Whatever happened to Cakes McCain?

cupMeet the grand master of procrastination and the poster-girl for lazy. Everyday for weeks (OK, months), I had planned my return to the blogsphere, however I just never got around to it, and felt like for the most part, life was actually too good to report back.  Even returning to ‘the old country’ for a week last February with it’s blip of inspiration via Mediterranean air, amazing food, and ever-present population of MacDaddy creeps and crappy blue Fiats were not sufficient enough inspiration to ruffle my goat and get me off my lazy rump to even remotely kick-start any half-assed creative effort.

Italian wonder-dog extraordinare: ‘Riba-Jane Pepper-Paw’

Incidentally while I wasn’t stuffing my face with Pizza Margherita and Pistachio-flavoured gelato,  I was arranging for the adoption a 3-legged canine to add to my fur-family, thus the inevitable growing number of dog-hair tumble-weeds that seem to float in suspended animation from one side of my living room to the other, and the renegade hairs that end up sticking to my underwear.

Alas, what can I say? Life is not too shabby at the moment. It’s a far yodel from my old Italian hood. My gripes are more of the ‘civilized world’ variety, and I assure you all that during my hiatus from the blogsphere I have not adopted religious fanaticism, bared my breasts in McDonald’s, or shaved my head and declared sweatpants as my standard uniform. There is no extreme angst, drama, or deal-breaking cultural differences. How could I not love a nation of tweed-wearing gentlemen that instead of using the words: fuck, screw, slam, bang – substitute them with such whimsical vocabulary as rumpy-pumpy and jiggery-pokery?


It has officially been 1 year in my new English hood aka. ‘The Best Place to Live in Britain 2013,’ while simultaneously travelling the road of mature relationship. Here in my own abode with my Italian hunting dogs, and no longer imposing on the hospitality of Sir English within the confines of his micro man-cave with creepy velvet hand chair. That too-close-for comfort scenario being no Von Trapp singers’ picnic for either of us, as I was forced to share space with old transit tickets, waiting-to-be-recycled padded envelopes, greeting cards from holidays past, 21 coffee mugs, several model cars, a lava lamp, and 12 months of Belinda Carlisle circa 2002.

He may be mad about you, but this man-cave is not big enough for the both of us.

'The Crappy Blue Fiat.'

Be gone blue crap-wagon!

The sight of this horrid automobile that had infiltrated my pristine suburban British neighborhood was but a gentle reminder that crappy blue Fiats and the MacDaddy Creeps that own them, have helped mold the person I am today. I have unintentionally swapped the standard  cringe-inducing Italian ‘man-child’ along with their sub-standard autos, for a plethora of slick classic cars, posh accents, costuming up for a cornucopia  of fab festivals, and more often than not often getting really inspired by all the awesomeness.

We occasionally min-road trip and do all kinds of really cool shit where I get to dress up…

traingirl2 bw copy

vintage affair may 2014










So what now Cakes McCain? The fate of ‘Pasta for One?’ When essentially now it’s ‘Tea for Two?’  Not long ago I met my ‘blogfamily’ sister for some quality time in the big city, and we discussed just this.  Her personal take: “I haven’t written in the blog ages. Things are different now. Life’s evolved and I’m not that ‘character’ any more.” This was a notion seeming all too familiar. Was my editorial-therapy, only temporary? Was my creativity fueled by angst and frustration? Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow…

dog and feet



Posted in dating, dating rejects, European men, hoarding, humour, Italian life, Italian men, Italy, Italy living, Life in Italy, Living in Italy, losers, MacDaddy, perverts, players, relationships, self examination, social misfit, Uncategorized, writers, x-pat, x-pats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

It’s my blog and I’ll bitch if I want to

Recently a FB contact took a pot shot at me  in response to a quip I made on another friend’s post. The post was regarding odd couples she had observed that day, and my comment went something like this: “How about the bikini-clad girls and men in angora sweaters on Southern Italian beaches?”

The response: “I don’t know why you lived there for so long when all you do is take pot shots at Italian men every chance you get.” Adding that they had been always well dressed and most polite and respectful towards her. I am pleased for her, but that is HER experience, and it simply wasn’t mine.

Every chance I get?

I don’t believe I have been spending my days lingering on the edge of my seat waiting to plug in the ‘Italian dude on-the- make, douche-bag factor’ in every social interaction…

“Hey Cakes, How’s it going?”

“Hey! Pretty good.  I was with Sir English last night. He’s so lovely! He  took me to dinner, we watched a film, and he stayed over. Did I ever tell you my Ital girlfriend Tani told me never to let an Italian man in my house – not even to use the bathroom,  as he would expect to get laid if I let him in.  Sick huh?”

bbpic1 copy

The last time I did an inventory of my time management and level of preoccupation these days – It did not include Italian men, only one certain English one. However, as we rarely communicate,  I suspect this person could have read my blog –  even though my posts have been far and few between in the past year since moving to England.

And what about my blog’s content? I write this blog for entertainment. My content is (was) about my single life, my ideas and MY OWN observations. Most importantly poking fun at weird Italian men is a part of my ammo.  It in no way overwhelms and infiltrates my personal/social life. I don’t harbour an incessant need to go around repeating my past social and sexual liaisons with this particular demographic, or opinions from this blog to anyone in my social sphere, that will listen.

Unlike the person that made the comment (who incidentally is a native Italian woman – now living several years in the UK), I was a single expat living full-time in a foreign land where sexism and traditional roles are alive and well, and where several men have impenetrable preconceived notion that foreigners – especially North American women are easy pickins, and they – the Italians, are the best lovers in the world. Both of which fantasies they should consider surrendering.

In their infinite wisdom both my Ital gal pals Tani and Franca, told me: “The men think you are easier to take to bed because you are ‘American’ and you are free. They don’t act this way so much with Italian women.” My 2 Ital gal pals were often aghast at the behavior of men I was often subjected to. I was propositioned, followed, stalked, groped and harassed. I don’t claim it occurred everyday, but it did occur, and far more than when I was cuter, in my 20’s and lived in Canada.

But why would I want to repeatedly peg an entire demographic as hairy, cliche, or overall sleazy for that matter?

If you are even vaguely familiar with my cast here in the blog, you know I haven’t forgotten my decent, respectful Italian male friends in the ‘hood ie.  ‘Wingman,’ ‘Dog Guy,’ ‘Mr. Jesus,’ and even a few others not mentioned, for who I am very indebted to for of all their support and various acts of kindness.

I don’t expect everyone to enjoy what they read, some may even hate ‘Pasta for One.’
The solution is simple, just don’t read it.

ALL of this – It’s MY experience…
And I’ll bitch if I want to.

(And by the way – Next report coming live from Italy. xo)

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Cakes vs. Scones: The Identity Crisis

During the last few months while my mojo has been curled-up into the fetal position and I have attempted (on some level) to deal with a cornucopia of emotional shit to which I am in not willing to succumb (denial hard at work) – I have come to  a conclusion. Well, several actually. However to sum it up…


I am really damaged goods.

My acute case of literary laryngitis stems from my inability to follow any text-book rules of bereavement, guilt, and an epic identity crisis that has thus paralysed me from  transcending anything remotely coherent or moderately witty from my grey matter to the keys of my black rectangle in order to grace my coveted ‘Pasta for One.’ Gone is ‘Oliver Twist with Furniture and Diamonds,’  dating hell, virtual poverty, and my former obsession with scouring my pockets in search of bus fare.

What have I become?
Life should be peaches and cream, right?

Former inmate, Paparazzi, Actor: Fabrizio Corona the quintessesntial Italian "McCreep"

The Horror.

I no longer live in a misogynist country where almost nothing functions, or serial date Italian MacDaddy creeps à la Roberto who follow me in their crappy blue Fiats and enjoy masturbating near my dining table. I am in a proper ‘relationship.’ I have a decent, sweet and  respectable English boyfriend with a magnificent penis, who was surely educated at the Emily Post School of sexual etiquette as he never uses the ‘F-word.’ (However, not that I mind its use when he has me in a ‘compromised’ position.)

I rent a small problem-free dwelling with great water pressure, from a stand-up landlord and according to ‘The Sunday Times’ newspaper  – I happen to be located in ‘The Best Place to Live in Britain.’


So should I change my name to ‘Scones Windermere’ and re-name my blog ‘Tea for Two’ while I muse over the fact I have no prospects (nothing new there), watch far too many BBC documentaries on WWII, and at times feel like a ginormous creatively void hack/waste-of-space?  Or perhaps revel in my own jadedness and document my attempts to act like a ‘functional’ member of the human race while trying not to alienate a certain individual that claims to have genuine feelings for me?


Am I not happy unless I am unhappy?

Last week Sir English, observing my frustration, startled me with: “Maybe Stamford isn’t edgy enough for you.” Is he right? Do I need edgy? Is earthy-tone tweed and old English vibe, raining on my creative parade?

Good grief, if Madonna can suck it up...

Good grief, if Madonna can suck it up…

Perhaps I need perspective and a pick-me-up in the form of my most adored peeps, a bit of winter sunshine and the best comfort foods in the world? 

YES! It’s going to be one week back in the Italian hood from January 31st!
I can do that because ‘Oliver Twist with Furniture and Diamonds’ is no longer ‘in the house’…



Posted in affirmations, blog, bloggers, boredom, cake, dating, depression, Eating, European men, friendship, grieving, guilt, humour, Italian life, Italian men, Italy, Italy living, Life in Italy, Living in Italy, losers, love, MacDaddy, perverts, positive thinking, relationships, self examination, self help, self loathing, sex, single girl, social misfit, travel, Uncategorized, writers, x-pat, x-pats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

A lost Mojo, Neurotic Salad and the gross misuse of ‘Mactac’

I might be this guy…


OK I am PROBABLY this guy…

Peter Whitman (Adrien Brody) with a simmering melancholy during his journey in Darjeeling Limited –  Used his dead father’s razor, and wore his prescription glasses  rendering him almost legally blind. Although I was tempted, as I had 3 pairs at my disposal,  I currently have opted for an enormous brown suede wrangler’s hat, souvenir t-shirts from his trip to China in 2002, decrepid leaking rain hat circa 1950, and a white leather belt from the 1970’s I will have to have cut back about 12 inches. Fortunately I didn’t go as far as to save the numerous pen knives or one of the 12 sets of nail clippers, but will probably end up keeping the autoharp he (my father – the school principal) saved from the elementary school that was set for demolition. Even though no one in my family played any instruments or was remotely musically inclined.

We weren't exactly living in Nashville.

We weren’t exactly living in Nashville.

Except for my mother who I hear dabbled in piano, and in the late 70’s painted ours white and covered it in red and black floral ‘Mactac.’ I believe it was the last time she ever Mactac-ed anything as my father forbade any further self-adhesive abominations. Nonetheless the autoharp was spared a crushing demise and further damage via Mactac, and collected dust in the bowels of my family’s home for at least 15 years


I saved these.

I could very well be developing Joan Crawford tendencies as well.
(But aren’t they just so posh?)

 Peter Whitman failed attempts to come to terms with his own father’s death. Peter’s use of his father’s sunglasses and razor symbolizes an excessive material attachment and the need to shed his excess baggage, both literal and metaphoric, in his spiritual quest.’ 

Regardless of my varied mini-obsessions of saving odd, random items… wrapped in an overall epic package of responsibility, I managed to find solace in the fact I found a kick-ass real estate agent who is über positive, brings Indian food from her restaurant to our meetings, and encouraged my brother and I to battle like barbarians the mass piles of junk accumulated over my parents’ lifetime


5+ loads to the city dump plus numerous trips to charity shops…
The horror.

Then August 1st, off to Great Britain I went with my 5-year visa in-hand, thinking I’d be able to breathe, chill, move on and keep up appearances.

the expat goes uk

Honestly I am a lousy actress, my feeble attempts in front of Sir English hopefully are not overly transparent. I don’t know if it’s the jet lag, the grief, the stress of being technically ‘homeless,’ the paralysing fear of being in a relationship where I could inevitably get my heart catapulted back into the Moulinex – or all of the above tossed together like a neurotic crazy-salad. But one day not long ago, like a little message from beyond, while sorting the books in the family library – I happened to randomly open a very worn copy of my father’s favourite book to the page of his favourite poem that he read to me when I was 6…

dadsbookMaybe for now that is all I need to remember.

Posted in depression, friendship, grieving, humour, losers, love, positive thinking, self examination, self help, self loathing, travel, Uncategorized, x-pat, x-pats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

2+ months: Sex, death and champagne.

I had a good month…
That was all the time I actually spent in the UK with the lovely Sir English.

We drank champagne and ate cake…

bp and c

Made-out on the banks of some river while being ogled by intrusive sheep…
Frolicked with Miss Big-Paws in meadows like cool Anglo-Saxon VonTraps …

bp meadow-horz 2

Chilled in London…

DSC00180 ps bw 2

Had morning sex, crumpets, and pancakes several mornings in a row…
Saw a production at the theatre…
Took in local historical sights and museum openings…


Look what showed up at the local museum…
If only it worked.

Dressed in costume to attend one of London’s biggest costume parties…

me and mr t

Me, Sir Rupert The Black,  and my new friend Mr. Tumnus…
I would have taken him home and made a pet of him if I could.

But of course that was all before I received the news that my father had passed away. No matter how well prepared  I thought I was for the inevitable – I wasn’t. I was/am flattened. I have been back in hometown purgatory for 6 weeks now, and aside from dealing with some sort of my own personal warped version of grief, I am back to square one and certifiably in the bell jar.

I applied for a UK Visa. Within 10 days it was in my hand.

Here we go again.

Kill me now.

Kill me now.

I am up to my eyebrows in responsibility I can’t possibly handle. I am off packing all kinds of shit I will probably regret and hate myself for later, all to move to another f’cking country and start all over again NEXT WEEK.

What the fuck am I doing?

Posted in cake, dating, depression, dogs, European men, friendship, grieving, guilt, hook-ups, humour, materialism, relationships, self examination, self help, single girl, social misfit, travel, x-pat | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

‘The Sensual Blogger Award,’ sexy secrets and some mildly erotic bedsugar…

photobyericdavidloughLovely Alice of StoryofAlice was really TOO kind by bestowing this honour upon myself: The Sensual Blogger Award.

“Cakes at Pasta for One, whose collection of erotic misadventures told with warmth and humour is rivalled by no one.”

In addition, I can’t say enough wonderful things about Alice and her great writing.

Generally speaking my ‘sensual’ blogging I may indulge in from time to time is far tamer than most others in the blogsphere, and more recently I haven’t blogged about what has been occurring between my bed sheets. This has been out of respect for the individual for with who I am currently messing up the bed. And the fact that his friend sometimes reads this blog and I get extremely embarrassed. (Hello Mark! YATZEE!) But despite my quasi-absense from my blog – I am FINALLY ‘getting some’ after a long, dry season.

This award comes with the responsibility of answering seven questions, writing a sensuous paragraph to prove I deserve the honour (I have never written erotic fiction or any fiction in my life!), and nominating other deserving recipients.

Here the questions:

1. Describe your last sexual experience in 3 words.

Wet, intense, satisfying.

2. What did you think about last time you masturbated?

The last (and current) penis in my immediate vicinity, an absolute sublime specimen no less.


3. What’s your number one hard limit, no exceptions?

Acts related to defecation and/or having to insert my tongue in a certain orifice where one defecate. No thanks. As they say here in England… “Not my cup of tea.”

4. What’s the easiest/quickest way for you to get off?

Absolutely indulge me.

5. What movie, not porn, do you find the most arousing?


Lesbian, straight – Who cares? I’d wanna be Violet.

Surprise!… Take my love of various gangster flicks tossed with some sexual tension/hotness: It’s the film ‘Bound.’ Notably this scene  between Violet (Jennifer Tilly) and Gina Gershon (Corky). Regardless of the fact I am about as heterosexual as one female specimen could get, and this scene IS between chicks… it’s hot, it made me squirm the first time I saw it, and I could see myself being as calculated as Violet.

6. If you had to have, or do have, a fetish, what is it?

I suppose it depends on what one constitutes as a fetish. Mine may be tame in comparison to others.’ Despite I have a strong sense of etiquette and propriety in public, being somewhat of a rebel and a tease  – I am no Emily Post of fucking. I have a fondness for DISCRETE sexual touching/fondling/teasing (my partner) in public  – of course getting away with it unseen, and if the opportunity exists for sex (oral or other) results from it –  it’s like I’ve won the jackpot.

7. Anal sex… you like it or not?

This is a question I could only answer on a case to case basis. Have I tried it? Yes. Did I enjoy it EVERY time? No.

And the bonus paragraph of erotica…
Alice’s prompts include ‘scent, invisible, smooth, and sigh.’

This is probably a bit too long, but here goes… my first shot at erotic fiction…


She slid across the smooth leather seat at the back of the room to be closer to him.  She was wearing her signature black Mary Jane stilettos, her dress clinging tightly to her body. He fantasized about what was underneath, running his tongue over her breasts, her nipples hard, then between her legs, grabbing her perfect round ass as she straddled him and his cock throbbed inside her. He had already taken the liberty and ordered champagne, knowing she adored champagne and hoping it would release any inhibitions she may have later in the evening. After a few glasses of champagne and  exchanging updates on work and mutual acquaintances, she retired to the power room and returned a few minutes later to the table with a with a mischievous smirk across her painted red lips, while concealing something in her hand. She sat next to him once again in their private corner of the cafe, only closer this time, sliding her leg over his –  her dress riding up and exposing the stockings held up by lace garters that adorned her thighs. All but invisible the rest that was waiting for him, and only graced by the natural perfume of her clean skin and a scent by Gucci she had put on earlier that afternoon. She nuzzled his neck, stroking his arm then placing the hidden item of soft fabric into his hand, under the table. As he looked down she whispered, “Don’t show them, it’s just our secret.”  He could barely see them under the dim lighting but they were light like silk, but damp. He grew hard and his cock ached as she took his other hand in hers and slowly slid it up her thigh, between her legs pressing his fingers between the wet lips of her pussy. She released his hand, and of his own accord he slid his finger deep and hard inside her  taking all her juices with him then circling her clit, teasing her. She sighed. Breathless she whispered in his ear, “I want you… I need you to fuck me… Let’s get out of here…”

As Alice and I follow some of the same blogs, I am limiting my list to 2 fave bloggers. The nominees:  Silly G. at Three Months to 40  and Teri at The Narcissist’s Blog.

MY prompts for your fiction are: heat, emasculate, leather, pain.

 Come on girls, give us some sugar! xox

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Welcome to the ‘Man-Cave’

barsThe voyage via ferry from The Netherlands to The UK was uneventful to say the least. Feeling abunbdantly sorry for my travelling companion Miss Big-Paws  – I spent most of the time sitting in the ship’s kennel room keeping her company.

Upon arrival at border control we were ushered into the ‘other’ line, where I was met by a cordial 20-someting border guard who proceeded to ask a lengthy series of questions while risking carpal tunnel syndrome by feverishly taking notes as I replied. “Yes I travelled to the Netherlands with my dog, it was easier and less expensive to go ther first. I was there 2 nights, I had dinner with a friend one night – actually a ‘Couchsurfer’ that I hosted at my apartment 2 summers ago. You know that website? Anyway, I was in Rotterdam, then came here. I don’t know how long I will be staying  – ideally 3 months maybe, but my father isn’t well… is this too much information?”

I have not packed drugs in my orifices. I am not illegally defecting from my Canadian homeland despite it’s freezing cold and snows way too f’cking much, and I’d be hard pressed to find decent employment or affordable housing there anyway.
( I didn’t say that, but wanted to.)

 Why all the notes? Was I ‘under suspiscion and considered a threat to The UK’s national security? Does Her Magesty’s Secret Service need to compile a file on me? Will middle aged men dressed incognito a la 007  be coveting my every move? I hope they at least bring martini fixings along, and look like Daniel Craig or a young Sean Connery.


 Shortly after my temporary detainment from border control I was picked up by Sir English and driven the 90 minutes back to his flat. During which time we exchanged pleasantries and got reaquainted.

Upon entry into his small apartment, my eyes widened in disbelief as I had assumed he would be some sort of urban male minimalist. However I was entering another completely opposite form of quintessesntial man-cave adorned with the standard vast quantities of wall-to-wall magazines and books, dvds, testosterone art aka. film posters à la James Bond,  even car parts and anti-freeze under his kitchen table, and fittingly furnished with man-cave furnishings of the IKEA pine variety… but I was not prepared for this LITERAL decor monstrocity…

I feel dirty already.

I feel dirty already.

An item so aesthetically awful and disturbing, it could only make me cringe and feel as though I had been molested if I were to  ever sit in it.  Italy gave me crappy blue Fiats and MacDaddy Gorillas, instead England gives me pervy King Kong severed hands to fondle my ass.

Fortunately Miss Big-Paws immediately frond space, made herself at home, and appeared content enough.


Is good taste subjective?
Ask Big-Paws.

Alas, let’s see how things unfold, shall we?

Posted in dating, dogs, European men, humour, single girl, Uncategorized, x-pat, x-pats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments