The longest/shortest staircase in the world for getting your shit together before seeing the ex

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That was it, basically. I had no concept of time exiting my rental apartment and descending that massive, ancient staircase, as I knew that before tiny me got to the bottom and opened that giant door to the outside, I had better be cool or at least nail the faking of it. Time seemed to be moving in slow motion but my brain was revving in overdrive. There’d be no epic disappointment this time as he’d actually showed up and would be waiting outside that very door. My ex holy-grail. Did I want to kiss him, punch him, tear his clothes off? I didn’t know. Maybe all of the above. I told myself – smile like an ass and tell yourself ‘you got this’. At least if I did it enough I could maybe fool myself into believeing the Radiohead song ‘Creep’ was not about me and my occasional drunk texts and sappy three (plus) decades of pining for him…

When you were here before
Couldn’t look you in the eye
You’re just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
And I wish I was special
You’re so fuckin’ special
But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here…

After exchanging small talk while grabbing a quick drink at the bar next to the apartment, he said we’d go to lunch at a Sushi joint across town, for which I would happily go along with as I could figuratively cross said activity off the long list of epic disappointments via unkempt promises of the past.

So, was this meeting going well thus far?  Maybe. I could only hope he didn’t consider me a charity case, but I wish I knew what he was thinking…
Friend zone? Like a sister? Chunky thighs? Shag worthy? Girlfriend material? Why is her Italian grammar so bad? How long can I keep this up?

He was being kind to me though, as he could have ghosted me or just made up some lame excuse. Then I heard him mention the word ‘gift’ which I thought must have been a mistake and thus quickly dismissed. Since when has someone actually chosen and gifted me something nice for no reason? (Let the Cakes McCain pity festivities commence…)

He passes me a small wood box. I don’t touch it, I just stare at it, and him, in disbelief … undoubtedly resembling a stumped game-show contestant or confused guinea pig. “It’s for you, open it.”

I opened it to see a piece of jewellery inside, a bracelet – something I’d actually wear as opposed to flipping it on Ebay the next chance I got. I loved it. Maybe more because it came from him. When was I last  gifted a piece of jewellery that hadn’t been fenced or a wasn’t some neon rubber band you get free from dropping 50cents in a Unicef box? He asks me if I like it (more than once), and I say I do because it’s true and I’m floored because he’s being so nice to me AND he’s is non-douchy and doesn’t drive a crappy blue Fiat so therefore he won’t expect a hand-job later. I could have easily facilitated a river of tears if I had really wanted to slap it on thick, and if it were more socially acceptable and had I drunk 6 more flasks of warm Sake and had the approval of the crusty sour-faced Asian waitress, I could have leaped over the table like an Olympian gymnast, only to end up on his lap and really demonstrate my appreciation, stopping short at any hard-core skankyness or over-zealous canine-like affection .

He says: “It’s Lapis stone, do you know it?” I say: “No.” He does an Google image search and shows me and points to an example on his cel. “Here see?”
“Oh ok… it’s really nice.” As I enlarge the photo on his screen, “I guess I should be relieved you didn’t gift me THAT instead,” We laugh… we drink more Sake.
(On second thought,  I haven’t had sex in over 2 1/2 years). 

But here he is, finally, right in front of me, just us and there’s no one else, and he’s totally present. When he’s in my zone, he’s focused. It’s all about me and he’s always checking in. He wants to make sure I’m ok. Am I still hungry? Do I need something, am I contented? What do I think of the sashimi – is it good? What do I want to do after this?… I’m so easy. If next he suggests riding shotgun in a stolen police car or lame ladder-climbing mime in the main piazza, I’m up for it it, but we end up browsing at a couple of  vintage shops instead. Right up my alley.

Then after we take a long walk on the beach, and subsequently lose (and then find) his car,  we end up in the city centre and I find myself standing in a men’s underwear shop in the city centre. “There isn’t one of these shops near where I live, mind if we go in?”
“Of course not.” But I DO mind… BOUNDARIES.

I’ll steal the cop car myself and risk incarceration, I’ll sacrifice my already skewered dignity and public ladder-mime… but stand there while you select your underwear? Seriously? Are we THAT familiar? Can you really ask that of me? Even if this IS a date … that doesn’t make it normal. Damn you. Do I take you to buy tampax or ask you to stand by while I get a labia wax or pelvic exam? This is so embarrassing.

