you go on and i'll be happier.

Today, dear readers, I did a hard thing.

Today, I stood up for myself.

My friend, who has been in my life since we “dated” (I use that word lightly) in 2021…is no longer my friend.

Then again, was he ever really my friend?

We haven’t spoken since we had dinner (this was mentioned in the last post), and he left the last message I sent him on read for about a month. 

All I could think was…this is it. He’s ghosted you again…or he’s at least getting ready to do it. I’d sent his daughter a box of school supplies without a response that he received the package. I waited for a message…something…anything…to indicate that he was still alive. I’m sure part of this silence has to do with the fact that he’s dating again, which helped me come to the realization that he only thinks I’m worth speaking to whenever he’s single and bored.

He’s not single, so therefore, he doesn’t need me right now.

So, I sent a long message to him, knowing that it would either go ignored or he just wouldn’t care about my feelings. Long story short, I told him that I wasn’t going to put up with another ghosting (especially after the previous ghosting lasted almost a year), I said that I was putting myself first, I mentioned what I stated above about only being his friend when he’s single, I said that I was tired of the back and forth and being treated like a joke, and most importantly, that I hope he finds his happiness in this life. 

And I do. I truly do hope he finds happiness. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. Once upon a time, I naively thought I would be the one to make him happy. As I admitted, also, in my previous post…I was more enamored by him than he was with me when we met. 

To my surprise, he sent a brief message back, and claimed he wasn’t ghosting me…but that if this decision is what I wanted, then he and his daughter (whom I will really miss) enjoyed knowing me.

That was it. No acknowledgement of my feelings, no admitting that he was sorry for anything. Nothing. The same lack of communication from him…a true hallmark of our friendship. I didn’t bother responding back to him.

Friends, lovers, whatever…

I was a joke to him and I always will be. 

I don’t want to end what we were, contrary to what he might think. I just felt like I had no choice but to end it before I was hurt even more by him.  I was the one who tried so damn hard to keep us afloat. So for him to be so cold and dismissive…well…it is what it is. That’s how he acted when we dated…I shouldn’t expect him to act any differently in this case. I guess I had hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d be honest with me…but I was mistaken. 

I know that when his birthday passes this September, I’ll sadly still think of him and mentally wish him a happy birthday, since I told him I won’t message him anymore.

Same for his daughter’s in October.

But mine will pass in December and he’ll go on like he always has - and never take the time to wish me a happy birthday. Christmas will approach and I’ll spend it like I did last year before he decided to come back…with the people who truly do value and love me as I am. 

I’m sad. I’m heartbroken. I’m in tears. I’m riding out the emotions and I’m trying so hard to be strong so I can get through another week of school. He doesn’t care. He never did.

I’m going to take time for me and focus on my new school year, continuing therapy and navigating my relationship with my dad, making better dietary choices (I’ve started seeing a dietician), exercising more, helping one of my dearest friends out with her final wedding preparations before the ceremony in November, and completing my graduate certificate course work for teaching English Learners (this is being paid for by the county I teach in). 

I had an incredible first week back to school with my students and although I’m exhausted (there is no kind of tired like first week of school tired), I truly felt a spark again as I got to know my new pupils. They actually seem excited about learning history so I’m going to do my due diligence and be the best teacher I can be…and not channeling my energies into wondering if my “friend” gives a shit about me every day is going to help me immensely in giving my all to my career this year. I can’t wait to document more of my adventures this year with this group of kiddos…I really can’t.

I’ll always care about him. I’ll miss him and his daughter so, so much, but really, he and I don’t fit. We never did and I’m tired of trying to make us fit. So me ending it, as much as it pains me to do so…this is just all for the best…for both of us. 

I’ll use the words of the song inspiration for this impromptu blog post (A Fine Frenzy, “Happier”) to end my ramblings for today:

You go on and I’ll be happier. You’ll be gone and I’ll be happier.

Many happy returns. 

-kate.

coffee cup and i'm sailing out to sea

Y’all, I tried so hard to draft my Rome entry while I was still in Italy…but the trip kept me busy, so I did not achieve my goal in wanting to write as I was traveling. No matter - everything has been documented and I can’t wait to share the rest of my adventures now that I’m back stateside! I had an incredible two weeks in Europe and the travel bug has bit me once more…I’m thinking…Portugal? Summer 2025? We’ll see.

I feel like I do now have some energy to continue this site, at least, for the foreseeable future. The history I took in while traipsing across Europe did reignite my passion for learning and teaching. I, however, know that I do need to actively search for other potential career paths…and I have started to apply for openings on USA Jobs. My father (we’ll talk about him in a moment) may get what he wants after all and have a daughter in the civil service.

Maybe then he’ll finally be proud of me.

Personally, things have been strange since I’ve returned from Europe and many old wounds that I thought have healed are now reopened. Of course, I am still going to therapy, and at least I have that as part of my coping mechanisms, but I was not prepared for the emotional upheavals I’ve experienced this summer…

So what better way to decompress than by having story time with y’all?

To begin our story time, I received a phone call from my mother just before her birthday. This was during the week I had returned. I already had started the week adjusting from jet lag and recovering from my annual exams; the Pap Smear, unfortunately, exacerbated my pelvic muscles and I was bedridden for two days as I suffered through painful cramping. When I finally felt better, I decided to start going on daily walks to get my 10,000 steps in…and my body was grateful for this positive choice in attempting to get some exercise. During one of those walks, my mother called, and immediately apologized for what she was about to tell me.

Confused by her words, I stopped talking and listened to her.

Apparently, my mom and dad had an argument about how my dad can be racist towards Mexicans. My mom, then, accidentally used the wrong wording about how I also think he’s racist (side note: I have never said that to him). My dad got offended by this accusation, even though I wasn’t there in the room with them to defend myself. He told my mom that he was going to stop by my house to yell and give me a piece of his mind.

I knew what my mother was trying to convey to him regarding that statement. A few months ago, while I was visiting for Sunday lunch, he’d gone on some rant about (shocker) all the Mexicans coming in through my hometown of Laredo. I was taken aback by his offensive words, gestured to my mother and I, and said we’re right here. I never, however, told him in that incident that he was a racist.

When my mom made that phone call, I was planning to visit later during the week so I could celebrate her upcoming birthday. She and I both realized it would be best for me not to go to their house until he cooled off and she could get him to understand that she misspoke. She also advised me not to text her as he sometimes has her phone and sees her text messages. So, I spent that week frustrated with my mother, in fear of my father potentially coming to my house to tell me off, saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t be able to celebrate her birthday with her, and…mainly…

Heartbroken by the realization that, after thirty-two years of being on this earth, my maternal ancestry is still something that my father has not accepted. I texted my history nerd friends in our group chat about what had happened. They know my story; they have helped me work through my feelings towards my relationship with my dad throughout the years.

Lisa: Holy shit.
Me: She was angry at him for making Mexican comments and let the comment slip.
Keith: Sometimes the truth can hurt. Then one is apt to blame someone else rather than taking the responsibility of owning it.
Me: He has said hurtful things, don’t get me wrong. But I never actually said he was racist, my mom made a mistake in the heat of the moment…and now he’s super angry at both of us.
Lisa: It sucks you got pulled into it.
Me: So much for her birthday plans this week…I’m definitely not going over to their house now.
Lisa: Probably best to not.
Keith: Oh, I believe that. The problem is that many racists don’t realize what they are saying is racist.
Me: Nope and unfortunately he’s in denial.
Keith: How can someone be racist against Mexicans, and yet be married to someone with Mexican descent?
Me: Ding ding ding!

