Another Cut-and-Paste Blog Entry

The following words are from this website.

And while the details of the author’s life are different from mine, I share the sentiments she has towards her significant other.
I Could Do This Without You, But I Don’t Want To (A Letter To My Husband)

by Amanda Elder

Image from

Image from

There were times I felt bitter toward you, especially when you were a medical student, and I was transitioning to being a stay-at-home mom. You didn’t understand my struggle. I ate, slept, and breathed our child, and felt consumed and alone.

You had a life outside of parenthood to continue, and while I stopped mine, I accommodated yours. For a period of time, we moved often and lived out of suitcases. Once, we even resided in a single bedroom of a Staten Island basement. For years, I manned the night wakings and offered my breasts around the clock as the only consistent comfort amidst constant upheaval.

Whenever you were off from work, I took our toddler out the minute he woke up so you (and our roommate) could sleep, but not always without resentment. I remember one morning, as I walked to our local bakery yet again, killing time with our little guy attached, I muttered, “I can do all this by myself.”

Because of life’s inherent uncertainty, I’ve actually considered the truth of that statement. I’ve now been a stay-at-home mom for five years and have wondered if I could actually survive on my own. Emotional well-being aside, would I even be able to provide food and shelter? I never thought I’d ask myself that question, being the self-sufficient woman I thought myself to be, but the honest answer is yes, I’d be fine. After all, I’m a go-getter, and that’s the reason all this staying home has been hard in the first place.

I’d make it, although there’d be details to figure out. You’re the dreamer, and you build our lives on the fantasies you manifest. Your doctor job is the one that would allow us to live a life of freedom and adventure in Costa Rica. I don’t have a vision for life without you, and the only notion of home I have is wherever we are. But I certainly wouldn’t head for the jungle on my own, and I wouldn’t do New Jersey either. Even though my sister lives there and I miss her when a single day goes by without conversation, I’ve been in Florida too long and have grown accustomed to bare feet and outdoor play all year long.

You’re in your residency now, and because you sometimes work 26 days a month, and 27 hours a day, I know that technically I can do this by myself. I pack bags and load babies like a boss. I clean toilets and play hide-and-seek simultaneously. I disguise trips to the grocery store as outings for cookies and have prepared many a meal with one hand. But despite my capability, I count down the time for you to come home, not because I so desperately need you to change the next diaper or fill the next sippy cup, but because I want you.

I don’t necessarily need you to carry scooters and tell the boys when it’s time to find a new climbing tree while out on family walks. I need you to hold my hand and talk to me.

I can put all the dishes away and find the missing shoe by myself, but with you, farts are funny, and coffee tastes better.

I can certainly walk the kids to sleep by myself, but when we stroll together, the full moon looks fuller, and I’m inclined to admire it longer.

I can take our son to karate by myself, but when that cute little girl beelines to be Javin’s partner, and another boy helps him perfect his jump kicks, I notice the sweetness, but I don’t giggle like I would with you.

I don’t need you to share parenting responsibilities with me out of fairness or survival, but for the joy of doing so. With you, the funny moments are funnier, the cute moments are cuter, and contrary to the pattern, the terrible moments are less so. Life is simply better with you.

We don’t only co-parent, we co-experience life.

We create and reflect on the same reality, and that somehow deepens the meaning of it all. When I see a beautiful sunset, and you say, “Look at that!” you validate what I see, and all of a sudden the colors become even brighter and more captivating.

I don’t necessarily need you for practical or worldly reasons, but I need you to know me. When I laugh, you’re aware of exactly why. And when I don’t say anything at all, you read my mind. You love my insecurities as you do my strengths, and your understanding gives me confirmation of myself. We’re like two beings from the same source, who get to witness more of themselves through each other.

It’s true that I don’t need you to survive. I need you for so much more.



Necessary Fictions

Ana met up with Carrie after the conference. This was one of those seminars that people in Ana’s profession go to out of obligation. In her case, Ana felt obligated to attend because Carrie, who is a dear friend, already paid for her registration.