 

The first sales agents gingerly commences to removes underwear from the display’s drawers to place on the counter to show him.  It’s so creepy I can’t stand it. I stay back and avoid eye contact.  I can’t look over. If I do I’ll feel like a pervert and he may ask me my opinion and then I’ll have to concoct a mental picture complete with him in said fitted garment. And for the record, I’m not  a prude or ‘wooden pussy’, this is all about-self preservation and maintaining mental balance as the two-year, four-month sex-less me could be destined for an imminent future of cold showers. And as we’re not even close to getting vertical, at this this stage I don’t want to know what underwear he wears or assess which ones would be ok without ever have seen him with or without his underwear. What if I were to get it wrong and I picked too-snug ones?  I’d be tragically responsible for an itchy scrotum without even getting within 6 inches of it.

If shopping for intimates is an Italian opener, why don’t I know this after spending 8 years in the south? OK, I suppose I could have done it with ‘stalker-ex’ but by the time that happened I would have seen his junk up-close and personal and we would have fucked about a thousand times already.

I initiate a damage control… Look busy, kill time. I immediately and feverishly start to text…

Horrors reminiscent of my older brother in the 1970s. It had better not be these.

The second sales agent is smirking, I’ll bet she knows I’m mortified. That bitch. Thank god, they’ve now moved on to socks and he’s cashing up. Get me out of here already.

Complete your look? What exact look would that be? 

Outside he reaches in the bag and shows me a pair of socks with bananas on them. I try and look enthusiastic but wonder if my ten minutes of angst was worth it for banana socks, or if I got off easy. He proceeds to explain he has the matching boxers. (Oh hell, thanks for that. No cold showers needed then.) He proceeds to explain a ‘father – daughter thing’ – they went shopping , she picked them out for him and she wanted the same for herself. Sweetness overload. In my micro post-traumatic stress, I nod, smile, and hope it ends there.

I quiz him on when he needs to set off. In ‘about an hour’ he says. I can live with that, as it’s already been 6 hours and my brain is starting to shut down my bilingual setting into dumb-foreigner auto-nod. We eventually proceeded to the car and exchanged pleasantries. He says thank you. I wonder ‘for what?’ as he paid for everything and I got the gift. I say “thank YOU.’ He asks “for what?” I say “everything.” Neither one of us knows quite how to close or what the other expects so we do the typical Italian kiss-on-the-cheek thing and he adds “piano, piano.” Meaning slowly/all in good time. What did that mean? It was like one of those things you’re thinking and know why you’re thinking it but no one else does. So in what context did he mean it? I surely don’t know…  but I guess time will tell.

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The Spy That Loved Thee: Celebrating The Average Femme

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 Curious?
Guilty.
I had to see who she was –  ‘the (ex) wife.’
I dug around/cyber-snooped.
I found a photo.
A daughter, a husband and a wife…
She wasn’t what I expected.
She looked sour, bored.
Uninspired.
He was in the photo smiling. Why wasn’t she?
I’d be all over that (him), smiling like an ass.
(And there are ridiculous old photos of teenage me, somewhere to prove that fact.)
I sort of expected she’d have at least some of what Silvia has got going on…
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How I see the quintessential ‘super-femme’ Italian woman. Silvia Colloca is fab and probably is a rock-star in the sack, cooks in stilettos, never gets bits of tomato stuck in her mesh top, PLUS she wrote a cook book (of course she did) and it’s probably amazing. Photo by by Chris Chen.

I was relieved he wasn’t married to size 6 Silvia…
or any of her far less functional, stiletto wearing
shallow arm-candy doppelgangers with wooden pussies.