EXACTLY. Like Keith said…why does my dad say these hurtful things about Mexican immigrants when he’s married to someone who is Mexican and, furthermore, has kids who are Mexican?

I spent the week grappling with my feelings. Some of my other friends were telling me to have a heart to heart with my dad about this incident. Those other friends, however, aren’t quite at the level of understanding that Lisa and Keith are regarding my dad. Those other friends don’t get that there is no such thing as a “heart to heart” when it comes to speaking to him. Part of me wanted to finally bring up the fact to my dad I know about the blood test his mother wanted when I was born to prove I was his daughter. My parents have always known my blood type (AB+). My sister, however, once asked what her blood type was and they told her they didn’t know it. She was upset that they didn’t know hers but knew mine. She pulled the they must love you more card.

For some reason, years ago, on my 26th birthday, this was the conversation of choice at my birthday lunch. I then started to truly wonder…why do they know my blood type and not my sister’s?

When we got home from lunch, my dad disappeared to take a nap. I found my mom and while we were alone, I decided to ask her about the blood type debacle.

She looked at me, with sadness, and said that if she told me, I better not tell my father that I’m aware. So, I promised her I wouldn’t say a word to him.

And when she told me…that’s when I realized…they don’t know my blood type because they love me more.

(You were mistaken, dear sister).

My paternal grandmother, prior to my birth…sometime during the summer of 1991…wrote a letter to my dad explaining that people should marry their own kind. She was not happy with his choice in a Mexican bride and had no qualms giving her opinion. When December arrived and my mother was about to give birth, she decided to come to Texas and (as I so stupidly thought when I was growing up) offer the family support during labor. To this day, I still have a photo of her, with us in our former Laredo home, documenting that same visit.

Only now I know she didn’t come to Laredo for genuine reasons.

On the day my mother was discharged from the hospital, my dad came to her room and told her that my grandmother wanted a blood test to prove his paternity. My grandmother truly believed my mother was a gold digger trying to trap my father into a marriage with an illegitimate Mexican child.

Me. I was the illegitimate Mexican child in question.

The blood test was performed. My dad didn’t refuse my grandmother’s request. My mother, probably mentally and physically exhausted out of her mind after having just given birth, acquiesced so they could leave the hospital ASAP. Blood test or not, I am my father’s child.

The birth of a little brown Mexican girl tainted my paternal family’s bloodlines, legitimately, and it was just something they were going to have to deal with.

Thirty-two years later and I’m tired of carrying this burden. I’m tired of not being enough for the men I date as well as not being enough for my own father. I’m tired of holding onto this pain of knowing that I was not wanted by my father’s family the moment my mother married him in the spring of 1991, simply because of my heritage. I’m tired of the past because it keeps messing up my present…and preventing me from having the future I so desperately want.

My father’s frustrations and narrowmindedness also translates into him not wanting to meet the men I date. I’ve said several times before, his refusal to meet any man I want to bring home has destroyed possible relationships from developing. Although I would be okay with keeping a distance and cutting off contact should he not accept my choice in a potential spouse, the man I’m with would also have to be okay with not knowing his future father-in-law. I would never expect anyone to convert to Catholicism on my behalf, but I would hope my faith would be respected. I would want any children to be baptized, of course, for the sake of saving their souls if God forbid, something awful happened to them in their youth. I’ve learned though, that my father still would not want to meet any boyfriend of mine, even if he was Catholic, because he would just find some other reason to dwell on as to why the man is not worthy of me.

Perfect transition then, to part two of story time!

My friend I once dated (the one who cancelled lunch plans before my trip) and I have had some interesting and open conversations about relationships. We’re okay now; we’ve discussed our disagreement about making plans/maintaining a friendship since I returned from Europe and are on speaking terms again. He once brought up that when we dated, he was enjoying the options online dating was giving to him and eventually concluded that perhaps he was taking too much advantage of these many options.

We had dinner this past weekend and he asked me if I had finished a book he’d loaned me about dating. I brought up that the subject matter in the book made me feel uneasy about the way some men approach dating; that they seem to focus on intimacy, which makes dating difficult for me. My goal is to date meaningfully…that just because I don’t want to be intimate, that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with my decision.

I then, explained to him (yet again) that when we dated, I wasn’t trying to be intimate with him right away because I was simply trying to enjoy, you know, actual courtship…so obviously, we were both looking for different things when we met. He, however, had never been upfront about what exactly he wanted with me…even when I had asked where things were headed between us.

I also then explained to him that I hope he understood why it took me so long to process the end of whatever we were, and that was really, about the extent of our discussion. We found another topic to dwell on, enjoyed our dinner and beer and, as always, we had a nice time together. Clearly, we ARE capable of having hard, yet respectful, conversations while maintaining (I pray) a legitimate friendship.

After having had this talk with him, I realize now that I was always way more invested in him than he was in me. Three summers ago, I was catching real feelings for him…I was falling in love with him.

No, I’ll be brave and admit it now. It won’t change the outcome.

I was in wholeheartedly and unconditionally in love with him. I would’ve, back then, done anything to make him happy because I was so in love with him.

I know now, based on his admittance that he was having all the fun with online dating, he was not trying to date me “meaningfully.” He sure as hell was not falling in love with me! He could throw out every excuse he wanted to…my father, my faith, my health issues…

(In love with me? HA. He wasn’t even in like with me! Wow, I was so optimistic - gotta take off those rose colored glasses…am I right, y’all?)

Bottom line - I was never going to be good enough for him to be his girlfriend. I wasn’t someone he viewed as serious or worthy enough to be with in the long run. When we first met, he wasn’t focused on commitment and I was. I guess, all I was that summer was someone he was passing time with…to cure his boredom (and other things). At least, that’s how I’m perceiving it now that he’s told me that the summer we met was his summer of simply having fun with every single girl he matched with online. He claimed that he “cared” about me once while we dated…but I know that was a lie.

I was never special to him.

I was only one of who knows how many useless and worthless girls to him…a name lost in a sea of feminine names. I was trash, really, and he threw me away.

I was, and forevermore, nothing to him.

There can never be ‘what could have beens’ between us. I honestly fell in love, hard, and he didn’t even like me anywhere as much as I thought he did when we dated. At least I learned this hard and emotional truth this summer…although I wish I’d known it three summers ago…instead of placing all the blame on my father and my health as to why he left me.

No, he just didn’t want me in any sense because he wasn’t even thinking about embarking on a serious relationship that summer.

I wasted so much time praying and hoping for more from him…when I should’ve realized he was, from day one, never considering me for the long-term. I went home after that first date enamored and hopeful while he went home and probably asked out another girl on a date…without so much as a second thought of me.

Wow. Seriously, what a “come to Jesus” realization for me.

And even now I’ve only figured this out, on my own, with the limited evidence he’s given me: his admittance to how he approached online dating that summer we first met. I know that he’s probably never going to take ownership and point blank tell me the truth about his intentions/how he felt about me, apologize for how he treated me, or even admit why he came back after the 2023 ghosting (I wish he would just be candid for once…I think it’d make our friendship even easier to navigate, but again, I don’t want to risk pushing him away).

Three summers ago, he treated me no better than my teacher ex that I dated pre-Covid by letting me believe that that there could’ve been a chance…when clearly he had so many better options available to him.

And oddly enough, that statement is the perfect transition to the third emotional and odd moment that will conclude story time.

