RSS

Tag Archives: Relationships

Wedding Belles

I had never really thought of what kind of wedding dress I wanted. I had never thought of what wedding I wanted to be honest. I was never one of those girls who obsessed over ever frilly detail and knew the exact requirements before I had even found Mr Right.

Given I was marrying in Italy, I decided on something old style Italian and based my dress ideas around vintage Sofia Loren. Vintage but classic.

The dress is such a huge and personal decision. It’s worn for one day and looked at in photos forever more. The dress choice required a lot more decision-making and dedication than I had ever imagined! Couldn’t I just wear my jeans and flip-flops?

As an only child I couldn’t do my mum out of the privilege of seeing me dressed like a bride and although I made a fuss at the dress fittings because I felt like a transvestite in fancy dress, I actually did feel really special on the day.

Here are a few of the ideas I came up with and styles that I liked, from my Pinterest board, La Mia Bella Matrimonio.

Absolutely LOVE LOVE LOVE the fish tail silohette on this Oscar de la Renta dress and the veil is just stunning! Foto

I’m not one for massively long trains but as usual Style Me Pretty have come up trumps with this just right lace train, dress by Donna McMahon.  The back is beautiful for a summer wedding and bronze exposed skin but do avoid if there is an ever so tiny hint of a back boob! Thats not a good look for backless dresses, especially on your wedding day! Foto

Again, Elegant Elegant Elegant Love Love Love! This style of dress is ideal for any woman wanting to show off an hour glass figure. Foto

Im not one for getting my arms out! Let it be said, there is nothing hollywood vintage glamour about a bingo wing is there?! I am also not heavenly endowed in the cleavage department so whilst the arms on this dress are perfect for me, the sweetheart boobie affair is not.  Still, im totally in love with Italian lace so with a bit of tweaking, this idea was top of my list! Foto

So with a few drawings and a bit of dabbling in lace and cotton thread, I came up with some ideas that would fit my Sofia Loren style, vintage Italian wedding dress theme a treat.  Keep up with the next post to found out what “the dress” turned out like!

Puffball or pleats, basque or bodice, wedding dresses are a personal choice.  What does yours say about you?  Do share!

X-O-X

 
1 Comment

Posted by on October 27, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Italian: A Romantic Proposal?

It’s been a while since I wrote anything on the story of how the Italian and I came to be in wedded bliss but you might recall I told you about how we met, our first date and how we came to live over the brush.

You would think that dating, let alone being married to an Italian means that i wake up every day to a rose on my pillow, sweet nothings whispered in sensual Italian in my ear and that I’m showered with romance at every given opportunity.

If you think that, you would indeed be incorrect. Our engagement is a perfect example of how romance doesn’t feature much in our lives.

We had been visiting the Italian’s family and friends in Italy and despite the usual rows with parents, we had had a wonderful time. We were both sad to be going back to london, leaving behind great weather, good food and fabulous friends.

When we got to the airport, I saw a vulnerable side to the Italian that was quite endearing. He is normally the type of person who talks incessantly, sometimes mostly rubbish just to fill the gaps, he’s not overly tactile or overtly emotional for an Italian and often prefers to keep his true feelings hidden rather than get into a situation where he feels the need to explain himself.

He was very quiet. Subdued almost. As we approached the gates to departure we thanked his parents for a lovely time and for the first time I saw the Italian get emotional upon his leaving his folks behind. This wasn’t normal, he usually can’t wait to leave.

Once we were through customs, I asked him if he was ok.

“I’ad a loverly time you’a know. This’a time. I’a always enjoy’a myself when’s you are’a by me.” he said softly, almost thoughtful.

“I’a don’a ever wan’a be in a situation when’a you’re’a not ‘ere.” he continued. Then, out of the blue, right there in the middle of the departure lounge, like it was an everyday statement, he looked me straight in the eye…

“I think’a we should’a get married!!”.

A statement. Not a question. Not on one knee. A statement. In the middle of the departure lounge in the most rubbish airport in the world (it didn’t even have a duty-free where we could by champagne!).

“Well that’s not what every girl dreams of but on then.. Let’s get married!”.

Like every other little girl, I had imagined fairy tale romances, hearts and flowed, candle lit dinners and a Milk Tray man delivering my enormous diamond engagement ring via circling helicopter over a snow-capped mountain!

“You really mean it? Married? Are you sure?” I double checked.

“Look’a, I love’a you, you’a love’a me…..”

“Ok!” I said rather blazé like we had just had a normal conversation and not like we had just made a life changing decision at all.

As we headed to the departure gate to catch our flight to London Stansted, we grinned from war to ear at what had just happened. When? Where? There was a lot to decide!

Once we had boarded our Ryanair flight and made ourselves comfortable, we started the celebrations straight away, with two large coffees and a large bag of peanut M&Ms!!

And that was it, our romantic airport proposal. There was no down on one knee, no ring, no fuss. It was perfect!!

How did your man propose? Do tell!

X-O-X

 

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 1, 2012 in Italia

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

His First Impressions Definitely Don’t Count

 

 Foto

After I wrote the post First Impressions Don’t Count, the lovely but cheeky Ellie from Emerald Pie left me a comment.

My post highlighted a few Italianisms that at first annoyed me but that now I just live with, and enjoy, as part of our daily lives. Ellie pointed out that she was sure the Italian must have a few annoyances of his own…about me! Surely not.

I took Ellie’s challenge and turned it into an opportunity to ask the Italian to share with us a few of the things (I said “a few”) that at first annoyed him about me, and maybe still do.

Here is what he had to say, verbatim: (note that these are his own words, I promise you I haven’t adapted them in any way!)

1) When’a we first’a met, I ‘ated that you’a would’a never ‘old my ‘and’a in public. Thank’a God, my Italian’a charm ‘a changed that and’a now’a you’a all over me like a rash’a!

2) Why’a you always wanna talk’a to me about’a the bills’a when I’a getting into the bed’a and’a wanna close my eyes? I’a not’a listening to you eh!

3) You shout’a too much. It’a gets’a on’a my nerves’a. I talking to you, right’a next to you and I dunno’a know why’a you scream’a at me?! I am a bloody Italian’a, I’a not’a bloody deaf!

4) Black! Why’a you English’a women always’a wanna wear black? You’a going to’a bloody funeral every day’a isnt it?! I’a glad I took’a you’a shoppin’a ’cause now’a you’a wear’a all the colours and I’a love that!

5) Can I’a say’a about your’a ‘airs? That’a bloody annoys me! Every’a bloody time’a you wash’a your’a ‘air you’a never pick it out’a the plag’ole (plug hole!). Five’a years now it is’a that I’a been picking out’a your ‘airs from’a the shower! Bloody disgastin’a!!

There you have it, I’m not perfect after all.

X-O-X

The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #1 (teaandbiscotti.com)

 
7 Comments

Posted by on August 16, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,

The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #1

When I had returned from traveling, my flat was rented to tenants so I had to wait for their contract to end before I could move back in.

In the meantime, I was renting a room in a house, where I met the Italian who was visiting someone, that belonged to a friend. After a series of ‘you can’t do that’ and ‘you can’t do this’ arguments with the “managers” of the house, I decided to leave.

I moved into a shirt let studio flat about three months after starting my thing with the Italian and finally, adored what was going to be my own space. Wrong.

Obviously having our freedom at last was a great thing fit me and the Italian but after about a week, I realised that he hadn’t been home. Piles of his clothes had started to congregate in corners and he had accumulated more toiletries in the bathroom than me! I started to get cold feet.

Only a few months previous I had been downing cocktails in posh Sydney bars, kayaking in Laos and eating BBQ’d crickets in Cambodia. Now, here I was cohabiting with an Italian man, living in a bedsit and thinking ‘wooah, this isn’t what I signed up for!”.

The Italian did all the right things; called when he said would, always turned up on time, cooked me amazing dinners. It just wasn’t working for me.

I tried to approach the subject but I took the cowards way out and just started either being nasty to him or just ignoring him altogether. That’s what guys do, right? Turn on the Marty do that you get annoyed and end up calling it off.

One day, I woke up to the Italians main laying on the pillow next to me and everything started to close in. Breathe, breathe I told myself. Take one deep breathe, get up, get washed and leave.

