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.

I am a Walking, Talking, Blog-Writing, Eye-Rolling Science Experiment

Sunday was Awesome Hubby and my 2 year marriage anniversary. Our gift to each other was a group of old ladies to take over our sex life. I will explain.

As I mentioned, in Jerusalem it takes 6 weeks to get your first appointment with the fertility clinic. If you are an overly emotional, tragedy-prone Russian/American/Israeli whose favorite tango partner is Drama, as we know the author of this here diary to be, then you will accidentally miss the appointment, having written it down incorrectly in your planner, then you will call the clinic about a half hour after your scheduled time slot to double check that your appointment is indeed next Friday (because it just occurred to you that boy that's strange – who in this socialized country works on a Friday?) Then the mean Russian secretary named Olga will tell you that it is entirely your own fault and you need to wait another month.

Remember that infertility infused hissy fit I have been throwing for a year? Well, imagine the whole year of tears all condensed into a fiery, sharp little seizure of an event, which for an almost-28 year-old- mother-wannabe, is the psychological equivalent to stomping feet and pounding the ground with angry little fists while tears shoot out of clenched eyes at 90 degree angles (and I am ashamed to admit there was, literally, some of that).

Enter Awesome Hubby on a white horse. Watch him gallantly battle the Evil Olga with his elegant sword (well, ok Argentinian-accented Hebrew) until she surrenders saying “Please Kind Knight, have mercy upon me!” or... “Fine, you Nudnik, come in today at 6:30” (in Russian-accented Hebrew).

And so My Hero and I arrived for our first appointment at the fertility clinic, “Merkaz Poriyut”. Poriyut, which means fertility, comes from the same root as Perot, or fruit (I assume, watch I could be totally wrong about that). But if I'm not wrong, isn't it poetic?

We met Evil Olga in person then, she gave me a look that made me shake in my stretchy pants and flip flops. Then we sat and waited for the doctor. The whole time as we were sitting there waiting, I was obsessing about whether or not the doctor would be nice to me. Honestly this whole infertility thing is making me regress to about the age of 5.

5 Year Old AnKa: what if he's angry that we are making him stay later and he doesn't give me the proper treatment?
Hero Awesome Hubby: Baby, you need to relax
5 Year Old AnKa: But what if Olga told on me to him!? What if he's angry with me?
Hero Awesome Hubby: Baby, you need to relax.
5 Year Old AnKa:But what if he's mean to me?


Honestly if I was Hero Awesome Hubby (or my parents), I would have grounded me and sent me to my room until I got control of myself. But Awesome Hubby indulges me and my strange needy ways.

So we did see the doctor, and he was perfectly courteous, but what I quickly learned was that just like in every good Jewish family, the doctor is not the one in charge of what happens in the household. In charge of the fertility clinic are a group of clucking, fluttering, nurturing old nurses. And THEY are really, really nice. And I love them! They are so nice and nurturing that I did not even get upset when they told me the very scary routine I was about to come into.
Every day, I have to get a blood test and an ultrasound (not the cute belly kind, the intimate kind that requires a condom and lubricant and a very close relationship with the administrating technician). This of course requires going to several different places and waiting in a whole bunch of lines and managing a whole lot of bureaucracy on a daily basis... but it's not the needles, condoms or ice cold health clinic bureaucrats that terrify me. It's that it all needs to be done by 8:30 in the morning.

When I got the first ultrasound, the Russian technician lady told me not to be afraid, that it would be uncomfortable, but not painful. I gave her an amused look and said, “This does not scare me, don't worry.” She then said, very seriously (as if we were discussing KGB torture techniques) “OUR people are never afraid of anything.”

Well.... this Our Person is afraid of one thing: Mornings. Those of you who know me well, know how dangerous I am before 10:30 and my coffee. Certainly my little brother has childhood trauma from close encounters with the Anka morning monster in his early years. Awesome Hubby became known as the Morning Nazi when he tried to get me up for Hebrew class upon my arrival in Israel (clearly he didn't know who he was dealing with). But now, the disheveled puffy eyed, frizzy Morning Monster boards the 18 bus (as even Mafia Babushkas cower in fear) by 7:30 in the morning and stumbles half asleep into the Fertility Center for her morning prodding and poking.

Later, the nurses call me and tell me whether or not to “be together” with my husband that day. And so, we received our mutual 2 year anniversary gift: the clucking old nurses, who control our sex life.

Brunch Blues

If you ever lived in Manhattan then you are probably familiar with the Sunday late morning scene in the East Village. It was by far my favorite moment of the New York week: waking up in that border state between still drunk and slightly hung over, putting on your daytime best and meeting your sunglas- sporting, vintage-clad fabulous girlfriends at 7A for shrimp and avocado eggs Benedict, cappuccinos, mimosas and juicy boy stories from the night before. Straight out of Sex and the City.

Three years later, I am still a brunch person and my favorite part of the week is Friday morning brunch at Tal Bagels in the German Colony. Definitely the See and Be Seen equivalent to 7A, except instead of shrimp and avocado it's omelets, cheeses and Israeli salad, and instead of mimosas it's fresh squeezed orange juice and “cafe afuch.”

There are a few more differences. Nobody is hung over at Tal Bagels, and the tables are not full of singles recovering from a night full of dancing and drinking, they're full of young mothers recovering from a night of diapers and breastfeeding. But much like the Sex and the City girls, these young mothers show no signs of sleeplessness or exhaustion. All head coverings are perfectly tied, hiding freshly washed curls, skirts tidy and pressed, sandals exposing manicured toes, dangling earrings framing their smiling faces. And just as my East Village girlfriends would sport their latest found vintage designer purses or shoes, these women (about the same age as their NYC equivalents) show off their tiny wrinkled bundles of joy or their swollen pregnant bellies.

I made the foolish mistake of working for a Jewish non profit and living in Manhattan (both of which are perfectly peachy decisions, they just should never be done at the same time). This pretty much left me unable to have anything new, shiny, or fashionable to show off at my weekly brunch in The City. I was lucky I could buy brunch! And who would have thought, three years later, on the other side of the world, I would find myself in the same situation.

Now I would try to paint myself as an selfless, mild, good natured person who only looks at all those young mothers and their beautiful little creatures with happiness and endless patience, but that would just be a big, fat, ginormous lie. While I am happy for my friends who have kids or who are about to, and I love my friends' babies,(I even love the ones who are yet to be born) there is a very not-so-tiny voice inside my head throwing that big Russian/American/Israeli hissy fit (previously mentioned in the last entry) screaming “WHEN IS IT MY TURN??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?” Now I know from many a single friend that they look at me and my marriage and wonder the same thing. I know that I should count my blessings, that I am not even 28 yet (let me savor these last few weeks) and I do (theoretically), but this is my blog and I'll cry if I want to!

I wake up every morning and pee on a stick. Then I put the stick in a monitor at which point its screen begins to blink. It stares at me and blinks for five minutes and I stare and blink right back at it.

This is the conversation going on in my head for those five minutes every morning:

Maybe today it will say I am ovulating...
Don't be stupid, you're getting your hopes up! You said today you wouldn't care!
So why are you even sitting here waiting? Go brush your teeth!
I will in a minute, it's almost done.
I thought you didn't care what it said...
I don't, but maybe the bar will go up...

And then it stops blinking, I take out the test stick and inevitably the result is the same as the day before. Then I dive swiftly and quickly like a pro baseball player going for a foul ball to capture my mood before it hits rock bottom. Practically this means making coffee and listening to uplifting songs on my ipod the whole way to work. I hope I don't miss the ball one of these days, I never was much of an athlete.

To share or not to share?

I have spent a full 24 hours deliberating how honest I really want to be with this blog… in other words, how much dirty laundry is it appropriate to put out there into the e-world? And since I am quasi anonymous here, I am going to go ahead and share. Otherwise, where’s the fun, right?

I just finished the book “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s pretty cute actually. One of my favorite lines in it is when she equates the decision to have a baby to deciding to get a tattoo on your face. You have to really know you want it. Having co-raised some very young siblings, that sounds about right to me.

This seems as good a time as any to reintroduce my Russian/American/British friend “P” (previously introduced in yesterday’s entry). She will quickly become known for brilliantly simple answers to some of life’s most difficult questions (at least in my life). When asked if she and her hunky hubby were planning to have kids soon she repeated the quizzical head tilt from yesterday’s story and said “a baby? Where would I put it?”

On the other side of the spectrum is a lawyer friend of mine who used to refer to children as something along the lines of “screaming disgusting unnecessary appendages” who is now a glowing, floating on air, radiant eight months pregnant.

So what happens when you decide that yes you want the face tattoo, you save up your money, come up with the design, and go to the ink parlor all excited and ready to go… and the damn tattoo artist refuses you? Or the ink just won’t go into your skin, or whatever metaphor you want to come up with? What happens then?

I’ll tell you what happens if you’re an overly theatrical, hypo-emotional Russian/American/Israeli. You summon all the ancestral Russian tragedy, Jewish victimhood, American sensitivity, and Israeli anger and throw yourself Anna Karenina style on the train tracks of fate in a full-on hissy fit. This fit lasts about a year (because when you are a Russian/American/Israeli, if Drama asks you to tango, you do your stretches, fill up your water bottle and put on those dancing shoes, because you are in it for the long haul!)… At the end of the year you get up, brush yourself off and go see your friendly neighborhood fertility specialist. Only if you live in Jerusalem, you have to wait a month for that appointment. To be continued.