Ana started reading Mills and Boon before puberty. So maybe that's why she is R-rated and Carrie is PG. Mills and Boon are the precursors of Fifty Shades of Grey, with better editing.

Ana started reading Mills and Boon before puberty. So maybe that’s why she is R-rated and Carrie is PG. Mills and Boon are the precursors of Fifty Shades of Grey, with better editing. They sold to women who wanted to have fun. People cannot seem to understand this. Sex+love=romance and romance sells because it’s fun. Atrocious editing, bad narrative structure and seemingly shallow characterizations are (sometimes, though not all the time) superfluous. A roller coaster does not need to be blue for one to feel adrenaline rush while riding it. An orgasm is an orgasm whether one has had  it with a dildo or with something else. Picture from


Once upon a time, Ana and Carrie worked in the trenches together. They were excellent soldiers — obedient with just the right amount of cynicism; they could look at blood and gore with clinical detachment; they could sublimate their fear, disgust and depression, until a more appropriate time (however long that takes). They could have been made into generals. Ana actually rose to captain but she found that she  hated soldiering and was in it only for the money. For these girls (or women), Carrie and Ana, their passive-aggressiveness is an effective antibiotic to future success.

Now Ana  is thinking: there is something about being in a war-zone (which is basically what their previous job was all about) that draw people closer. If I had been more determined, and gave in to my Inner Goddess and quit while I was still  relatively sane, Carrie would not have been my friend. I would not be sitting here now, drinking mojito and commiserating about our husband’s infrequent erections.

Carrie: I think something happened after I gave birth. That fourth degree laceration really took something out of my sex life. Maybe it’s the lubrication or something.

Ana: I miss it when we were in our twenties and would have sex every other day. Half the time I was asleep, which is a bummer now that I look back on it. Men’s interest really go down with age.

Carrie: I love our daughter and I think I don’t mind not having sex with Ian at all.

Ana: Really!? You mean that?

Carrie: Ana, of course I’m lying! But I can’t help thinking that he doesn’t really love me. That he just married me because I got pregnant?

Ana: Oh please! Are we going back to this storyline? Harlequin, Loveswept, Silhouette, even Mills and Boon novels are teeming with the accidental-pregnancy-plot-that-leads-to-marriage — haven’t you learned anything by now?

(Carrie’s face is blank so Ana would have to spell it out for her)

Ana: Ian loves you, get that through your thick head. It’s not as if you pointed a gun at him and made him marry you.

Carrie: For men, isn’t an accidental gestation just like pointing a gun to their  heads?

Ana: (Silent. How would she know? She had never been pregnant.) Tell me again how your daughter was an accident?

Carrie: I forgot to take my pill.

Ana: Wow, that’s stupid.

Carrie: Thank you, Ana. That is very insightful.

Ana: Well if you will do it all over again, I’m sure that that you will not prefer not having had your daughter. I mean, Arielle is cute and smart and she will probably be your last chance at genetic mortality because, and I quote, women’s chance at conception drastically go down at 39 even with IVF. Hey look, you should have another kid, otherwise, you will smother this one.

Carrie: I am on DMPA.

Ana: Wow, is that so. Well you’re 38, you should probably give yourself a deadline. Don’t be like me. I am still not passionate about progenies and I’m only 3 years younger than you.

Carrie: Having a child is difficult. A real drain on the finances, and on your energy. You want to give her the best. And it’s depressing when you realize you can’t.

Ana: I am so glad you said that. I am tired of these women, and even men, who keep yammering on like having a kid is the Holy Grail.

Carrie: Of course they will say that Ana. It’s a necessary fiction.



Review of the week: Fifty Shades of Grey

“we should not begrudge E. L. James her triumph, for she has, in her lumbering fashion, tapped into a truth that often eludes more elegant writers—that eternal disappointment, deep in the human heart, at the failure of our loved ones to acquire their own helipad.”






A Friendly Get-Together

These days, Ana can’t stop thinking about her good fortune.