I went to work that day with the decision made: OVER.  It was over.

X-O-X

*Credit

Related Articles:

 
2 Comments

Posted by on July 18, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

First Impressions Don’t Count

My first impressions of Italy & Italians in general wasn’t great. I thought they were loud. They are. I thought they were obsessed with their own beauty, country or otherwise. They are. I thought they were obsessed with “their” food. They are. In fact, I already told you in a previous post that my brother-in-law was so bemused my preference of Indian food over Italian, and my preference over Buenos Aires to Bologna, that he hasn’t spoken to me since!

As mine and the Italians relationship grew, I started to notice little things that increasingly annoyed me. There were traits in his character that were just, well, odd.

For example, he would never, EVER, eat a meal without having a serviette by his plate. If there wasn’t one, he would rather his meal go cold whilst he got one than start eating a hot meal without it. He thought I was odd for not using a serviette.

“You’a need it’a for cleaning’a you’re mouth’a” he told me. Yes, that would be true if I missed my mouth and got my food all over my chin like he did.

After five years of being together and almost two of those married, I now realise how important the use of a serviette is.

Italian food consists of so much spaghetti sucking, sauce splashing and olive oil dripping that without a serviette to mop up the aftermath, Italy would be one messy place!

I, like any good Italian wife, now provide a serviette at every meal.

Still on the wiping topic, our kitchen is always full of cloths and tea towels. To this day, it drives me totally insane. The reason, the Italian claims, is because you shouldn’t wipe the work top with the same cloth you washed the dishes with. You shouldn’t dry your hands with the same tea towel that you dried the dishes with. Therefore multiples of everything is required. It’s the same in his mothers house, every cloth has a purpose and woe betide if you use the wrong cloth by mistake!

After all this time I have grown to accept, maybe not yet love, the nuances that make our cross cultural relationship different. The little things no longer annoy me but every now and again I feel it’s my right to have a rant about the things that make us who we are.

I have grown to adore Italy and much to the Italian’s delight, I now see it is my second home. I love the people (mostly), I love the food and I love the culture. I especially have fallen in love with and have adopted the Italian sense of family values.

I want Bambina to grow up embracing her two cultures and understanding that the differences are what makes our little family unique.

I’m pleased to say that I was mistaken about Italy and its race all those years ago.

First impressions don’t count!

X-O-X

* Check out this picture on my Pinterest board, La Mia Bella Cucina 

 
7 Comments

Posted by on July 14, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

The Italian: Meeting the Family

Not long after the Italian and me became ‘official’, he suggested we go to Italy for a mini break.

It would have been a mini break if we had gone to Rome or Florence but he intended on parading me around his family and friends in his home town. The idea of this filled me with dread. I had visions of American Italian sitcom mothers squeezing my cheeks and wiping tomato sauce off my chin with the thumb they had just spat on!

Great. We were going to meet “The Family”. The Italian had told me repeatedly how amazing they were and how, of course, they would all love and welcome with me open arms. There was one issue.

I didn’t much like Italians. You may think this is odd as I was dating one but I suppose I had been led astray by my own ignorance. I had only ever had run-ins with Italian people before I met my Italian. I thought they were rude, arrogant and way too loud to be of any interest. I wasn’t concerned one iota if his parents were going to like me. I was concerned whether I was going to like them!

This preconception wasnt helped by the fact his mother was just down right rude to me within the first hour of us arriving. The Italian had warned me that his parents had only ever liked one of his ex-girlfriends and she too was English. Apparently she had had good parentage so I had a lot to live up to. He suggested I call them Signore and Signora until they advised otherwise.

So there I was being all polite, watching my P’s and Q’s when his mother, who had been jibber jabbering at me in Italian for the past twenty minutes, took out a pencil and paper.

“She’a used’a be’a an artist’a” the Italian offered in support of his mothers actions. He had assumed that she was about to draw me a picture.

She did. Not too dissimilar to the one below. I quickly realised that for the past half hour, the Italian’s mother had been trying to explain to me that she didn’t like my hair style. As I had been obviously nodding and saying Si in all the wrong places, she had taken to her art skills as a last resort to explain her conundrum.

