"It's not fair," he said.
"What's not fair?"
"That you've been with so many guys already. I lack experience!"
"No, you don't."
"Will you be mad at me if I sleep with someone else? It would be sex, only sex. You know the difference, right?"
"Hmm, maybe it would be okay. I don't know." I sighed. "How many times do we have to talk about it?"
"I just feel...insecure.Would a blow job be okay?"
"Yes, I guess...maybe. I wouldn't know what to do until it happens. Besides, it's not my fault that I've been around and you haven't!"
* * *
The bubble burst about a month ago. I was in the kitchen, puttering around. It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. I exhausted after a night around town, and expecting Thomas home after spending a week at his dorm near his University, 300 miles away. I called him last night. There was a distinct tone of indifference in his voice as he inquired into how I've been, what I've been doing. It made me upset, and decided to drown my sorrows at a local bar, immersing myself in loud music, a mug of Radler beer, and in the company of Anna, a new-found friend.
He emerged from the door, freshly shaved and showered, wearing very nice clothes. Unusual from the unruly-haired Thomas I knew.
"Hi sweety. I have good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?"
"What's the bad news?"
"I got a blow job from another girl."
My insides froze. But the news was not unexpected. Call it woman's intuition, but I knew when I heard his voice last night that something was up. I steeled myself, sucked in breath, and asked, "What's the good news?"
"You're better."
Doesn't take a genius to figure that out.
* * *
In a broken narrative, he related what happened. A week-long seminar at school. A new girl in class from Slovakia. Had the hots for him. Last night of the seminar, a couple of Slovakian boys and he got together for a beer at the hotel where the Slovakians were staying. She came along. He got drunk.
Is that all? I asked. I would have readily accepted an accident of inebriation. It happens to the best of us, after all. It happened to me.
No, that's not all. He stayed the night at the hotel. Can't drive home. The girl offered her room. She has a double bed, after all. Woke up together that morning. Pillow talk.
Bang.
* * *
In my mind's eye, I saw Thomas as an eight year old. "Mommy, Mommy, look what I've done!" in a proud, lilting voice, as he leads me into a room, introducing me to his masterpiece, his handiwork: A mural of dirt on the wall.
The fool, he didn't see the logic. The story reeked of pre-determination on both parties. He said it was an accident. The fool, the fool.
* * *
In between tears and anger, I explained, as mightily and as lucidly as I could, why it was not cool. Why it was not okay.
It's so hard for me, who's at the other side of the sexual bridge, to explain to somebody from the other end that when you get to where I am, all you'll want is what you already have: A safe place for the soul.
In the end, he realized why it was not okay, how much it hurt. I felt that I loved him a little less. Thomas is mature in a lot of ways, but very immature in others. Ask anybody who knows him well.
* * *
People tell me that I should be glad, because he saw the merit of telling me about it, that he wanted to be open and honest enough, not to lie about it. I carefully weighed it in my head in the days that followed. Was it a deal-breaker? Should I let this mistake overshadow everything we have, and everything we fought for? Was it worth it?
For days I mulled on the fact that we have set about common goals. We want to build a family together. Do I still want to pursue this with him? Do I still see this clearly, in my mind's eye? Am I still willing to make this work?
And that's why I stayed.
I wish I could show him the consequence of his actions. How, even if he said it hurt him as well to see me so wounded, did not make the bodkin any less sharp. But revenge is pointless, anybody who's tried it in real life knows that.
Thomas knows that I am, in a financial, personal and career standpoint, in a better position. I am an emotionally stable woman in my mid-20s. I have the resources to find a better man. I have the money to go back to Manila to pick up where I left off. He himself said it. However, the older I get, the more morally and emotionally ambiguous things become.
Life is comprised of the choices we make. I hope I made the right one.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
A Very German Birthday
A year older...a year wiser?
My first birthday here in Germany is a bit strange. It was still fun, in many respects, but it still feels strange. I feel like I am wearing somebody else's clothes. Does anybody understand this feeling?
I have great news as well: I've got a job! I am now a freelance English teacher at Berlitz. Ironic huh? At least I've got a way to support myself while studying here.
P.S. to Leslie: You'll never guess where I'm going to go for training...
My birthday table. It's what they do here. They make a birthday table with all your presents, then everybody sits down for tea. Thanks Barb!