She and Christian are doing well both in financial matters and in the more personal aspects of their relationship.

The intensity that defined their first years together has mellowed and has settled into something like heated coals that glows toastily warm or blazing hot depending on one’s vantage point

dinner-with-friends-box-cover-posterLast night, they went out to dinner with Christian’s friends, a bunch of men and women that Ana is particularly fond of. This group has none of the affectations and city stiffness that defines their other friends from the school they met in. Provincial people is what these are, and Ana feels warm around them.

One of them, a thin tall man whose wife Ana occasionally sees in her work, has just returned home from his job in a foreign country. Let’s call him Aidan.

Aidan’s wife, a woman that he has known since high school and has courted during their college days when she was still in a relationship with another man, was laughing at her kids’s antics – a boy and a girl. The boy is impishly cute; the girl is as quiet as a reed and as thin as her father.

To this group comes (in his usual lateness) a fair skinned, slightly slanty eyed male in cargo pants. We will call him Jonah.

Ana imagines that Jonah must have some serious father issues. His dad left when he was small and his seeming brashness belies, Ana thinks, a huge chip (the size of a boulder) draping on his narrow shoulders. He has just gotten out off an “it’s complicated” type of relationship.

So today Ana was thinking: I think Jonah would hit it off with my friend from work, Madelyn.Who is a sometimes-separated mother-of-two, and is very pretty.

She floated this idea at Christian when they went home, but Christian was not too excited with this idea.

“Darling, your friend is married,” he told her with some tenderness and a whole lot of emphasis on the “m” word.

“Her husband is a jerk and she wants to leave him!”

“They are married and they have two children.”

She gave him an information that would get him to Madelyn’s side. “Her husband hits her.”

Christian was silent for about 5 seconds. “Okay, he’s a jerk. I agree.”

“So I think I’m setting her up with Jonah.”

“Ana, darling, for god’s sake, leave them alone.”

“Jonah is miserable. Madelyn is very miserable. Misery loves company.”
“I can’t believe you just threw that bumper sticker cliché at me.”

“Jonah is single and ready to mingle,” Ana continues with her clichés. “You said so. And Madelyn needs a sane steady guy with stable work to help her take care of her kids.”

“Do you realize what you just said?”

“Yep, I made it sound as if Jonah is a desperate DOM* and Madelyn is an opportunistic bitch. But then, we are also more than the two-word descriptions that people make of us – and you said that… darling.”

At this point, dear readers, Ana and Christian have gotten their clothes off and while they are not naked (we will call their states of undress en deshabille), they are currently eyeing each other wondering who between them will take off that last piece of underwear.

What Ana loves about making love with her husband: 1. He can touch her down there in a manner that she could never do with herself; 2. When he comes in her mouth, it gives her a feeling of accomplishment – like she just scaled a mountain. Or something; 3. When she comes with him inside her, she feels that she had come home to herself.

*DOM – dirty old man 🙂

While He Was Sleeping

while he was sleeping

Ana was staring at Christian.

At his sloping belly, his hairy thighs. The mole just below his navel.

They were laughing about that a while ago. She called it, “the fly at the precipice of your belly-button.” He grinned at her and said that she had a dirty mind.

Now Ana wonders how someone so dear can be so alien at the same time.

This morning, Therese told her, “It’s because he’s male and you’re female. That’s always a problem.”

But Therese is contemplating on becoming a lesbian, hence her opinion, Ana thinks, shouldn’t count.

But really? Is that it? Is that the problem?

She, Ana, a woman, has a worldful of being her that Christian will never even begin to understand. And Christian, a man, inhabits his own planet that Ana can never visit; not even in her dreams.

But isn’t that the dilemma that marriage was supposed to solve?

No, Ana corrects herself, not marriage. That institution that more often fails than it succeeds — as Isla Fisher had ranted in “Definitely, Maybe”.

What Ana means to think is: isn’t this what “love” was supposed to solve?

Isn’t love all about two aloneness reaching  out, merging with and changing each other?