As she muttered on whilst her pencil carried out stroke after stroke across the paper, a face was formed. Then, another face was formed. In the first one she lightly scribbled in a fringe and then placed a tick next to the face. Pointing at the second face, she left the forehead blank, extended it upwards and drew a huge cross next to it.

With that, the Italian burst into creases of laughter and told me that his mother had been trying to tell me that due to my massive forehead I should consider getting a fringe to disguise it!!

That was it, my preconceptions of the Italian nation were confirmed: RUDE!

Disclaimer: these opinions were my own. I grew to love my mother in law dearly and although it has has taken me five years, I have warmed to the quirks and nuances that is Italian culture. Follow my posts in the near future to find out how I adapted (learned to turn a blind eye) to the craziness that makes Italy such a wonderful place.
Ps, I did eventually get a fringe. It looked hideous!

Do you have a foreign mother-in-law? Have you had any lost-in-translation moments that have ended up in giggles? The misunderstandings are sometimes half the fun!

X-O-X

20120712-095459.jpg

X-O-X

 
3 Comments

Posted by on July 10, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , ,

Mozzarella Heels

Shortly after I started officially dating the Italian, he went off to Italy on holiday for his nieces christening.

He called me everyday which was, I admit, very impressive. You see, that’s the thing about foreign men, they don’t hold back. There’s none of this call you in three days rule, or only call before Wednesday if you want a date at the weekend. None of that! It was so refreshing to have a net a guy who put it straight, “I’a like’a you, I think’a you’a like’a me, so’a wanna hang’a outta with’a me or no?”.

And there you have it, day calls from his holiday. Sunning himself, eating pizza, drinking Spritzers and thinking if me – bliss.

One day I couldn’t quite believe my luck. The conversation went something like this:

*phone rings, incoming call from Venice*

Him: I’a was in’a the town’a today, you’a know, and I’a saw’a the’a gorgoose pair’a shoes on’a woman’a

Me: Really? You were looking at Women’s shoes. Interesting.

Him: Yeah, I was’a in’a the town’a for’a santhin (something) and’a I saw’a those shoes and’a thought’a I’a gona get’a you’a a gift’a’

Me: Well that would be very generous, thanks, sounds lovely.

How lucky?? I had met this guy, an Italian guy, who was in Italy shoe shopping for me!! Oh the excitement, I was going to get myself a nice little pair of Prada sling backs!

A few weeks later when he returned, we made arrangements to meet up. He arrived with a box and wearing the biggest smile. That was it, I was hooked, he had me at “shoes”!

He handed over the box and I slowly unwrapped the brown paper. Peeling back the first corner I spotted a P, my heart sank – he had really bought me a pair of Prada shoes!!

I peeled back a bit more to reveal an A. Ok, odd. Slightly confused. Not Prada. I looked again, definitely not an R, it was most certainly an A. The Italian looked on with brown puppy dog eyes willing me to hurry up and open it.

I ripped back the paper to reveal a word: PALSE. To me this meant nothing. To him it meant the world. He practically jumped up and down on the spot with excitement, salivating.

Its’a from’a my’a Nonna’s village!!!!” he squeezed with delight.

“What is it?” I asked with a half cocked head

La Mozzarella!! Mozzarella Palse!! It’a was’a made’a this mornin’a..” he said waving his hands in a motion that suggested I should have known what the heck he was talking about.

Rewind. Let me digest this. Where’s the shoes?? The shoes that the stylish Italian woman in the town was wearing? The shoes that prompted you to want to buy me a gift?

Still in Italy, that’s where the shoes were. In their place, sat on my lap was a box containing four balls of mozzarella. Was I supposed to be thrilled at this concept? He wanted me to willing eat a cheese knowing that it had been the contents of a cow’s udder only hours before??

Seriously, I would have SO preferred the shoes!

This was the first of the Italian’s odd gift offerings. If you want to read how he almost blinded me with a christmas present, check out my post Amore Mio.

Red shoes, Prada

Red shoes, Prada (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

X-O-X

 
4 Comments

Posted by on May 31, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

The Italian: A Date

The Italian called me to advise “we’a goin’a far’a, dress up, yea..”.