I thought I had finally put my teacher ex in the past. We’d mingled at happy hours scheduled by our mutual work friends and had made peace (we’d shared a friendly embrace with each other at the last happy hour we attended). I found out that he’d been in a serious relationship for almost two years and even had a child with his partner! I was happy for him that he seemingly had matured and settled down. I was proud of him.

Just before I jetted off to Europe, I learned that he was cheating on his partner/mother of his child by actively using online dating profiles…

And that he, more than likely, may have roofied and taken advantage of a girl he took out one evening.

When I told some of my girlfriends and my mother about this, they all pretty much said the same thing to me:

Can you imagine if you had continued dating him? Can you imagine if he was doing this to you while harming other girls? Can you imagine how much worse it would’ve been had you married him?

As painful as it was to navigate the end of that ‘relationship,’ then yes, I can only imagine what would’ve happened had we continued to date. I would have been absolutely miserable…just like I’m sure, right now, his partner, who apparently has decided to stay with him (more than likely, for the sake of the child) is feeling.

And as awful as he treated me, I didn’t think he’d ever go that far as to drug and assault someone.

When I heard about what he had done…my mind finally…finally went back to the year that he and I dated.

2019.

Whatever happened that year seems like it was an eternity ago, especially because of Covid.

I then remembered an event that I experienced not long after we broke up.

An event similar to what he had just done to this girl he met through his dating profile.

An event that, while I have started to come to terms with it by writing it as a part of the novel I’m attempting to draft…

(Please note, some names have been changed but everything else is true).

…Is something that is, I think, preventing me from truly wanting to physically entrust my body with anyone I date…

…And is something, I pray, that one day, I can forgive myself for…although I know the Lord has already seen to forgive me.

But yes, that all being said, this has indeed, been a strange summer of emotions.

Dear readers, I’m grateful I’m able to unload and unfold my life here to you on this site. I’m glad I have this site as an outlet to help me cope. You’ve no idea how much your reading of these posts means to me. Thank you for supporting me through my ups and downs, my mental issues, and my uncertainties as to what I truly want in this life.

Somewhere, in all this mess, this passionate history nerd is wanting to come out and just true to herself again. I pray she’s still there in this mess. I know deep down, she is still there.

I promise, next post…it’ll be all about Rome. Until then -

many happy returns…

-kate.

P.S. The title of this post is a line from my new favorite ‘go-to’ song from one of my favorite bands, Ride (shoegaze experts extraordinaire). There’s just something about this particular line that soothes me…grab a cup of coffee, casually sip on your brew as you try to tune out the noise and chaos of the world while, at the same time, attempt to find and enjoy the stillness and tranquility that life can offer you - if you look hard enough.

I don’t know, at least that’s how I’m interpreting this line from the lyrics. Really, this song does calm my nerves and makes for excellent driving music!

benvenuto a napoli

I’m so glad I was able to get past my writing slump with the last two posts I created, and now that I’m finally on my trip, I have the inspiration and motivation to document all of my European shenanigans.

After a six hour red eye flight from Dulles to Dublin, and a three hour one from Dublin to the very tiny regional airport of Naples…Michelle and I are finally on Italian soil. The flight from Dublin to Naples was particularly rough…many crying children running along the aisle and less legroom, as it wasn’t on a plane meant for a long haul international flight. I managed to sleep for an hour on this flight, probably because I was determined to drown out the noise and chaos! 

Bright eyed and bushy tailed, patiently waiting at my gate for the first leg of my journey from Dulles to Dublin. Of course, I had on my Blessed Mother necklace and my Scapular for divine protection during my trip.

Upon landing in Naples, everyone immediately got up from their seats and pushed past Michelle and I…even though we were trying to be polite and leave our seats when it was our row’s turn. How dare we try to be nice…the audacity! One of the aforementioned crying children pushed right into me after Michelle and I boarded the bus that transported us from the tarmac to the airport. The Naples airport does not have jetways, so I felt like I was transported back to the 1960s as I came down the staircase of the plane and walked the tarmac onto the outdated bus. The parents of the child who hit me, of course, did not apologize for their child’s behavior, and seeing as I am not fluent in Italian, I couldn’t very well tell them off in their native language. I also didn’t want to cause an international crisis so early on my trip, so I rolled my eyes, and let it go.

Michelle’s amazing cousin Amy, whom we are staying with in her beautiful Napoli home, waited with us as we collected our luggage from the also equally outdated baggage claim. She then escorted us to our driver (yes, we had a driver pick us up from the airport), and he, bless him, placed all of our suitcases in the back of the van. During our drive to Amy’s house, he realized we are American, and his English was not so great, but I took it upon myself to pull out my translator app and with the realization that Spanish and Italian have many things in common, attempted to converse with him in Italian. I successfully managed to tell our driver that:

1. I’m Italian American on my dad’s side and my great-grandparents were from Reggio di Calabria.

2. It was early morning back home in Washington, D.C.

3. Michelle and I were on our summer vacation and we teach teenagers.

We freshened up at Amy’s house and then took a train into Naples proper. She drove us to the train station and pointed out the beautiful coastline and beaches. We parked the car and twenty minutes later, we were in the heart of Naples. My lack of sleep did not deter me from enjoying the city (I had caught my second wind) and we eagerly followed Amy along the cobblestone streets. We stopped inside, to my joy, a Catholic church; the Basilica della Santissima Annunziata Maggiore. This church, due to the rough translation of its Italian name, is dedicated to the annunciation, or when the Angel Gabriel arrived to the Blessed Mother and told her that she was to give birth to Jesus. 

I realized, due to it being 3 PM (this the time we visited) the congregants gathered in the pews were finishing one of my favorite (and most powerful) prayers, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. This prayer is typically recited at 3 PM because this is the time that Jesus Christ died, so we use that hour to pray and reflect on his death and the sacrifice he made for us by dying on the cross for our salvation. I pray it every day, sometimes with my mama if I’m visiting her, and find so much peace of heart when I am finished with it. It truly helps me get through my day. Imagine my delight when I recognized the prayer, even though it was being recited in Italian. I blessed myself with some holy water and we continued our trek through the city. 

We decided we needed a pastry break, so I took the risk and ordered, in Italian, a pistachio filled croissant (un cornetto) and my goodness, the Europeans do not joke about the lack of additives in their food. My croissant actually tasted like real pistachio…because it was all natural and real pistachio. The pistachio filling melted in my mouth. I couldn’t get over how delicate and buttery the crust of the actual croissant was. Amy promised us even better desserts at another patisserie, so we kept walking, this time, in search of an actual dinner before we decided to enjoy more pastries. 

My first real Italian meal, pasta carbonara.

We thought we wanted traditional Napoli pizza, but our stomachs said otherwise, and we ordered pasta dishes at the trattoria we sat down in. I’m a sucker for pasta carbonara and let’s face it…Italian American pasta is not even close to real Italian pasta. The pasta carbonara that I love to order at the Cheesecake Factory, I’m aware, is not carbonara one would find in Italy. So, reassured by the fact that pasta carbonara was on the list, I decided to order it. I also saw, on the cocktail list, the classic Italian aperol spritz, and Michelle and I did as the stupid Romans did, and decided to order one. Because, when in Rome (Naples), right?

WRONG. 

The drink was incredibly bitter and dry. Amy told us that while the aperol mix is meant to be slightly bitter (and I knew this too after some preliminary research), our drink should not have tasted like that. She promised we’d find a better aperol spritz; that the bartender probably did not properly mix the aperol base with the prosecco. 

So, we switched our drinks to Italian Fanta, which we thoroughly enjoyed because the Fanta is not the fake, bright and bold orange soda we’re used to in the United States. It’s still orange soda, but it’s made only with real and natural sugar and orange flavor. It tasted light and bubbly and was super refreshing. Michelle, who does not even like soda, loved the Fanta and has not stopped drinking it since we’ve arrived in Italy. 

Our pasta arrived and the carbonara was definitely what carbonara should look and taste like - creamy and decadent. I finished it quickly (I was starving from the flight) and didn’t feel as though I had a brick sitting in my stomach. My stomach was satisfied and content, not heavy and bloated. Amy attributed this again to Europeans not using preservatives and additives in their food.

Here I am in front of the famous Gran Caffè Gambrinus.

To walk off our meal, we continued to explore Naples. Amy insisted that we needed dessert and led us to one of Naples’s famous coffee houses, the Gran Caffè Gambrinus. This place was frequented by some of the most well-known literary icons like Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, and Jean Paul Sartre. I enjoyed eating a small pastry filled with a custard-like cream. Michelle had some sort of Italian donut coated in granulated sugar and took half of it home, as it was bigger than she had anticipated and wanted to finish it later. 

My custard filled Gambrinus treat!

Amy, Michelle, and I having our first gelato (notice the natural orange color of my beloved cantaloupe flavor).

We popped into some shops and took tourist photos at the spectacular Galleria Umberto I, but apparently, we still had dessert on the mind, because we kept talking about gelato. Amy made the executive decision to lead us to a gelato shop. I had my third dessert of the day and purchased a cup of gelato. I was craving more of a sorbet/fruit based flavor and was allowed to pick two flavors for my small sized cup. I’m always happy with lemon, so I picked the limone, but was surprised to see, of all ice cream flavors: cantaloupe. I do love me some fresh cantaloupe, but of course, had never had it in ice cream form, so I selected the melone as the second flavor. These two flavors combined were delightful. The lemon was good, but the cantaloupe was a game changer. In that moment, I thought of my mama and how much she also likes cantaloupe…and wished that she was with me in Naples so we could enjoy some gelato together.

We felt the exhaustion kick in and Amy led us back to the Napoli train station so we could take the local train back to her neighborhood. We went grocery shopping and picked up some snacks (of course, we bought a Fanta). We spent some time conversing and relaxing before we retired for the evening. One refreshing shower, a melatonin, and a comfy bed later - I was passed out and slept for a wonderful twelve hours.

Me, with the more superior aperol spritz I drank my second day in Naples.

We spent the next day relaxing and taking it easy. We booked our train tickets for Rome. Amy took us out for a quiet meal nearby her home (this time, I ordered gnocchi and thought of my papa, as gnocchi is his favorite dish). I had a superior aperol spritz at this restaurant…it tasted like I imagined; citric and easy to drink, with just the right amount of bitterness. There was a gelato shop three doors away from the restaurant…so naturally, we went there, and I had two separate scoops of gelato. One scoop, apparently, was not enough. My first scoop was a crunchy black cherry with some chocolate. My second scoop was classic pistachio. That evening, we had an earlier night so we could be well-rested for our Rome excursion.

Day two of a gelato run (here I am with my second one I purchased - the pistachio). Michelle’s a fragola girl…strawberry!

So, I’m safely in Italy. It’s been an adjustment getting used to the time change (six hours ahead of Virginia), the lack of American comforts (no regular trash service, Italian bluntness, no ice, and no central A/C), but I’m happy to be here…focusing on me…and fulfilling my European bucket list items. I’ve kept in touch with my family and my friends who actually want to speak to me, posted my major tourist moments on Facebook, and still have a few days left here in Italy, before Michelle and I take a flight to Paris and meet up with Lisa and her younger daughter.

Next up - you’ll read about our crazy Roman adventures at the Colosseum, Trevi Fountain, Holy See (Vatican) and our navigation of the Rome Metro. 

Until then…

many happy returns,

Kate

i need your grace to remind me to find my own.

Three days. Three days.

THREE days.

And then, I’ll be sitting on an international flight bound for a quick layover in Dublin (low-key kinda wish I was staying in Dublin on another Irish adventure, but oh well) before I arrive at my final destination of Naples, Italy. Michelle and I will be making Naples our home base for about a week while we traipse all around my “fatherland” and get in touch with my paternally inherited Italian side of the family. We’ve got a day set in Capri, the Amalfi Coast (ahem, Pompeii), potentially Florence (hello, Michelangelo’s David), and of course, a day dedicated to the beautiful city of Rome, with stops scheduled at the Colosseum and, where every Catholic dreams of going…Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica. 

Will I meet the Pope? Probably not, but still, just to be in the Eternal City…the center of the Roman Catholic Church? I can’t believe my return to Europe is just in a matter of days…but indeed, it is.

We’ll spend some down time in Naples proper, enjoying Neapolitan style pizza and hopefully basking in the night life (and maybe meet some charming Italian men) before we then board a plane to Paris/Charles de Gaulle for a quick layover in Paris. This is where Michelle and I will rendezvous with Lisa (and her daughter) before we go to our final final destination - Normandy. Lisa, Michelle, and I booked a day excursion in Paris; we’ll hit up the Louvre, Sacré-Cœur (French for the “Sacred Heart” of Jesus) of Montmartre Catholic Church (my mother already said to try to find her a rosary here), the Eiffel Tower (this is where we will probably act like idiotic Americans abroad taking gratuitous selfies), with a cruise along the River Seine to end our day. The next day, Lisa’s picking up the rental car, and we’re going on a road trip to Normandy…with a pit stop at Versailles!

We booked a charming airbnb in the commune of Port-en-Bessin-Huppain within driving distance of the major D-Day sites. On Sunday, we’re going to the D-Day Experience museum in Carentan - 

Cue Captain Lewis Nixon’s quote and uppity French pronunciation from Episode #1 (Currahee) of the epic war mini series - Band of Brothers (and duh, I’m rewatching the mini series to, you know, help me historically prepare myself for my visit):

“Airborne’s [101st] objective, gentlemen, is to take the town of Cah-rhen-tahn, or Carentan, thus linking Utah and Omaha into a single continuous beachhead.”

I’ve been waiting like, forever, to use that quote, and I fully intend to use it once we’re in Carentan for the museum visit. You can listen to it in all its Ron Livingston deadpan delivered glory since I decided to link it here (to the exact minute of the quote).

There will, of course, be other quotes from the book/series to use as we make our way through Normandy.

After the D-Day Experience, we’re going to drive over to Omaha Beach to see Lisa’s other, older daughter, perform with her high school band for a performance in honor of the D-Day 80th Anniversary commemorations. 

We will also be doing a day trip to Bayeux, where we will hopefully see the legendary Bayeux Tapestry, which tells the story of the conquest of England by William the Conqueror, and also visit Mont Saint-Michel (Saint Michael). I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we drive over and visit the Pointe du Hoc and Sainte-Mère-Église (Holy Mother [Mary] Church). Sainte-Mère-Église was the first town liberated by the Allied forces after the invasion…it’s a must-see for any World War II history nerd. 

On our way back to Paris to catch our departing flights, we’ll most likely detour to Rouen, and then it’ll be time to head back to the States.

Two weeks seems like forever…and the trip anxiety right now is real. I don’t want to say goodbye to my family, I am apprehensive about leaving my house and my comfortable bed, I’m scared that Ike and Mamie will forget all about me, I’m nervous about my luggage and the long haul flight…and I’m disappointed about the way I left things with my friend who came back into my life. We were supposed to have lunch, but of course, I’m the one who suggested to hang out and have this meet up in the first place. He finally gave me two days we could make this happen, and I went with Saturday. Then, he tells me he can’t do Saturday due to some house stuff, but can do Friday evening for dinner. Okay, cool. 

Friday evening dinner then somehow became Friday at 3 PM for lunch. Fine. Whatever. 

Then, Friday afternoon, he tells me he can’t even do 3 PM due to some work stuff delaying him from leaving his house. When I asked him why we couldn’t just move it to the evening (as he’d already earlier suggested via text), he told me why (he was going on a date) and I just felt like, once more, that I’m being taken for granted by him. All I wanted was to see him before I left. That was it. One lousy dinner. And there I went…making the plans, trying to accommodate him…but yet I’m the one who was passed over and forgotten about. 

He already accused me once of still wanting to be with him.  

And while that ship has sailed…a long, long time ago…I just thought maybe, after all this time, he at least valued my friendship enough to at least keep his word, especially since I’m leaving for awhile, and just wanted to say my goodbyes. Especially after I decided to try to trust him again once he returned at the end of 2023 and ended his disappearing act.

I don’t ever want him to think I don’t want him to find his happiness. Of course I do. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, and find the girl of his dreams (and I would hope he wants me to be happy too), but right now, it seems like it’s all going to be at my expense. Here I am, trying to make things easier for him and his schedule…like a friend should, and yet, he couldn’t even be bothered to take into account my schedule. I’ve been running around getting my trip details set and packing my suitcase, all while trying to finish this insane school year, but I still tried making time for him and worked with his schedule.

Let him be angry, let him think whatever he wants about me, let him think I’m a bitch like he thought I acted as to why he stopped talking to me the last time. I don’t care. I’ll never understand why he does this to me…why he doesn’t understand how I feel. Why he even came back. It hurts. I want to trust him, I want to rely on him as my friend, and it’s like I’m burdening him and asking for too much. I hope he knows that I’m sorry, but I also hope, this time around, he will finally understand how I’m feeling.

So right now, I’m going to use this time and this space away from him and focus on my historical adventures. I’m going to go off on this epic trip of a lifetime with people who do value my friendship, who don’t take me for granted, and will be by my side as I finally fulfill this dream of mine. 

Maybe, just maybe, this trip is what I need to revive my heart…my passions…for living, breathing, loving, and teaching history. I may not have the love of my life accompanying me, but the way this trip is happening, with Lisa and Michelle, is more than I could ever ask for.

I pray to God that this trip will save me from this slump I’ve been in…and I put it all in His hands. If I’m meant to live this life solo, then I only hope to spend my time now by exploring the unknown and making my own adventures with the people I love most in this life. So I’m taking a moment here to thank you, dear Lord, for these blessings you’ve bestowed on me…and I’ll try not to take this life for granted.

I’ll be bringing my laptop with me, and hope to find downtime to blog and write as we make our way through Europe, so please…stay posted for updates, Band of Brothers themed quotes, and all the amazing pictures. 

many, many happy returns…

-kate. 

All things must pass.

It’s been a while, my dear readers, and my life has made a total one-eighty since my last post. A month ago, I was insanely happy, writing about Rupert Brooke, my students did amazing on their reading standardized test, and to my most surprise, I started seeing the most wonderful man. This last change in my life came out of nowhere, but I thank God for this unexpected and brilliant blessing. It’s a fledgling relationship - it’s still so new, and we’re just trying to get to know each other at this point. It, however, is so nice to have someone who truly believes that my dreams are worth pursuing…and doesn’t have doubts in my talents and abilities.

Unfortunately, not everyone in my family sees these qualities in this man. This, combined with other things I am apparently, doing wrong in my life, has persuaded me to leave home and start anew. It is time for me to live my life. Is this man the absolute reason I’m leaving? No. I am twenty-seven years old and need to worry about me. I need to be able to make my own decisions and choices. I am naturally a people pleaser - I’ve always been like this. It’s a shortcoming, I realize, as I approach thirty…because I need to be strong enough to defend myself as I continue my adulthood. I need to stand up for myself and learn how to say “no.” I shouldn’t have to worry about disappointing or upsetting people by using the word no. I want to be able to date whomever I wish, come and go from home as I please, and pursue my teaching career without being criticized. It is time for me to be a little selfish and think about my life. If I don’t, any confidence I still have in myself will only disappear.

This realization doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less to pack away two bookcases worth of history books. I felt as if though I was packing away a part of me - books have always been a piece of my identity. My heart was breaking as I carefully organized my familiar historians; Kershaw, Kotkin, Overy, Coogan, etc. by their historical specialty (no lie: I seriously have a box labeled “postcolonial studies”) into drab cardboard boxes. I don’t have enough room where I am going to have bookshelves. They will be going into temporary storage while I settle into my new life. I have to be optimistic and realize that I am not hiding my identity by putting away my favorite books - I have to do it, just temporarily, to help me strengthen it.

I’m sure you can imagine that I must have a million different thoughts and anxieties bouncing around in my head as I make sense of this abrupt change. I didn’t think an innocent relationship would spark the need for me to leave home. I thought I’d get to continue my life as it was, just enjoying this man’s company, finishing off my first year of teaching, and being with my family. I was 100% wrong, and as a result, I’m absolutely not myself. I find myself worrying so much about everything, including him. I get scared that if one day he doesn’t want to see me, it just means he wants nothing at all to do with me. I shouldn’t think that, because if we were seeing each other every day, we would get sick of the constant company. I shouldn’t think that because it is not in his nature to be uncaring. He’s the most empathetic and faithful man I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, but this situation I’m in isn’t allowing me to think straight and logically. He promised me, before things between us really developed, that he would do his best to be the nicest to me - to trust him. There is no reason I shouldn’t believe in his promise. I want nothing more than to hold on to that promise, because I really do trust his good and God-fearing nature.

“All things must pass
None of life’s strings can last
So I must be on my way
And face another day”

— George Harrison, from "All Things Must Pass"

To be candid: I’ve been an asshole, and he doesn’t deserve that. I need to just take a deep breath and take each day with him as it comes. It doesn’t matter in what form he’s in - text, voice, in person, in my dreams…I know he’s there. I know I can and should rely on him, because I do believe in his simple promise to trust him. That’s all I could ever want from someone I’m seeing. Gifts and gestures are nothing to me - I prefer promises and words.

If you are reading this, please do know that I am sorry for being a burden, because that is the last thing I have wanted to be to you.

I am stronger that I am giving myself credit for, and I know I can stand up on my own. I know I can make it through this tough time. God is guiding me because this is His plan. The only plan I want to follow is God’s. Not my father’s. Not my mother’s - just God’s. I may not feel like a history nerd without my favorite books at my finger tips, but this is only temporary. I’ll be reunited with those books soon. My family will, if not accept, but hopefully respect my decisions one day. I’ll move into my new place and be independent. I will continue to believe in his promise as we get to know each other and take it slow.

I’ve been thinking about the adage “this, too, shall pass” as I get through this crazy time. It’s been helping me every day, but then I was reminded about the song “All Things Must Pass” from the eponymous solo album by George Harrison. I think this phrase is better applied to my situation. It’s not just one thing I’m fighting - it’s several of them - and it’s true. I’ll come out stronger. I’ll emerge victorious…because all things must (and will) pass.

Many happy returns,

-Kate

first impressions

As someone who has, to put it lightly, uhh…unusual tastes in the history I study, I have struggled to find a “better half" who will tolerate my quirky interests. Here’s an example if you’re wondering what I mean by “quirky.” My mom and I were talking about weddings and cliché proposals. I said that I would absolutely hate it if my boyfriend (we’re talking imaginary here - as if that’s going to happen any time soon) proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve. So, she then asked me what my ideal proposal scenario would be.

Without missing a beat, I said, “June 6th, the Normandy beaches, preferably on the Omaha or Utah sector.”

Then she dared to ask what day the actual wedding would occur on.

Again, without missing a beat:

“May 8th of the following year, to commemorate Victory in Europe Day…and grandma’s birthday.”

I’d really need to find the right man to make that happen. The right man who would just get me enough to make those scenarios happen. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to take my quirkiness on, but accept and love me for it. I could be wrong, but I doubt there’s a man out there who would do all that for me…just to make me happy. Now you’re probably wondering, my goodness, are all of these posts going to deal with sappiness and heartbreak?

To answer your question: no, they are not. I think, however, it’s okay for me to talk about my (lack of a) romantic life because I want you, my readers, to know that:

It is absolutely okay to be yourself. I have thought, for years, that I need that better half to define me. That myself isn’t good enough for this world. I’ve only recently come to the conclusion that no, I do not need a better half. I can be my own better half. I can be a better me and let the world take me as I am. I am happy with the way my life is turning out so far. I’ve finally embarked on the path I’ve wanted to take. I’m using my historical nerdiness in a relevant field. I am a teacher, sharing my passion for the subject to a varied pool of students from all walks of life.

I teach Language Arts to preteens, hoping to instill the value of reading in them while they are still young. I teach world history to college students - most of them are in my class to fulfill general education requirements. I, however, have some older students that are there to prove to their family members that it is never too late to get a college education. It makes me feel like I am making a difference as a teacher by being that educator who will help them prove that no, it is certainly never too late to learn.

If there’s not a better half for me out there, wanting to stand by my side and be my cheerleader as I become a seasoned educator, then that is his loss. I know I have achieved an iota of self-fulfillment by doing what I do best - sharing my love for learning and history…and I get to do it in a professional realm.

That still doesn’t mean I don’t hold on to hope that my better half is somewhere in this world - whether he’s somewhere where I live in northern Virginia, an ocean away in Ireland…

Waiting. Just waiting. For me. Little, unremarkable, unashamedly nerdy me.

Once upon a time, I thought I had found my better half. I thought this would be the guy who would give me that Normandy beach proposal. I thought I was going to marry this man - I prayed that he would ask me to be his wife. I had dreams of us blissfully married; our days filled with history, books, being underpaid teachers, living in a cozy house with our cats…and eventually, our children.

I was wrong. I was so so wrong. It took me a long time to get over him. Sometimes I do wonder if I truly am over him. Part of the reason I started writing about my historical endeavors was because of him. I began to put our story to paper - the two history nerds in love - as a way of coping with the heartbreak. The writing process has finally helped me get over him.

So, I offer y’all First Impressions, a vignette of the day I truly believed I met my better half:

I’m pretty sure I was in love with him from the moment I caught him smiling at me during the first class session of one of my graduate history seminars. I walked in the room with my friend Christina, and I could feel a gaze on me instantly. This bearded guy, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and glasses. I took him in…his adorable freckles. His mirthful brown eyes. His floppy dark hair, sprinkled ever-so-slightly with grey. His good-natured grin.

Just him, really.

He wasn’t trying to play coy; that was a definite. Not with the way his gaze remained fixed on me.

So, I take back my earlier sentiment: I know I was in love with him upon our first meeting.

I didn’t think that first day back to school would have me instantly falling for some guy I’d never even spoken to. I honestly thought I’d be on my own in that seminar. Christina, of course, was with me, and at least I’d be able to make some snarky commentary with her underneath our breaths during whatever lecture we’d have, but really, the class was meant to be an independent research project. Maybe I’d have to make some awkward small talk with the other students at some point in the semester. Cultivating relationships? Nah. I was beyond caring about that in grad school, and this class was giving me the opportunity to work (mostly) independently.

I liked relying on myself. I liked being alone. Alone meant I could focus on getting a good grade; the class was a “capstone.” You needed to pass to meet all requirements in the MA program. The final paper was worth 60% of my grade—I knew it would be hard work. I didn’t need (but probably secretly wanted) the distraction of a man to prevent me from doing thorough research and writing a concise, well-mapped thesis.  I didn’t want to take the risk of having someone break my heart in the middle of the semester, causing me to have an emotional upheaval, and jeopardize my work. With my track record, I knew that’s exactly what would happen. 

(Just sayin’, men are absolutely, the worst distractions.)

But that evening, when my professor asked each of us to introduce ourselves, had me pray to God that I’d get to know the man who smiled at me. No distractions weren’t an option anymore. Who was he?

Name. Concentration. Ideal topic that we would base our final papers on. That’s what we were forced to tell the class as we went one by one around the classroom to speak.

I barely paid attention to everyone else. I didn’t even care; everyone was like, I’m so and so who just loves America so much, that I made my concentration American history!

Those damn Americanists. Where were the European historians at? I get it; we’re in America, but still…

So it’s this one other guy’s turn. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Couldn’t resist staring at him for a moment; he was total eye candy. Still, didn’t even care to note his name. He said he was interested in Scottish history. Okay, cool…decided I wasn’t interested. My eyes followed back to my man. I waited like an impatient sod, desperate to hear his response. If it was Europe, that was it. We were soulmates.

Finally. It was his turn.

“My name is David. My concentration is European history—”

Oh, thank God.

“And I’m interested in researching about Oscar Wilde and the sodomy charge that was brought against him.”

Interesting, I thought, as I processed what he’d just said. I myself would not have decided to research about Oscar Wilde in a history class. I think it’s because I relate Wilde too often to a literary background that I forget that yes, the charges that were brought against him would have had historical impact. As I continued to dwell on his topic (and how much I really wanted to ask him about his research), I completely ignored everyone else’s turn. Before I knew it, I had to speak.

I cleared my throat, aaaand…

“I’m Kate. My concentration is European history (there were like, five of us in the room, compared to the nine Americanists—clearly, we were the minority, but whatever), and I would like to study the libel trial against the Irish nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.”

Boom. That’s right. Go Ireland. My professor commented on my topic but I can’t even remember what he told me. My mind was elsewhere.

I dared to look at David.

(Wasn’t even paying attention to Christina, who was now telling the class about her research project.)

And he was still staring back in my direction.

(Those pretty brown eyes.)

Class ended at nine that evening. Tall, dark, and handsome, to my surprise, flagged me down. Wanted to know more about my fascination with Parnell.

Especially was wondering why I hadn’t signed up for the “Ireland in War and Revolution” course that he was in.

Honestly, I had wanted to. My favorite professor was teaching it, and he’d told me about the course before I’d signed up for fall semester classes the previous spring. The truth was, I was craving a different area of Europe to study (as much as I loved Ireland), so I told him that I opted to take “Stalinism” (of all topics) with my second favorite professor in the history department instead.

And I was barely paying attention to him. I was trying, not-so-subtlety, to look for David, but he’d walked out ahead of me and this guy, who politely introduced himself as Josh (glad he did, because I really didn’t remember his name from the classroom introductions.)