The Sex Scene

Once upon a time, "Sex Scene" used to mean something like this. Picture from

Once upon a time, “Sex Scene” used to mean something like this. Picture from

... or, at the very most, something like this. Image from

… or, at the very most, something like this. Image from

This is a question that I always ask myself;  and the answer always eludes me, like a dream.

What is my country?

All-knowing Erica, never fails to give a right-on reply.

Now, the New Millennium, everybody scoffs when one labels this as  "sex scene". As one male has scoffingly told me, "so where's the penetration?" Drawing from

Now, the New Millennium, everybody scoffs when one labels this as “sex scene”. As one male has scoffingly told me, “so where’s the penetration?” Drawing from

Good Old Filipinas as Told in a Sex Scene by my Spiritual “Porn-Queen” Mother, EJ

The story so far …

Isadora Wing, successful writer, was contemplating leaving her husband, Bennett Wing, who had been emotionally abusing her for the past 5 years …


There is no loneliness like the loneliness of a dead marriage.  The bed might as well be a raft in a shark infested sea.


Sleeping alone in the same house, more alone than if we’d never met. Better  to live in a cave like a hermit  or to haunt singles’ bars, cruising  for one-night stands.


The woman, degraded, past all degradation, gets up out of bed, tiptoes down the carpeted hall, and slides into the narrow bed occupied by that stranger, her lawful wedded husband.


They might as well have met in a bar for all the intimacy between them – yet it is also oddly exciting.


“Hey what are you doing?” he asks.


“Feeling you up,” she answered.


“I thought you wanted to castrate me.”


“I do.”


The seriousness of her voice makes him hard immediately. It is their old familiar dance.


She opens his pajama bottoms. He feels for her cunt.


He savagely stabs a finger in. It hurts, but somehow hurt feels right on this particular night.


He stabs another finger in. She pivots on the bed, swiveling on his fingers, and takes  his cock in her mouth.  She teases it with her tongue. She nibbles around the root with her teeth.


He moans, aroused. Now he is rubbing her clitoris and she wants him. She wants his strange root-shaped cock inside her. The sight of it excites her still more.


She climbs on his upraised penis, swiveling on it, rhythmically rocking. Her orgasm comes in great concentric rings like the water in a still lake when a heavy rock is dropped from a great height.


And then he is suddenly thrusting, thrusting, in search of his own.  It is as if his orgasm were somewhere deep inside her and he had to find it, fish for it, hook it, reel it in like a wriggling fish. There, it catches … a nibble … he gropes blidly, then establishes a rhythm again.


Now! There … there … there. The trusting stops  and he lies still again. No words. No grunts. Fisherman and fish both gasping at water’s edge.


She climbs off him and thinks:


They might as well be freight trains, locking together for a time, and then going off to opposite ends of the earth. For he doesn’t know any words. Words are the only langguage he cannot speak.


(adapted from:  Erica Jong. How To Save Your Own Life, Signet 1977, pp 120-122.)


Note: The above is a VERY loose adaptation. Please read the real book  to check the parts I left out. My nation is peopled by neurotics and psychotics who love leaving the bad parts out when conversing with respectable company.

(542 words !!!!!  Hurray!!!! definite improvement 🙂 if I may say so, even if a majority of the words were not my own)


Admit it. If I label this as "sex scene", you'll consider me "deviant" or worse, "disrespectful". Photo from www.sarahkathryn22.tumblr

Admit it. If I label this as “sex scene”, you’ll consider me “deviant” or worse, “disrespectful”. Photo from http://www.sarahkathryn22.tumblr

The best  literature is the one that makes you think the writer was gossiping about you. —  Anastasia Christina, disrespectful blogger


Totally unrelated, except in my imagination:

Conrado de Quiros’ article on US presence in the Philippines –

I love Nicolas Cage! So I'm putting his picture with his wife here. From

I love Nicolas Cage! So I’m putting his picture with his wife here. From

Men & Their Erections 5

Once upon a time, there was a girl whom, we shall call, Charisse. She looks remarkably like that female FBI-agent in “Silence of the Lambs” that was assigned to interview Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter.

As far as nerdy women go, Charisse will win as president, if the elections were held today.


Charrise: Ana, what did I do with my life? I made a mess of it!

Ana: (Looking up from cooking blueberry souffle, which made somebody in the audience snicker and say yeah right, good luck on that!)  What  made you say that?

Charrisse: I went through all these shit to finally have a white coat and this is all there is? I mean after all the hassles and the drama and the sleepless nights, this is it?

Ana: You did do what you set out to do, right? I mean you started all this and you did not think “hey someday I would be a flight stewardess”. That was not the goal.

Charrisse: Well, yeah. But I still hate it when you put it like that. (pouts)

Ana: (Finally, putting her concoction into the oven and crossing her fingers — “Let it rise,” she thought “I”ve had it enough with stuff that are supposed to rise but didn’t!”) Okay, spill. What’s wrong?

Charisse: (shows Ana The Ring)

Of course, this picture is a joke! This is not a horror story -- obviously!

Of course, this picture is a joke! This is not a horror story — obviously!

Ana: OMG, Really?

Charrisse: Yep, really.

Ana: So why the pout?

Charrisse: I am trying to make a list of reasons why I should marry him.

Ana: And so?

Charrisse: Ana, we are just so … different! I am an extrovert, he’s intro. I am into books and writing and blogging and reading and he’s happy just sitting around playing Baldur’s Gate or Might & Magic! I am a morning person, he sleeps late! And I hate to sound like a bitch — which I am — but, financially I am way more well off than him. And he’s so much nicer than me, Ana — I mean what kind of a guy is actually nicer than you?

Ana: So you had these apprehensions after you accepted the ring?

Charrisse: Oh please! Don’t be sarcastic! I said yes because he kneeled down and asked so sweetly and then the kiss was sooo goooood! Ana, just give me one good reason why I should go through with marrying him!

Ana: (Distracted, the darned souffle won’t still rise, darn it!) Why don’t you marry him because he’s the kind of person you would like to be?

Sex and Dying

romeo and juliet

Romeo and Juliet — 2 adolescents who had the sense to have sex before dying. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

I have recently come across a delightful young man named, shall we say, GM.

When his story started, GM was not yet 30, and he was afraid of dying before reaching the dreaded 3-0. A fear, one must admit,  that a number of women, young and old, also possess.

GM is a scientist, or at least his field of work involves hard applied science.

A minor comment: While medicine is applied science, it is not hard enough, in my opinion, to give it the moniker “hard science”. B, also a soft-scientist and totally not involved in this story, would say, “That’s why I don’t date medicine-men, they are just too soft!”

At a tender age, GM fell really hard. And got his heart broken in the process.

We should feel sorry for GM because he lost his dad at a young age and he had to support his mom and family.

At this point, my friend, A would say, “Boo, hoo, tough luck! I also had to do that. He doesn’t have the corner on suffering in the world you know! (with much appreciation for Joanne Greenberg’s ‘I Never Promised  You a Rose Garden’ from where that quote was lifted and paraphrased).”

I conversed with GM one day and he told me that it is his dream to “Marry a woman who reads. And writes. And travels. And beautiful. And has a good heart.”

I said, “Okaay. Great. That’s a great goal.”

And then he said, “But I’m afraid of dying before I’m 30.”

Me: “So how old are you now?”

GM: “Mid-late 20s.”

Me: “A lot of people say they’re going to die before they get to 30. When I was 17, I said I was probably going to die before I’m 25.”

GM: “You didn’t die?”

Me: “I’m talking to you now, right? The thing is, you’ll never have that perfect woman/man, or even the perfect sex, if you don’t go out there and put yourself out and get naked and vulnerable.”

GM: “I already did that. See all these scratch marks?”

Me: “Well you have to go out there again. The difference with sex and love is that with sex, you only die during orgasm. With love, you die every single day.”