So, first date and all, dress up I did. I had spent the last fifteen months in a bikini and flip flops so the opportunity to dress up was fantastic. I had a few days to plan my outfit: jeans, casual white top, black blazer, nude nails, minimal make up (I had a really good tan so didn’t overdo the face) and frostings of jewels.

The shoes were a slight issue. I only owned flip flops so I had to borrow a pair of very nice black heels from a friend. The problem was that they were a size too big and anyone who knows me, knows that I can’t walk in heels! I’m like Miss Piggy on crutches! But I had no choice so out I went wearing the borrowed stilettos.

The Italian picked me up promptly at 6pm. Rather early for a first date I thought but he sold it to me by saying we were going to a lovely place and had to be there on time. I was wooed.

The wooing didn’t last for long when at he bottom of the drive way was a scooter and perfectly perched on the seat were two helmuts. “We’re going on that?” I said in a ‘please say no’ tone’.

Well yea, we’a an’a goin’a far“. I reluctantly slid the helmut over my perfectly straightened hair, rubbing the blusher off my cheeks in the process, and shut the clamp firmly under my chin.

As we sped off sounding like a hair dryer on speed, the Italian slapped me on the leg and winked at me through his visor via the wing mirror. I was not impressed!

After about a ten minute ride, I noticed we were heading towards the M4. Are you kidding me?? we’re going on to the sodding motorway, on a scooter?? Is that even legal??

I was freezing! It was July but in England that means nothing. I was on a scooter, on a motorway, in stilettos and wearing a t-shirt! As first dates go, this wasn’t starting out well at all.

On my travels, I had picked up an amazing necklace at a jewelry market on the outskirts of Bangkok. Naturally a first date was the perfect time to showcase it. Wrong! As it was blowing for e gail wind on the back if the scooter, the stupid necklace had gotten entangled in the helmet strap under my chin. I was freezing AND choking!!

Whilst holding on to the side if the scooter with one hand, I tried to unravel the necklace with the other. My toes were rooted to the scooter step to try and keep myself from falling off. I was effing this and effing that under my helmut and wondering why I had even agreed to go in thus date. I was probably right anyway, he was gay!

Finally, after just over an hour we arrived in Windsor. I got off that scooter like John Wayne, my legs were permanently set to straddle mode, my head had been almost decapitated by my not-so-lovely-anymore-necklace and I hadn’t felt my feet for that half hour!

I composed myself and slid off the helmet to reveal a nest of matted nots that even a pigeon would have requested to be rehoused! I looked a state!

The Italian escorted me and my birds nest into Browns restaurant in Windsor where I immediately made a run for the toilets. Where, I ashamedly borrowed a strangers hairbrush to sort out my locks.

Luckily the meal was nice, the company was, well, different, and the journey home which I was dreading was mildly better as I dressed up in the winter wets that we’re hidden in the scooter seat! Seriously, if there had been any windows on that scooter, any street cred I had would have well and truly gone out of it!

You’a weren’t’a cold’a eh?” he asked. When my teeth had stopped chattering I told him bluntly “had have I known I would be on a scooter going 70mes an hour down the motorway, I would have dressed appropriately, so yes, I was/am freezing!”.

“But’a i’a told you’a to dress’a up!”

“I did!! Ive got jewelry on and everything!!”

“Yeah but’a in Italy when’a we say’a ‘dress’a up, we’a mean’a dress’a Up a’warm’a”

Oh well, we were not in Italy, we were in England and dress up to me means “wear something’ pretty Darlin'”, not get out your long johns and warmest balaclava!

And that amici, has been the basis of our relationship so far – lost in translation and reading between the lines – and mostly getting it wrong!

 
5 Comments

Posted by on May 27, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Dates Gone Bad: Camel Mike

As you may remember, I saw Marie Claire magazine tweeted about one of their bloggers, Lucy Robinson, and how she had been on hundreds of disastrous dates and ended up getting a two book deal from Penguin.  So, I set out to document a few my own.  It was quite hard to dwindle down but due to the feedback I’ve received, it looks like I chose well.

You can read week 1, Elbow Boy, here and you can read week 2, Posh Boy, here.  Now lets move on to week 3, Camel Mike.  Enjoy!