Like the nerd I am, I continued to ramble to Josh that I wanted to learn more about Stalin… because I loved discussing rhetoric in totalitarian governments (truth) and that was the reason I hadn’t wanted to take the Ireland class (double truth). My history obsessions are sooo seductive, I know. I thought Josh would be turned off after that (he probably thought, wow, this girl’s a weirdo, let me walk away from her slowly), but no! He continued to walk with me to the quad. Josh was talking up his interests in Scotland (…meh), but said he had an interest in Ireland, and then I’m there correcting him when he merely referred to the Provisional Irish Republican Army as the “IRA.”

They had different names. The PIRA, the faction that emerged during the Northern Irish “Troubles,” was the one we were discussing, and I always get so pissed when people just call them as the the “IRA.”

(Nitpicky, yes, I know.)

But on our way to the quad, I saw out the corner of my eye, someone lighting up a cigarette. Oh eww, secondhand smoke. Gross. I turned my head from Josh, and looked at the offender.

David. Trying so desperately to get his lighter to work. The flame met the cigarette just as I locked eyes with him again for probably the sixtieth time that night.

He looked at me guiltily, and it was sooo awkward that I just turned my attention back to Josh. We walked past David, and I felt like a total jerk.

Ugh.

(I was a fool. In love.)

And it would be another week before we saw each other again.

(Double ugh.)

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate

the modern day flapper

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The middle school I work at just announced we would be doing a “spirit week” at the end of February. I am usually the teacher that doesn’t participate, but the themes for this spirit week grabbed my attention. On Thursday the 28th, we are having a ‘blast from the past’ day. We get to dress up as our favorite decade. My mind immediately gravitated to:

flapper.

I asked my work bestie if she would don a glitzy, fringed 1920s Gatsby style dress so we could be twins that day. She agreed. We’ve gathered all the pieces we need to look like 1920s fashion plates. Amazon was the perfect place to get our dresses and gloves. I already had shoes and sparkly headbands. Our hair is relatively short - I only need to flat iron it to make it look more like a flapper’s bob, and hers is curly enough to represent the famous Marcel wave. We made the right decision for our decade. It didn’t take much effort to get the outfits ready.

My friend, however, asked if I would do her makeup because she doesn’t really wear it. I can go from no makeup to full face whenever I feel like it, so she thinks I’d be able to recreate a 1920s makeup job.

Uhhh…

Am I a professional makeup artist?

That is a no.

Am I scared of looking too vampy in flapper style makeup for school?

That is a yes.

So while I may not be trained to recreate a professional, 1920s true flapper look, my makeup skills are more than decent enough for us to play the part without scaring off our students. I was able to find the right balance between vintage and modern. I decided to keep three key features of the flapper look to maintain the integrity of the makeup:

1. An entirely matte finished face.

2. Dark lips with cupid’s bow intact.

3. Heavier, smoky eye.

Numbers two and three, however, would be modified for a more modern approach, but still visible enough for people to say yes, they are from the 1920s.

The Process Begins

Always, always, always set your eye makeup first to let any fallout occur before applying foundation. I did, however, decide to apply my primer so it would sink into my skin while I did the eye makeup. What you use to prime is up to you. My skin does have redness, so I rely on a green primer for color correction. I also didn’t want any sort of natural redness to pop through my foundation and blush if I didn’t use my primer. I use the Makeup Forever Step 1 Skin Equalizer Primer (Sephora, $37) for my everyday makeup. I used it for this tutorial as well. All I did was dab it on my fingers and apply it with my tips - no brush is necessary.

My arsenal of literal eye candy - everything you see here was used to attain a smoky eye.

Eyes

I started my eyes by applying a mattifying base to my lids. I always use the MAC Cosmetics Pro Longwear Paint Pot in Painterly (MAC Cosmetics, $22). It is the perfect nude pink base that looks gorgeous on its own, but serves as a strong, blendable base color when I use other eye shadow palettes on top of it. The paint pot lives up to its name - it does go on as a cream, so make sure to let it dry for about a minute before continuing your process.

I reached for my Marc Jacobs Eye-Conic Multi-Finish Eye Shadow Palette (Sephora, $49) in The Night Owl (you’ll see it on the Sephora website renamed as Edgitorial). This is where I decided to add my darker color out from the middle to the outer corners of my eyes. I used the shade “We’ll See” - a milk chocolate matte finish that I blended until I was satisfied that I did not look like I got punched in the face. I cannot do a decent smoky eye, so I get wary when the shades are insanely dark like “We’ll See” is. I then took another brush and blended a lighter shade from the palette to start giving my eyes some depth. I used “Take a Memo,” described as a pale peach matte, and blended it all across my eyelids.

Close-up of the Marc Jacobs palette - this beauty deserves to have its own photo. “Take a Memo” is the shade right in the middle. “We’ll See” is two shades to the right of “Take a Memo.”

I was craving, however, a little color so as to match the delicate blush shade of my dress. So I said goodbye to my Marc Jacobs palette and dug out my Tarte Love, Trust and Fairy Dust (Sephora, $39) one - filled with shimmery and delicate plums and pinks. With a new brush, I blended a mauve matte shade called “Frolic” in the bottom halves of my eyelids, and then finished off my eyes with another palette. I used the NARS Pro Palette Duo in Sugarland (NARS Cosmetics, $25). Sugarland has two colors; a golden shimmer and a beautiful and ethereal orchid. I topped off my eyes with the orchid selection…and my pseudo-smoky eye was set.

I did a quick liquid liner with my Tarte Tarteist Double Take Eye Liner (Sephora, $24) and avoided a cat eye, as that would be anachronistic with my decade. I only lined the tops of my eyelids, and then coated my eyelashes with my new favorite mascara, NARS Climax (Sephora, $24). I was debating getting false eyelashes…but figured that would definitely make the look “too much” for the school day. Luckily, the mascara coats on evenly, allowing for multiple applications to make the eyelashes appear long and luscious.

Setting the Face

My fallout was dusted off. My primer had set. Hello, foundation. Using a damp Beauty Blender (Sephora, $20), I decided to practice my tutorial with my Clinique Stay-Matte Oil-Free foundation (Sephora, $27). I didn’t want to waste any of the foundation I use on a daily basis for a practice run. The Clinique foundation, however, would still give me the same effect I was looking for: matte, dull, and doll-like. When I do my makeup, I will be using my reliable Make Up For Ever Ultra HD Invisible Cover Foundation (Amazon, $56 - my shade is Y245). This is a medium coverage matte foundation that can easily be built up. The HD formula makes it perfect to be filmed or photographed - it was the foundation of choice by the Downton Abbey makeup artists to make the actresses playing Edwardian aristocrats look flawless on screen during an age where makeup usage was minimal (read: none at all).

Do not be afraid to go heavier on your foundation for this look. When I examined my face, I realized I’d actually missed some spots (especially around my nose) because I was afraid I would look too caked on. The nice thing about the Beauty Blender is that it does allow the user to control and spread out the foundation easier. Once my foundation was applied liberally all over my face (do not forget to apply at the jawline and into the neck to make your face smooth and even!), I took my Sephora Pro Precision Powder Brush #59 (Sephora, $38) and dipped it into my holy grail of setting powders…

Starting from the left: The Clinique foundation was the choice I used to do this tutorial, but I’m going to rely on my Makeup Forever foundation for the final look next week. To the right of that bottle is the Laura Mercier powder that really gives me the “vintage” vibe I’m trying to achieve. Below are the face tools: my Beauty Blender and Sephora powder brush.

Ladies, if you know your makeup and you’ve guessed what it is, then you’re absolutely right. The Laura Mercier Translucent Loose Setting Powder (Sephora, $39) is perfect for obtaining flawless makeup. I use it everyday, and knew that this would be the only setting powder I’d use for this look I am trying to achieve. The feature I like most about this setting powder is that it does not cause the dreaded “flashback” when being photographed. It keeps my face matte and fresh all day, even during a humid Virginia summer. I blended this into every nook and cranny on my face to truly get the right aesthetic.

With my blush brush, I then applied my Charlotte Tilbury Cheek to Chic Blush in Ecstasy (Sephora, $40) on the apples of my cheeks and dabbed a little on my nose. I hadn’t used Charlotte Tilbury products in my makeup routines until this past October when I got my makeup done at Sephora. I was impressed by the quality and color of the blush my makeup artist used on me. I asked her what product it was. Once she said it was Charlotte Tilbury, any doubts I had about buying her products disappeared. Into my shopping basket it went. I like that you can apply it fairly heavily (without looking tacky!) if you’re trying to play dress up - I used it when I did my makeup for Halloween. I was Mary Poppins, and the blush really did help pull the look of my costume together. I looked more like her character, and less like myself.

Charlotte Tilbury products can easily be used for every day cosmetic wear, or if you’re trying to get a more dramatic look when using makeup for a costume/fancy event!

Eyes (Again)

I decided that my bottom lashes needed definition. Instead of using a pencil eyeliner, I used a trick another Sephora makeup artist taught me. I grabbed a small, angled eye shadow brush and carefully dipped it into the one of the shades from the Tarte palette I’d used earlier. I picked the shade “Wonder,” a matte plum color, and I softly lined my bottom lash line with eye shadow. This trick gave my eyes a soft and glamorous finish. Using a pencil liner would’ve made the final look too harsh and vampy.

Lips (Finally)

Did you know that there is a woman who is dedicated to recreating lipstick colors of the past with modern and better quality cosmetic ingredients? If you didn’t - you do now. Bésame Cosmetics, founded by the cosmetic historian Gabriela Hernandez, sells accurate reproductions of popular lipstick shades from decades past. Bésame first became famous for their signature red shades, but the cosmetic line has expanded into skincare, perfume, foundations, and eye shadows. Bésame now has lipstick shades from the 1960s and 1970s, which are representative of the neutral trends popular of the time.

My best friend purchased my first lipstick for from Bésame for Christmas a couple years ago. She knew of my love for the 1920s, and gifted me the shade 1922: Blood Red (Bésame Cosmetics, $22). When applied with a heavy hand, this shade is as flapper as it gets. We’re talking Theda Bara vampy. What I wanted to maintain with my lips was the cupid’s bow, rather than the full-blown color, so this meant lining them. What I love about the Bésame lipsticks is that they are designed to use as a lip liner and a lipstick. The tips of the lipstick are chiseled. This allows the user to line with the slanted, pointed edges before taking the flatter end to fill in the rest of the lips.

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I lined with the lipstick first and then blotted my lips together to help spread the color. Then I gently dabbed a coating of the lipstick to fill in any gaps, but I did not apply it like a normal tube of lipstick. This method allowed for me to easily define the cupid’s bow and make the lips red, but not too red.

Taking It All Off

It took me the better part of twenty minutes to make sure my face was clean and cleared of my chiseled on makeup. I started to take off the warpaint by wiping my face with my Cetaphil Gentle Makeup Removing Wipes ($6.20 on Amazon, via Cetaphil’s website) and then cleansing it with Biore’s Charcoal Cleanser Micellar Water (Amazon, $8.20). If you have a facial brush, like a Clarisonic or Luna, I recommend you use that with your usual facial cleanser to do a nice, deep clean once you’ve removed most of it with the wipes and micellar water. Then, moisturize as usual and you’ve entered back into the twenty-first century.

I’m pretty sure flappers wish they had these products back then to take off their makeup…

Final Result of the First Tutorial

My “modern day flapper” look…minus the sparkly dress & heels…

I usually don’t like posting photos of myself because I am nowhere near good enough with my makeup application, but I did want to share how my first attempt came out. I’m pleased with the outcome; however, I want to practice it a couple of more times. I want to be more sure of my application the day I need to do it on, and feel comfortable doing my friend’s makeup. My goal is to streamline the process so I do not spend an hour dedicated to painting my face.

What I’d like to end with is that history truly can be found in anything, even something so vapid as makeup application. I don’t think I’d look like a flapper if I didn’t try to study the makeup trends that the flapper look comprised of. The challenge was to bring the look into the modern day. By learning about the key elements of the look and incorporating them into my makeup job, but deciding where I could tone them down, I truly can transform into the modern day flapper.

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate

greetings & salutations

Winter Graduation, George Mason University, Fairfax, VA
21 December 2016

The moment I received my MA in my hand will always be one I cherish. It was in that moment that I knew I was satisfied with the decision I made to pursue history as my career.

Have I regretted it? Not even for a second.

You’re probably wondering what the purpose of this website is. To be honest, I still haven’t figured it out yet myself. I suppose I can say this has always been an idea of mine - to write about my exploits as an amateur historian since…well, my sophomore year of college.

I was required to take an Informational Technology course as a fulfillment of the general education requirements at George Mason University. I wasn’t looking forward to taking the course everyone seemed to complain about. I heard many humanities majors struggled with the course work, but I also knew it had to be done.

Thank goodness for the Center for History and New Media (CHNM). That year, the CHNM decided to offer a “humanities-friendly” IT course that would meet the requirements for the IT credit. Another bonus? It also offered me upper-level history elective credit. I enrolled as a student of this first course - HIST 390: The Digital Past. I spent my spring semester learning about how one could successfully pursue a degree in history thanks to a growing technological age. History, for those of you who believe it to be a “useless” major, will only continue to come alive thanks to the innovations the historians at the CHNM have created.

(Just saying - Zotero rocks! Digital humanities are a thing - and they are here to stay!)

I enjoyed my time in that course. It was challenging, but I loved bringing the past and the future together to question the role of history in our “modern” era. The digital humanities will thrive because of our willingness to adapt and use technology to benefit our research.

(Another bonus: we didn’t have to pay a dime for a textbook. Everything was available as a free resource!)

A requirement of the program was to create a blog via WordPress. We didn’t have to pay for a premium account - the freebie one would be enough for the course. We had to post weekly blogs about whatever the topic was on the syllabus. The blog would eventually feature our final research project - whatever historical topic we wanted to pursue. What kinds of preservation paths would we take to archive our research? What sorts of digital innovations (Google Earth, Daytum, SlideShare) would we use to present our findings?

So, I suppose this website is my way of continuing a preservation path - but now, I don’t have to do it for a grade. I have numerous historical interests. I teach it at the college level, I want to teach it at my middle school, and I hope to eventually go back and pursue a PhD. I love to talk about it, so why not feature it here? I’d like to offer online editing services too; anyone needing help with Turabian citations? I’m your girl. Want a suggestion on a new historical book? Ask me. Debating whether or not to pursue history? Needing questions about the application process for a graduate degree? I lived it, breathed it, and was criticized for it: trust me, I’ve got advice.

I invite you to drop me a line with any ideas you might have for me to feature…or any questions you have. All I can say is: I’ll do my best to answer them.

Until then…

Many happy returns,

-Kate