Then it came to (shallow) me… The fact C liked (likes) mediocre me in the first place is actually a major coup for average-looking femmes everywhere. I was/am the un-official queen of average and I could have my Hugh-Jackman-calibre holy-grail-of-manhood – IF I wanted to.  But really, he shouldn’t have settled for a grumpier imitation.
Maybe the key to my success is that I was cool. I didn’t drool (at least not in front of him), I wasn’t possessive, I never fell over myself catering to him, and I made him wait days for an answer after he asked me out. After all, I was entertaining other offers.
Now,  despite the distance between us – he’s back, middle-aged and as grey as I am. I went from knowing nothing about his life to full disclosure. He calls me his ‘best friend,’ sends me casual pics of his lunch or where he’s hiking, and notably goofy selfies from bad angles (and he’s still hot) –  I could never get away with that. Really, I’m all about accepting my own mediocrity and good angles and anything less than 20 degrees below eye level makes me someone’s grandma.
See what I mean?
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Be cool…

 

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Meltdowns & The Return of Cristianity

Last December, matters had come to a particular blistering head. My toxic emotional-puss finally surfaced via a four-hour session of uncontrollable sobbing. Curled up in the fetal position and mummified in my duvet, the epiphany which should have been no surprise, was that my life supremely sucked.

Person sleeping under blanket with feet sticking out

What happened to my former self? The ass-kicking warrior of independence and self-preservation, and the ejector of life skill-less man-children from my personal zone? I had become but a quasi-friendless and tragic domestic with a bum elbow due to scouring bathtub grunge. I was a a perma-frown reject dressed in tshirts caked in dog fur while chained to a hamster wheel of monotony.

Adding insult to injury, it was painfully obvious that the only sympathy I could muster was a “there, there” pat-on-the-back consolation (without even a cup of tea –  typically offered by seemingly every other stiff upper lipped) and that this obviously wasn’t how I wanted to spend the next few decades of my life. The realisation was that enough was enough and think of a plan, as soon enough I’d have severe dehydration and a face resembling beef jerky if I didn’t stop the water works and pull myself together.

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Keep rollin’ rollin’ rollin’…

For months I had been toying with the idea of buying a property and moving to France to start an eco-tourism/hospitality business, but as Sir English had blatantly voiced  NO intentions of relocating, and me going it alone with no contacts, few language skills other than food and how to ask for a ham sandwich in French – wasn’t exactly going to make it easy unless I was going to be squatting in a deli. And Italy? Well that’s out because it’s impossible to live there. (Isn’t it?)

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photo by Anna Di Vincenzo

It was when I came down with a fever and was bedridden after Christmas, I began to wallow in diabolical nostalgia with thoughts of ‘the old country’. Places I had been and places I knew of , but hadn’t been, and that one magical place in the hills of Abruzzo where I spent most of my summer evenings when I was 15, parked on the grass lip-locked opposite a waterfall, with him: Cristian, my holy-grail of manhood (although he wasn’t quite there yet). I retraced what I remembered of it – the route we took just past the familiar fork in the road, and although little looked remotely recognisable during my Google ascent, I found it. It was still there and exactly how I remembered it. Thank you for feeding my nostalgia frenzy Google Maps.

Keeping the thought of HIM aside (very aside due to his inconsistency and theoretical comings and goings in my life – he couldn’t influence any decision either way),  why not look at properties or possibilities there? Did I really need to live in the south  when I could be in an entirely new place between the mountains (REAL mountains) and the sea, and setting up a homestead with the best of both worlds accessible?  No, I didn’t, and  , it’s not about him either – it’s about ME and my life and my zone (wherever that may be).

 

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Damn. He’s got that radar thing…

Within 48 hours, I received a text. Never quite giving up the lease, renting space in my head and dropping by unannounced for a quick peek inside. I had barely heard from him in the past year, his ears must have been ringing and  he surfaced yet again.

Be cool.

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And so you’re texting me because???

I politely obliged his queries and small-talk offerings on recent events, indulged news of his various routines, and lifestyle changes including the fact he was now separated from his wife of 20 years, who currently lives with his daughter in the bottom unit of his now subdivided home.  How lame family-sitcom of them, unless of course they’re marvellously happy and all super social and friendly like something out of a gag-inducing episode of Modern Family.  However I suspect not.  Further back in September during a short exchange he mentioned he was separating but had had tried to work things out. In turn that was my cue to distance myself from that particular Italian tragedy, and gift the thumbs up icon (cueing my feeble support) as I had already heard this 3 years before when he asked me when I was on my way to Umbria, if the bus stopped near any crossroads where I could get off so we could meet half way.  There had been a desperation permeating from his compliments  – all thinly saran-wrapped in bullshit, and I had no intention of being anyone’s rebound then, and I sure wasn’t going to play second fiddle to any ex-wife (then or now).

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If you’re going to live above your ex, you may as well just live in your parent’ spare bedroom. Unless, of course your house is attached to theirs…. just like his.

But at the end of the day, I’m not a mean person and I’d never want to hurt anyone, so I’d never tell him I thought it was fucked and probe as why if she doesn’t want to be with him – she doesn’t get off her ass,  exercise her own new-found freedom and independence and find her own place to live.  No No no… because he has a preconceived notion I am nice ALL THE TIME. When it’s just just me keeping my opinions to myself. So I changed the subject and in my feverish haze gave him my ‘life’s too short’ rant and mentioned I’d like to plan an Eco-Tourism project, perhaps in Abruzzo, for which he actually gave me some useful information via government incentives and tax breaks for new businesses. (I’ll award him brownie points for that.)

Since this most recent exchange, as I sit back and ponder what what MY FUTURE could hold, he texts a few times a week now and I oblige, taking it all in with a grain of salt…
Because I just happen to have some idea of what I WANT, and if my feet end up as the only pair in this frame, I’m pretty good with that.

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Q: Are you f’n crazy? A: Yes, I believe that is a distinct possibility.

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I said it would never happen, I’d never do it, or even consider it, as I barely escaped with what remained of my sanity. But the truth of the matter is, I’m a sucker for punishment and I miss it like f’ck and I am seriously thinking about moving back THERE.

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Seriously though, I’m not going back for THEM, their amateur sex antics and crappy blue Fiats.

I’ve had a good 4+ years here in the UK, sort of. If you don’t include the fact I was underpaid, undervalued, bullied in my workplace and lost all but a shred of my self-confidence. My mojo had been crushed beyond repair, or so I thought at the time.

The MAIN BLAME AWARD goes to…

She may compliment your shoes but she’ll shred you & your work  – because she can.

I chalk it up to a woman I call ‘The Pale Rider’ a bloodless, pasty-complexion micro-managing know-it-all that should have dressed in black robes carried a scythe to live up to her wrath on creativity and one who wouldn’t know it if it were five tonne anvil and it fell crushing her to a to a pulpy sludge on dingy stick-on office carpet. As one of the many minions, you were told repeatedly and explicitly to refer to ‘The Bible’  – which was a past issue of the mag she would have overseen and what she considered as the perfect issue, but in actual fact was the blandest of bland templated format. However this stone law would go out the window when she was was having a bad day or one of her fits of Münchhausen Syndrome. (What does it really say about a boss referring to their work as a divine example? Yeah.) She ruled the realm of publishing purgatory in the East Midlands where you’re less than nothing, and even if you’re talented – you’re ultimately disposable.  Yeah, I worked for, and was published in a national magazine – SO WHAT?

One day last June I decided I was tired of anxiety attacks, crying in the bathroom and grinding my teeth while sitting at my desk under under institutional lighting and this oppressive regime. I paced the office perimeter three times before mustering the courage to hand in my resignation then I waked out carrying my coffee mug and whatever shred of dignity I had left, without regret. However I did stop writing almost altogether. (This is my comeback at overcoming that glitch.)

giphy-downsized-large.gifIt’s not like I feel England has kicked my ass, it’s actually toughened me up and I’ve expanded creativity in many other ways. Living in the UK has been a learning experience, and I’ve evolved and grown with knowledge and experience that I never thought possible, but I finally had to ask myself, “Is this where I want to spend the rest of my life?” It’s not. Sparing you all from all my moaning and grievances regarding politics, prices and quality of life (like everywhere else in the world), I’m just not inspired, I need Italy.  (Perhaps now I’m probably in a little bit of a better position in some ways, to handle life there.) Italy filters out the noise of the civilized English-speaking world and even when she’s kicking my ass and things are shit, she tells me not to worry, it’s all going to be fine and that I should just make myself some pasta and tomato sauce, just chill the f’ck out and ride the wave. Which is usually spot on.

Extracting myself from England and jumping into a new unknown is terrifying and I expect will be a lengthy process logistically. I have no idea how I’m going to do tit and I don’t expect any transition to be easy. I predict many fits of tears, deep breaths and shaking fists. She will undoubtedly test my patience over and over, but I need her love, lawlessness and infuriating vibe to feed my crazy. I need my wonderful friends that love me, and ‘get me.’ I need sunshine, fabulous food, inspiration… and my old eyes back.

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Posted in depression, European men, ex boyfriends, exes, humour, Italian life, Italian men, Italy, Italy living, Life in Italy, Living in Italy, lost love, positive thinking, single girl, Uncategorized, writers, x-pat, x-pats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

The Bum-Fondling Chair, Gweneth Paltrow & ‘THE MOVE-IN MERGER’

Flashback: November 2014

‘Roots’ is a scary word. I don’t mean that in a 1977 miniseries’ depiction of African slavery kind-of-way starring the chap from Star Trek The Next Generation.

In this instance I haven’t found Kunta Kinte, but I did find a nice Englishman. Although I do have far less enthusiasm than James Earl Jones, and there’s no over-the-top 70’s music score playing in the background.

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Stop right there.

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I have only come here seeking knowledge, things they would not teach me of in college.

I’ve just bought a house 3 blocks from my rental and I’m moving in with Sir English. If Gweneth Paltrow were here she’d be inventing words for me like ‘move-in mergers’ and I’d have to tell her to please stop and “Go fix me some macrobiotic soba noodle salad, and while you’re at it grab the bottle of Grey Goose Vodka from the cupboard because we be goin’ on a bender.” Buying a house is a huge deal in which a certain sense of mature responsibility is required. As is living with someone you’re in a relationship with. It’s a compromise, and in my case it’s refraining from any personal grossness in the company of anyone other than my canine companions, not conjuring homicidal mania if there is a drop of pee (that isn’t mine) on the rim of the toilet bowl, and holding my tongue over the 500 tea-lights Sir English has seemed to have acquired – that will never get lit in either of our lifetimes. Unless of course we invite Sting and his mates over for a house warming and a music video shoot.

However I must admit my  sense of logic and spirit of compromise did almost waiver momentarily. The conversation/confession in question took place at ‘The Lad Cave’ aka. Sir English’s former abode. A place where stains on various surfaces have taken an oath of secrecy and mystery particles trapped in the cracks of the wood flooring could keep CSI Analysis Officers in overtime for decades. I glared in disbelief at the peeling paint and crumbling plaster barely concealed behind a wooden chest, then turned to face him standing in the bedroom doorway…

Me: I’m sorry.

Sir English: It’s ok, I’ll just move this stuff out of the way so you can vacuum this spot.

Me: No that’s not it… I am sorry for what I am thinking.

Sir English: What?

Me: If I was something like a supernatural entity with supreme control over the universe and real ‘superpowers’ , I’d tell you you’ve got 30 minutes to box all your most worldly posessions worth saving, then I’d throw something down from the heavens like a lightning bolt and burn this place to the ground.

Sir English: Oh.

Me: Sorry.

However despite everything, I was still counting my blessings as he gave me free reign to decorate our new home as I wished, while renting his flat to a friend for the time being, thus not moving all of his things. Notably he wouldn’t be taking along his pine particleboard furnishings or this literal monstrocity I fondly refer to as ‘The Molesting Hand-Chair’…

I feel dirty already.

Ick. I feel dirty already.

Thus saving me a rotator cuff injury from hauling it to a vacant lot and a few pounds on the purchase of  a can of gasoline…

And a gal’s really gotta appreciate that kind of consideration.

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Un-dead EXs and The Shocking Normality Compared to a Former Existence

Crying LifeSomewhere along my proverbial ‘line’ I all but stopped writing. The critic, aka. ‘my annoying inner Gremlin’ repeating: “What’s the point? You have nothing to say. You have a decent man in your life, you’re not poking holes in your coat pockets scavenging for loose change, there are no more tick infestations, leaky roofs, crappy blue Fiats, Italian MacDaddys, or bi-weekly public transit strikes… and no more poverty – YOU are actually now part owner of your first house!”

No more landlords called Adolf.

Casa mia.  Central heating and no more landlords called Adolf.