Some years ago, again with the friend who made me blog, I packed my backpack and headed off on a trek around Morocco.  It was when it wasn’t cool to go to Morocco and Marrakech hadn’t yet been discovered by hordes of Easy Jet tourists.

We thought we were brave and well-educated but in hindsight we were quite naive. That adds to the enjoyment of the trip in my opinion and I’m sure she would agree.

We got up to no end of debauchery on that trip: picked up on the train from Rabat to Fez by a guy who was our ‘friend’ (he ended up selling us to a madam in the seediest Hammam known to man where someone’s grandmother stripped us of our underwear and an old toothless woman repeatedly shouted “Tony Blair” at my friend, we were proposed marriage at least a million times, we were stalked by a man wearing a wooly blanket who took it upon himself to enter our hotel and find our room (scary!), my friend got married to the man who herded our camels across the Sahara and I snogged him under a camel blanket…which, I hasten to add she then repeated, to everyone, at my wedding!!

So you see, it wasn’t actually an arranged date, more an impromptu act of madness.  Nevertheless, I do feel compelled to set the scene of the hilarity.

A few years previous we visited a psychic woman who told me I would have a relationship with a man called Saíd. No way. There is no way on Gods earth that would happen. Foreign men just weren’t my thing (and now I’m married to one, go figure!).

With the psychic’s prediction well and truly forgotten, off we headed to camel trek the Sahara. It’s worth noting here that having spent a night or two on the edge of it, we were totally awestruck at how handsome (probably mysterious) the men were. We had found ourselves in a sand pit of Omar Sherif’s!

Mike, as he was known to Westerners, greeted us at our Auberge. Donning his white Saharan turban and his blue desert dress, he was a vision of wonder. He was the owner of the Auberge and proudly showed us around before introducing us to our camels.

We spent three days and three nights trekking up and down sand dunes, from one oasis to the next and even got caught in a rather frightening sand storm. Eventually we figured that we hadn’t ventured very far at all and had probably been going round in circles for the past 72 hours!

To end our camel trek on a high, once we got back to the Auberge, we sent a bunch of nomadic teenagers out on their bicycles to the nearest hotel to stock up on beers and vodka.

Considering the Saharan Tuareg are Muslim and supposed to be dry, they did a fair old job of necking the vodka! As did my friend and I. We were soon downing shots, passing around the shisha and causing an untold amount of hysteria in the village.

The Tuaregs were having so much fun that they didn’t want my buddy and I to leave. Camel Mike proposed to my friend and held a defend desert wedding under the stars. She However had her sights set on a cute American who had been part of our camel crew.

Very late into the night, Camel Mike took us on to the roof of the building to show us the stars. Pretty goddamn amazing to see how clear the sky is over the Sahara.

It’s also pretty goddamn amazing how I found myself under a camel blanket, one that we had been sitting on, that the camel had been sweating on, for the last three days, when the sun came up. I had no recollection of what happened in between!! Worse still.. Camel Mike and his Camel riding buddy were also under the camel blanket!! WTF?

As Camel Mike asked me “where’s my turban??”, the surrealism of it freaked me out and I scurried down to what should have been my actual sleeping place.

When I opened the door, I saw my friend that made me blog sprawled across a double bed looking like she had died and unwillingly come back to life.. “I’m so hung over, we are in the desert, with no water, I am seriously about to die!!”. “At least you didn’t sleep all night under a stinking camel blanket with a camel herder!” I retorted. “I know! I can’t believe you snogged Camel Mike!!” she said with every ounce if effort she had left in her body.

WHAAAAT?? I snogged the camel herder, under a stinking camel blanket! This readers, was an all time low.

So the moral to this story is this: never get trollied in the desert!

Oh, and by the way, although Camel Mike lived in the desert, he did have email. I know this because as we were leaving he handed me his business card (and Camel herders need business cards why?)…. Saíd.Camel@hotmail.com.

This obviously wasn’t his actual email address but note that his name was Saíd, not Mike. Our meeting was in fact written in the stars as seen by the psychic woman. I wish she would have told me to his profession, I’d have run a mile!

X-O-X

 
12 Comments

Posted by on April 30, 2012 in London

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: