and size, the warm crusty breads and pitas, the rows of Chernobyl-sized red and yellow and orange peppers, lime green pamelos, oranges the size of basketballs, blood red tomatoes,cucumbers so sweet and crunchy they can calm a chocolate craving, dried fruits and nuts of all kinds, iced fish which is so glossy and alive that you expect it to wiggle at any moment.

Jerusalem, I love your scorching, dry days and your cool, fresh, summer nights. I love seeing the flickering glow as Shabbat candles appear in every window at sundown on Fridays and I love the crowds of young people in flowing white spilling out onto the quiet streets a few hours later. I love when the days begin to cool off and the smell of sugary, jelly filled donuts wafts out of every doorway as we approach Hanukah. I love your wet, penetrating winters and your blossoming colorful springs. I love so many things about you, my dear city.

I know I already mentioned reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat, Pray, Love” recently. Another insight she brings about in this wise book is a new spin on the concept of soul mates:

“A true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you
everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own
attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most
important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and
smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever. Nah. Too painful.
Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself
to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it.”

That’s how I feel about you, Jerusalem. You are my geographical soul mate. It may be too intense for me to spend my life with you, but I will always love you. You have changed me forever, and for that I will remain eternally grateful.

Love,

AnKa

Sex and the Jewish (and Christian and Muslim) City

I think Awesome Hubby is starting to feel used. I guess I would too if it were so clear that the main attraction I hold for my partner is my reproductive capability. It's very caveman of me actually: You Man, Me Woman, Make Baby Now.

I on the other hand, find the whole mandatory consummation thing sexy. I sit anxiously by the phone, waiting for that romantic phone call from the nurses which will determine the destiny of our love life for that evening. But I guess only a biological clock driven female can be turned on by the possibility of getting pregnant. Not exactly a man's fantasy.

All this sitting and waiting for the phone to ring to find out whether or not I will be having sex takes me right back to my year of sowing my wild oats in New York... or rather, not sowing any oats, just thinking about it a lot. My oat sowing primarily took place right here in the holy land (the Big Apple time is more memorable for many hours of waiting for a phone to ring). So this entry will not be about baby making (I can hear your collective sigh of relief), it will be about something much more juicy: Sex and the Jewish (and Muslim and Christian) City.

Before I met Awesome Hubby, I would regularly fall in love with Israeli men whose sole worthiness of my affection was as basic as having Hebrewish English and a tour of duty with the IDF. Any Israeli who at some point owned an army uniform (regardless of what they did in that uniform) very quickly and undeservedly became my Ari Ben Canaan. I beamed my love for this country onto them with all the fury of a Megaplex Projector. Of course they were all too willing to take the naive American girl out for a spin, and so I would get swept up, hurtled through the Holy Land skies in a whirlwind of passion and idealism, and then dropped right back on the cold Jerusalem stone slightly beat up but, luckily, with little long term damage. It took a few years of these silly Zionist affairs before Awesome Hubby came along (on the white horse as usual) and swept me off my feet with his many winning qualities, his having chosen to become Israeli being just the beginning.

Now that I am out of the dating game and have been for a while, I happily serve as a dating counselor/adviser/therapist for my many single friends (all of whom are convinced that they are the last Single standing). I don't claim to be particularly good at this job, considering that I was a pretty poor manager of my own dating life back in the day, but being a third party observer does give me the distance and perspective that is impossible to have when you are the one telepathically willing the phone to ring, ring damn it. Also, having a happy ending to my dating story allows me the kind of blind optimism that is very hard (and dangerous) to abide by when you are actually out there on the playing field.

Jerusalem attracts hundreds of single Diaspora girls, who like me in my heyday, come clicking down the cobblestone streets with their kitten heels (until they switch to Naot sandals after getting their heels caught in the cracks once too many times). You can find them everywhere: sipping coffee and typing on their laptops in the coffee shops on Emek Refaim, being hit on by the vendors at the shouk, browsing the shops along Ben Yehuda and Hillel street.

These friends of mine are not just looking for their next Zionist fantasy as I did (they are slightly older and much wiser than I was). My friends are smart, successful and attractive women who know who they are and what they are looking for. I love being the fly on the wall for their dating stories. It is my way of reliving those breathless days, full of the excitement, anticipation and nervousness of the unknown.

Or course it's easy to remember it that way – when you are married and your idea of foreplay is looking at baby clothes on the internet. My friends are anxious and often times frustrated by the inadequacy of the selection out there, by the ambiguity and indifference of men, and by the time passing by.

Here is what I tell them: Enjoy this time my dear sister, when your perfect guy is still out there riding his white horse looking for you (or, let's be realistic, sowing his wild oats before he's finally ready to settle down), because right now he is still perfect and the future is unknown, unexplored territory. You are independent, the owner of your own destiny! In a few years you will wake up next to your Awesome Hubby, and he will be wonderful, and your life partner and your hero in so many ways, but he will be real and he will never again be whatever you make him to be in your mind on any given day. And if your intimacy is ever controlled by a committee of old ladies (which I pray you can all avoid), you will miss these days of adventure, risk and uncharted territory. Enjoy it while it lasts, it's only a matter of time before reality takes hold.