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“What should I do, oh wise one? I’m totally boring and I suck.”

So having it seemingly together made me rather fall apart creatively, and I convinced myself that if I wasn’t a completely, socially disfunctional expat living in Italy, that I’d have nothing left to write about and eventually, that I actually couldn’t write at all. In retrospect, one of the best things that came from my ‘Blog-spew’ were other the bloggers with whom I connected, ‘My Blog-Fam’ I like to call them. The inspirational writers and lovely creative folk I loved to visit via the blogsphere and who had in turn followed me as well. A few of which are still posting, and the others all have but vanished like myself. One in particular  I idolized for her wonderful writing talent that included a carousel of vivid experiences complete with human versions of nymphs, minotaurs and unicorns. After meeting on numerous occasions. I have come to consider her my mortal oracle, overall touchstone to reality, and most importantly a friend. Last summer over tea we touched upon the subject of blogging habits. As both of us had stopped blogging on  a more regularly basis at approximately the same time. She seemed to sum it up for both of us – all in one sentence. “I’m just not that character anymore.” It was my paralyzing reality. I wondered how many of the others’ lives had also changed to an extent that they felt they just didn’t feel the need or desire to carry on. Perhaps it was that writing was like the therapy they no longer needed?  Was I was being over analytical?  Maybe they just got busy?  Regardless, if I wasn’t the rib and s cuddlescharacter anymore what did I actually have to contribute? Should I succumb to guilt and start sharing casserole recipes? Or post annoying daily photos of how unbelievably adorable my English Setters are, as I do on Facebook? Ultimately I blogged neither, as the life I was living was deemed comfortable and irrelevant and I stopped writing all together.

But alas, doesn’t it just take an ex-boyfriend you broke up with in 2001, crawling out from under his 600 thread-count marital paradise long enough to grab his iPhone and friend you on Facebook, completely out-of-the-blue, which in turn  – jet-fuels you back into some literary blogspew or perhaps more accurately – a cranky rant?

He was 'The Metro-Sexual.'

He was ‘The Metro-Sexual.’

‘Why the f’ck are YOU friending ME?’ was my first thought as I wiped the sleep from the corner of my eyes and threw back my last gulp of espresso. I was the one that wasn’t “corporate” enough for you, remember? I held on to my proverbial ark, as then came the additional flood of unwelcome flashbacks. A 3-year term of vanity, narcissism, judgement, great sex, harsh criticisms, loneliness, turmoil, great sex, neglect, my own flaming neurosis over it all, and did I mention great sex? Sadly, that was one of the few things we had going for us, and prior to the day I handed his apartment keys back to him and walked out after 3 years, the soured cream part of our relationship had already been well within its range of expiry. Did He not remember that a few months following our departure, there was the ‘break-up sex?’ Him telling me he was sorry that he didn’t accept me/tried to change me, attempting to get me drunk on several Vodka-Cran at a gay bar (not knowing that during a trip to the men’s room I informed the bartender of the ex’s transparent scheme and to please refrain from serving me anymore drinks with alcohol).  Then back at his place…

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Him: “What is this? Fuck and run?

Me: “I got to work in the morning. Sorry. It was fun. Bye!”

And most importantly, not long after – the last thing I ever said to him after he told me not to be ‘bar meat’ when he heard I had been partying with 30 US Navy Seals at a club one Friday night after work. (side note: Which was EPIC)

“Really? I thought you liked those types. Y’know… YOU wanted to be ‘friends,’ but I don’t really think I like you as a person.”

How does one forget that? Is that some sort of ‘syndrome? Does morbid curiosity over an ex-girlfriend cause confusion, blurred vision, or selective memory?

Regardless, after asking myself the same questions repeatedly to the point of mental exhaustion,  I concluded I wasn’t exactly the most grounded or sane individual back then. I was still on training wheels, trying to figure who I was and my baggage wasn’t exactly light and portable.

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I decided to let it go and accept his friend request.  If he’s curious, let him look.   Maybe he just didn’t care about all that mess of the past. Maybe I shouldn’t either. People change, people grow.  I have.  A little small-talk or exchange of pleasantries never killed anyone… and I’m still alive. 😉

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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?

tuktuk

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

 

 

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