Meet 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.
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.
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…
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…