With Thomas' best friend, Marko
We had International Food Night at the English Club the next day. My Pancit Bihon and Lumpiang Shanghai were a huge hit!
John on guitars and Daniel on the Banjo.
Sunday at the Garden House.
Thanks to everyone who greeted me!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Its a Small, Small World
Last Monday at the English Club, we exchanged our weirdest "Six Degrees of Separation" stories. The weirdest one came from John, the American who asked me to make Lumpia for him.
"A college roommate of mine when we were studying in Mississsipi was in a bar in China, talking to a German colleague of his. He mentioned that one of his college roommates in Mississipi, meaning me, was living in Germany.
Then suddenly, a girl from the other table said, `Hey! I know somebody who went to college in Mississipi and is now in Germany!' Turns out she was my 6th grade classmate in (insert random name of an American Midwestern town here)!"
Last Wednesday Barb confronted me and asked, "Cathy, did you put your vacation photos on the internet." I replied yes, why? Turns out Thomas' dad asked her, "Why do I have to see my son's vacation photos on the internet and not personally?"
A wave of panic descended upon my person. Oh My God. The Father of My Boyfriend has read my blog! With all the dirty secrets in it! The gyno stories, the dirty stories, the embarrassing stories!
It gets worse.
Thomas' dad got the tip from his younger brother, Peter, who lives in Berlin. So we call Uncle Peter and get to the bottom of it. Uncle Peter can read English. Uncle Peter can speak English. Little Cathy is screwed.
Uncle Peter says that he got the tip from his son, who is currently in China for a year-long exchange student program. He was randomly searching for his family name in Google Blogs and chanced upon a mistake I made. I made an entry that read "Thomas, me, and his mother at the *** summer house." The stranger would not automatically assume that the summer house belonged to the family. We could have been standing in front of the Arroyo summer house and nobody would assume that it was their real last name. For those who are familiar with the names Barbara and Thomas, added with that last name, it is a dead giveaway.
The son then told his older brother, who also maintains a blog, and then told their dad, Uncle Peter, and then told Thomas' dad, who in turn made the biting comment.
Now Barbara wants me to remove the only picture in this blog with her in it. I said, hello, it is my photo. I can do whatever I please with it. She counters no, it's my face in that photo, and I don't want it there. Unless she's in the witness protection program, Hell no, I'm not taking it away. But I did rectify the mistake and altered the caption. Too late though, as we are still cached in Google.
I know I cannot control the people who can have access to my blog. I need this blog as a writing outlet, especially now that I am an island in a German-speaking land. I am not ashamed of the things that I write here. I WANT people to read my stories. However, the thought that my boyfriend's family have read my Manila life entries makes me queasy. If I turn this blog into private mode (now available in Blogger Beta), what is the use of maintaining a blog at all? It kind of defeats the purpose. Alas, I have no choice now to welcome into my readership Uncle Peter, Tony, Joseph, and Thomas's dad. You are now part of an esteemed list of 10 people who read my blog.
"A college roommate of mine when we were studying in Mississsipi was in a bar in China, talking to a German colleague of his. He mentioned that one of his college roommates in Mississipi, meaning me, was living in Germany.
Then suddenly, a girl from the other table said, `Hey! I know somebody who went to college in Mississipi and is now in Germany!' Turns out she was my 6th grade classmate in (insert random name of an American Midwestern town here)!"
Last Wednesday Barb confronted me and asked, "Cathy, did you put your vacation photos on the internet." I replied yes, why? Turns out Thomas' dad asked her, "Why do I have to see my son's vacation photos on the internet and not personally?"
A wave of panic descended upon my person. Oh My God. The Father of My Boyfriend has read my blog! With all the dirty secrets in it! The gyno stories, the dirty stories, the embarrassing stories!
It gets worse.
Thomas' dad got the tip from his younger brother, Peter, who lives in Berlin. So we call Uncle Peter and get to the bottom of it. Uncle Peter can read English. Uncle Peter can speak English. Little Cathy is screwed.
Uncle Peter says that he got the tip from his son, who is currently in China for a year-long exchange student program. He was randomly searching for his family name in Google Blogs and chanced upon a mistake I made. I made an entry that read "Thomas, me, and his mother at the *** summer house." The stranger would not automatically assume that the summer house belonged to the family. We could have been standing in front of the Arroyo summer house and nobody would assume that it was their real last name. For those who are familiar with the names Barbara and Thomas, added with that last name, it is a dead giveaway.
The son then told his older brother, who also maintains a blog, and then told their dad, Uncle Peter, and then told Thomas' dad, who in turn made the biting comment.
Now Barbara wants me to remove the only picture in this blog with her in it. I said, hello, it is my photo. I can do whatever I please with it. She counters no, it's my face in that photo, and I don't want it there. Unless she's in the witness protection program, Hell no, I'm not taking it away. But I did rectify the mistake and altered the caption. Too late though, as we are still cached in Google.
I know I cannot control the people who can have access to my blog. I need this blog as a writing outlet, especially now that I am an island in a German-speaking land. I am not ashamed of the things that I write here. I WANT people to read my stories. However, the thought that my boyfriend's family have read my Manila life entries makes me queasy. If I turn this blog into private mode (now available in Blogger Beta), what is the use of maintaining a blog at all? It kind of defeats the purpose. Alas, I have no choice now to welcome into my readership Uncle Peter, Tony, Joseph, and Thomas's dad. You are now part of an esteemed list of 10 people who read my blog.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
You Always Want What You Can't Have
One of the funny side effects of living so far away from home is that you become acutely aware that you are NOT at home. Everything seems to be better from afar. Manila traffic jams? The sweltering heat? The constant buzz of the city? In Manila it annoyed me to the point of desensitisation. Now I'm all like, bring it on, Manila!
What I really took for granted, what I realize now, is the food. I had the same old Tortang Talong, Itlog na Maalat, and Guinisang Munggo day in and day out. The moment you step on foreign land, the first thing you will realize is that the food is just not the same. Sure, Eisbein is fine, and tomato soup is great when nursing a cold, but nothing beats Arroz Caldo on a cold autumn morning.
It doesn't help that I am stuck in the middle of the former East Germany, where Filipinos (and thus, Filipino food) are so hard to come by. I never even bothered to cook Filipino food in Manila. Why should I, when I could buy it at the local carinderia?
I have now made it a personal crusade to get myself an honest-to-goodness coconut grater. These people just don't see the point or the need for freshly-grated coconut and fresh coconut milk. I once asked Thomas' brother, a metalworker, to make one for me. As I described my need, he just scratched his head and asked "Why don't you just buy a can of coco milk? Why go through all the trouble?"
Two weeks ago, as I passed by the weekly Tuesday Market at the local town square, I stopped dead on my tracks: The glorious sight of fish being smoked, right there in the market, in the middle of our little land-locked state.
"Fresh Fish." I said.
"Yes?" said the vendor.
"Here?"
"Yes?"
"In Thuringen?"
"Yes!" he said, barely able to contain the twinkle in his eye.
In his glass case, I saw something that transported me back to home--Tinapa, fresh from the Baltic Sea! Oh God, the Germans have tinapa! I could barely contain my joy as I readily handed a euro for a handful of the greasy fish, which I inhaled all the way home.
I have even started making my own Itlog na Maalat. It's not so hard to make. I'm want to go "old school" and attempt to make my own Lumpia wrapper (I've seen it done) and my own Galapong (hopefully, it doesn't stick to the blender's blades.)
I realized that food continually binds me to the Philippines.
At the "English Club" that I attend here, an American member recalled that as he was a Boy Scout, the mother of a Filipino Scout member would make Lumpiang Shanghai for the group every time they would gather at the boy's house. John, the American, smacked his lips as he asked me to make some lumpia for him.
Sure, I said, I'll bring it next time. I guess I am not the only one who wants to recall the joys of his childhood.
I always try to substitute whatever ingridients I could not find here. It's really weird that no matter how hard I try, Pansit Bihon Guisado here in Germany just doesn't taste the same. I know now that Thai Patis for me tastes gross.
When it boils down to it, I have flown so far away from home, only to try to re-create my motherland as closely as I can, if only in flavor.
What I really took for granted, what I realize now, is the food. I had the same old Tortang Talong, Itlog na Maalat, and Guinisang Munggo day in and day out. The moment you step on foreign land, the first thing you will realize is that the food is just not the same. Sure, Eisbein is fine, and tomato soup is great when nursing a cold, but nothing beats Arroz Caldo on a cold autumn morning.
It doesn't help that I am stuck in the middle of the former East Germany, where Filipinos (and thus, Filipino food) are so hard to come by. I never even bothered to cook Filipino food in Manila. Why should I, when I could buy it at the local carinderia?
I have now made it a personal crusade to get myself an honest-to-goodness coconut grater. These people just don't see the point or the need for freshly-grated coconut and fresh coconut milk. I once asked Thomas' brother, a metalworker, to make one for me. As I described my need, he just scratched his head and asked "Why don't you just buy a can of coco milk? Why go through all the trouble?"
Two weeks ago, as I passed by the weekly Tuesday Market at the local town square, I stopped dead on my tracks: The glorious sight of fish being smoked, right there in the market, in the middle of our little land-locked state.
"Fresh Fish." I said.
"Yes?" said the vendor.
"Here?"
"Yes?"
"In Thuringen?"
"Yes!" he said, barely able to contain the twinkle in his eye.
In his glass case, I saw something that transported me back to home--Tinapa, fresh from the Baltic Sea! Oh God, the Germans have tinapa! I could barely contain my joy as I readily handed a euro for a handful of the greasy fish, which I inhaled all the way home.
I have even started making my own Itlog na Maalat. It's not so hard to make. I'm want to go "old school" and attempt to make my own Lumpia wrapper (I've seen it done) and my own Galapong (hopefully, it doesn't stick to the blender's blades.)
I realized that food continually binds me to the Philippines.
At the "English Club" that I attend here, an American member recalled that as he was a Boy Scout, the mother of a Filipino Scout member would make Lumpiang Shanghai for the group every time they would gather at the boy's house. John, the American, smacked his lips as he asked me to make some lumpia for him.
Sure, I said, I'll bring it next time. I guess I am not the only one who wants to recall the joys of his childhood.
I always try to substitute whatever ingridients I could not find here. It's really weird that no matter how hard I try, Pansit Bihon Guisado here in Germany just doesn't taste the same. I know now that Thai Patis for me tastes gross.
When it boils down to it, I have flown so far away from home, only to try to re-create my motherland as closely as I can, if only in flavor.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Seven Songs-A meme by Jac
I was tagged by Jac to do a seven song meme some weeks ago. It was hard to come up with seven songs. I am not really musically inclined, you see. The funny thing about your meme, Jac, is that it made me reflect what is it I really like about these songs. Thinking about these songs reminded me of who I really am. I realized that these songs spoke of what my personality is like. In a bad day like today (the shitty autumn weather, the shitty first day at the Thuringische Landeszeitung office), it reminded me what I had to offer the world. Thanks Jac!
Telepopmusik featuring Andrea McCluskey - Breathe
Love the music, love the video.
Hikaru Utada - Easy Breezy
God, ang galing niya no?
Imogen Heap-Goodnight and Go
It reminds me what it's like to live and fall in love in a big city. Coffee shops, books, art. Gotta love it. Imogen Heap also sang
Frou Frou's Breathe In.
John Meyer- Bigger Than My Body
This is the song that I sing to myself when life gets the better of me. I am so motivated to do something, BE something, every time I listen to this.
Moloko-Sing it Back to Me
This song was playing on my 20th birthday. It was an end of an era, a time when I would go clubbing every night. It is up there with J.Lo's Waiting for Tonight
No Diggity-Blackstreet
So effing dancable.
I've got tons, tons more in my list, like the entire Circus Album of the Eraserheads,Where The Wild Roses Go by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue, Glorybox by Portishead, Beautiful Ones by Suede and Nirvana's In Bloom. Just got me to thinking that maybe an MP3 Player is not such a bad investment.
Who do I meme? I feel guilty for doing this...JaniPanda and Leslie!
Telepopmusik featuring Andrea McCluskey - Breathe
Love the music, love the video.
Hikaru Utada - Easy Breezy
God, ang galing niya no?
Imogen Heap-Goodnight and Go
It reminds me what it's like to live and fall in love in a big city. Coffee shops, books, art. Gotta love it. Imogen Heap also sang
Frou Frou's Breathe In.
John Meyer- Bigger Than My Body
This is the song that I sing to myself when life gets the better of me. I am so motivated to do something, BE something, every time I listen to this.
Moloko-Sing it Back to Me
This song was playing on my 20th birthday. It was an end of an era, a time when I would go clubbing every night. It is up there with J.Lo's Waiting for Tonight
No Diggity-Blackstreet
So effing dancable.
I've got tons, tons more in my list, like the entire Circus Album of the Eraserheads,Where The Wild Roses Go by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue, Glorybox by Portishead, Beautiful Ones by Suede and Nirvana's In Bloom. Just got me to thinking that maybe an MP3 Player is not such a bad investment.
Who do I meme? I feel guilty for doing this...JaniPanda and Leslie!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Tales from the Table
*Warning: Sensitive Material
For us girls, finding the right gynecologist is just as tough as finding "The One."
Getting ourselves to open our privates, entrusting our deepest darkest sexual secrets to a total stranger--I would need somebody trustworthy for that.
I can't imagine myself getting a male gynecologist. I've always suspected that there has to be something wrong with a man who likes to stare at vaginas all day long.
Many women are embarassed about going to the gyno, and answering questions truthfully, and for a good reason. How are you supposed to know whether it was proper for the gyno to put his/her finger up your ass during a Pap smear exam? (The answer: If she/he is a good gynecologist who is interested in your sexual well-being, then yes. It is standard procedure.)
I started going to the gynecologist at the ripe old age of 22, for my first Pap Smear test. She was a small, spry woman with short hair. I suspected she is a closet lezzie. Medical examinations always make me nervous. She took a good look in me, and told me, "You have a beautiful pink vagina!" I never went back to her after that.
I went to my next gynecologist upon my sister's recommendation. The good doctor was her personal gynecologist, and was cheaper than the other doctor. I went to her on March and September of the same year. My first visit was to treat a yeast infection, while my next visit was to get my yearly Pap Smear. I hated her. She didn't even ask me any questions about my reproductive history. She was only interested in why I went to her. In my first visit, she gave me a lecture on "Why don't you get married so you won't have these worries over STDs?" In my second visit, she urged me to marry Thomas, and get him circumsized, stat. I felt that she was judgmental of my sexual decisions, and that she did not give me through medical examinations.
I am satisfied with my gyno here in Germany. She physically reminds me a lot of my first gyno in the Philippines, but the guys on the island should learn a thing or two from their German counterparts. She was very personable yet professional. When did you have your first period? Have you ever had a miscarriage/abortion? Have your reproductive organs gone under the knife?
I wondered how come the gynos I had in the Philippines never asked me these questions? How come I had to volunteer my answers to the gynos over there? And why is she really interested in what I need?
She told me to come back after 14 days for my next visit. I plan to keep that appointment.
For us girls, finding the right gynecologist is just as tough as finding "The One."
Getting ourselves to open our privates, entrusting our deepest darkest sexual secrets to a total stranger--I would need somebody trustworthy for that.
I can't imagine myself getting a male gynecologist. I've always suspected that there has to be something wrong with a man who likes to stare at vaginas all day long.
Many women are embarassed about going to the gyno, and answering questions truthfully, and for a good reason. How are you supposed to know whether it was proper for the gyno to put his/her finger up your ass during a Pap smear exam? (The answer: If she/he is a good gynecologist who is interested in your sexual well-being, then yes. It is standard procedure.)
I started going to the gynecologist at the ripe old age of 22, for my first Pap Smear test. She was a small, spry woman with short hair. I suspected she is a closet lezzie. Medical examinations always make me nervous. She took a good look in me, and told me, "You have a beautiful pink vagina!" I never went back to her after that.
I went to my next gynecologist upon my sister's recommendation. The good doctor was her personal gynecologist, and was cheaper than the other doctor. I went to her on March and September of the same year. My first visit was to treat a yeast infection, while my next visit was to get my yearly Pap Smear. I hated her. She didn't even ask me any questions about my reproductive history. She was only interested in why I went to her. In my first visit, she gave me a lecture on "Why don't you get married so you won't have these worries over STDs?" In my second visit, she urged me to marry Thomas, and get him circumsized, stat. I felt that she was judgmental of my sexual decisions, and that she did not give me through medical examinations.
I am satisfied with my gyno here in Germany. She physically reminds me a lot of my first gyno in the Philippines, but the guys on the island should learn a thing or two from their German counterparts. She was very personable yet professional. When did you have your first period? Have you ever had a miscarriage/abortion? Have your reproductive organs gone under the knife?
I wondered how come the gynos I had in the Philippines never asked me these questions? How come I had to volunteer my answers to the gynos over there? And why is she really interested in what I need?
She told me to come back after 14 days for my next visit. I plan to keep that appointment.
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