Well, you know my motto is "If I'm still eating Christmas chocolates, it's not over". Consequently, we'll be good until Easter.

You've seen my Christmas Eve plenty of times, so let me just put it in a nutshell with this very poised picture I took after downing my mulled wine and smudging my Rouge Dior with dinner:



'Twas all very lovely, as a Christmas Eve should be and as I hope yours was, as well. On Christmas Day I went on my annual twenty minutes of biking at the gym (all done with exercise for another year now), took a little trip to the spa (the best part of that is rushing back to your room in your sweats with greasy hair from the facial and collapsing onto your bed, because lying on your back for half an hour while someone is caressing your face is exhausting, apparently) and went bowling and pool-playing with my family. I still suck at bowling, but I kinda wanna go try my luck at a pool table dive bar now.

Now I'm back in my childhood room for another week, and it is stuffed with suitcases and laundry baskets and gifts stacked on the floor. What frightens me is that I haven't even brought, like, big stuff back from the apartment yet. I didn't buy that much, did I? Anyways, let's deal with that when we can't ignore it any longer, just as it is my custom.

I'll allow myself to slouch for another day, and then I'll ring in the New Year with my loveliest friend, and then I'll be back and running (metaphorically, obviously. I think I can safely say that I won't ever ever ever develope a taste for running in the literal sense)!

See you so soon.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Gosh, I have been so, so bad with my Blogmas this year. But alas, I can't help it now. I mean, it's probably a good sign that I have been so busy that I simply didn't manage to write something before I went to bed. Christmas came fast this year, didn't it? Especially since we've had lots to do at the office, even though it was not quite the important strike in journalism that you might expect (or does no one expect that from a women's magazine anyway?)....

Everything Must Go

It's done, it's over, the rooms are a brilliant mess but everything worth taking has been snatched up by somebody (I ran into the guy who always brings in the big silver boxes looking at jewelry for his wife yesterday) and all the PR Christmas gifts in forms of liquids have been drank down. Us interns bid our goodbyes to the editors, and it's funny how they all seemed most approachable in our last days of working together. The hierarchy probably faded once the daily routine broke down to "Let's delete all this Valentine's crap, we're not printing anything in March anyways".

    
I Need More Bookshelves

I arrived home this afternoon (hence the extremness of the inconsistency) with my belongings in literal boxes (and a suitcase. No, two. And a backpack, a tote bag, a clutch and a beauty case. And that other bag). Somehow, there seems to be so much more to put away now that I am sitting in my childhood room, which aleady has all these other thing in it that I couldn't take with me to Hamburg because there was no space. In an apartment, mind you. But I am going to worry about this later, because tomorrow, it's Christmas Eve! That means we'll be driving to our traditional holiday hideaway - and I didn't need to bring much for that.

See you there.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I think I remember, very faintly, our teacher back at college giving some kind of lecture about accepting gifts as a journalist. However, I can't seem to recall the conclusion that she drew - was it never or always to take whatever you were offered? Too bad I don't remember, but the obliviousness sure comes in handy at the office at the moment.

See, the magazine I've been interning at for the past four months is relocating, and I'm changing positions for the remaining two months of my time here in Hamburg. The point is, the office is being completely cleaned out and it's been like an ongoing sample sale in there for days now.

First, there were beauty products. The conference table was bending under the weight of carefully sorted jars and bottles and containers. Never in my life have I seen such a wide range of self-tanner. I mean, there was so much other stuff as well, but the self-tanner left a random impression on me. The air hung heavy with a concentrated silence as everyone slowly moved around the table, scanning the supply and constantly ready to reach out for their pick at any given moment, like lion mothers protecting their children. I heard a rumour that all the good stuff was pocketed by the beauty editors themselves, but we won't judge. I managed to get a beautiful Dior lip colour that matched my birthday dress - among about a dozen other stains and sticks. I guess I won't have to go on any lip product shopping sprees anytime soon. Oh and I have three different peelings from a range of brands now; eat that, airport clerk.

Then, there were nicknacks. The rule is as follows: Everything moveable you find and don't like for yourself is put into the kitchen, and from then on it's fair game. I feel a bit like a thief everytime I go in there to slyly check the new arrivals, trying not too look to interested while casually lifting things and putting them back down as if weighing them. Picking them up again and leaving, as if to say "Oh that's still in my hand? Well, might as well take it". I scored a cute little dancing bag this way (crossbody, but chic enough not to be unflattering to your party dress, and small enough not to give you a hematoma while dancing). Missed out on a bright pink laptop case that was so girly it was almost cool again though. But I really can't complain.

Some clothes, too. Not the new ones, of course, but there was a bunch of stuff left in the sample closet that we couldn't figure out where to send and as us interns are the ones doing all the sending, it was our prerogative to pick whatever we deemed nice enough to keep. Mostly yoga wear and one pretty shift dress, but the prospect of getting something for free made me consider bagging a pair of grey Italian trousers four sizes too big for me ("I could alter them" - as if I ever successfully altered something other than taking in the waistband of a cotton skirt). I'm weak that way.

And finally, the books. Oh, the books. When I found out by coincidence that there was a whole table of books that could just be taken away, I thought I was dreaming. But now, everything must go, and I found out that if no one takes them, they'll be - oh horror - put away, which seems to be a euphemism for "cruelly trashed in one of these big silver containers disappearing everyday", so I have made it my mission to a) show everyone the table and have them look around and b) carry as many faintly interesting sounding volumes as I can without knocking someone over out of there everyday.

I still have to constantly remind myself that I am not robbing a bookstore but that it is indeed completely legal for me to just bring home whatever I fancy, but that's the beauty of it, too.

Love,

Rosy Smith

In case you were expecting a deep talk about life and loss and other dwell-ups, well that's too bad, 'cause I'm just gonna vent a bit for my own satisfaction.

On Thursday, the "Don't-Ask-Day", something very important to me simply fell out of my lap when I got up to change trains because the one I was sitting in didn't leave. I spent hours riding all over town searching for the particular wagon that I dropped it in, running up platforms in heels, sweating in my polyester sweater that kept riding up my thighs, asking people for directions with a haunted look in my eyes and wild hair all over the place. Then I went to work red-eyed and kept refreshing the page and hoping some sort of nice person who doesn't usually steal things they find on the floor uses one of the possibilities to return found items, and that's what I'm doing still. Also, I solemny swear I'm never gonna ignore something that looks meaningful on the street, or the train floor, no matter how dirty that might be. Cross your fingers for me that I get my thing back. Thanks.

On Saturday, I slept in, went to Ballet class, soaked up the calm there, went shopping for food, walked to the bus stop and boom, almost had a heart attack when I couldn't feel my keys in my pocket. Haha, I thought, I'm so jumpy, of course I have my keys.

Okay, I don't have my keys. Cue the controlled panic.

So I drove to my building, I scooched down in front of the doorstep to search the floor, an old lady walking by thought I was a teenage runaway stealing her parent's cash, and I didn't find my keys. I called the studio, and the guy who was working the counter that morning (who's kind of cute. No magic moment, but it's always nicer to talk to cute guys than to, well, non-cute ones. Gosh, I'm on top of my shallow game right here) asked me to leave a call-back number, so I said "you got something to write" but in German, it seems that it could be mistaken as me asking for his number, which I certainly didn't intend, and he politely declined but promised to call if he found something. Then I drove there myself, to check all three lockers that could be, maybe, possibly have been mine. Nothing. I bid the counter guy goodbye with a bitterness the poor boy didn't deserve and went to the supermarket (all the while carrying my frozen lunch with me in my handbag, I should add), harassing all four check-out ladies only to leave, defeated almost to the point of calling my mom in hysterics. But alas, I chose to wait until every last chance of me not having to sleep on the street (sound familiar?) was thoroughly examined, so I went back to my place, ringing every doorbell, and that is where two middle-aged men approached me. "They don't let you in?", they asked, lighting up a smoke. "Oh, do you live here?" "We're visitors. You too?" "Oh, no I live here. But I can't get in. Will you let me in?" I was babbling on in a very questionable, teenage runaway fahsion, when the door threw open and another man, the host of the smokers, stood there in a dressing gown with a cigar in his mouth, and I snuck right into the staircase before anyone could stop me. The dressing gown man even introduced himself, but I forgot his name, so he shall be referred to as the Dressing Gown Man. They were all very nice and full of sympathy when I told them my story while I climbed up the stairs to my door. And there, thank goodness gracious, was a post-it saying that the neighbours across the hall had my keys with them and would be back shortly. I think I praised the Lord loudly upon this. Then I scribbled a thank you note and stuck it onto their door, and then I went to the bus stop and had a little cry of relief and strained nerves. Then I thought of the thing I lost Thursday and cried some more. I have given up on all inhibitions regarding public display of distress (PDD- is that a thing?), I guess we have established that by now.

And finally, today, I got all dressed for bellydance class (I'm on a roll- fourth day of dancing in a row. Sorry, I just had to get that out there to be remembered forever) and packed my purse, when I suddenly didn't see my membership card anywhere. By now I couldn't muster up any careful thoughs on where it might be, I just turned the bag upside down and oh my, I realize that the scatter of trash and a fun mix of various belongings are still lying in front of my door and I have to clean it up. Anyways, I didn't find it, and they gave me a new card, and I wondered if there is some sort of weird planet alignment at the moment because these coincidents are weirding me out by now. Then I went home and found my original card had slipped into my business card case. Yes, I do have a business card, I just never give it to people. I thought everyone did it this way.

I'm gonna hold on to all of my things very tightly this week. And then I'm off home for Christmas, to a place where other people have keys to my place and I don't have to take the train anywhere. 

Love,

Rosy Smith

I had a ridiculously awful morning which I will retell another time because I'll get too worked up reliving it now. I don't like getting worked up before going to sleep, although it is the most convenient time to have a little cry because you don't have to rekindle your looks or anything afterwards. And you don't have to sneak under your desk to search for a tissue and stay there for five suspicious minutes because you can't find one and have to seriously consider using your spare pair of gloves as a replacement (and then decide against it, I might add). But it's no fun.

And then we went to the Contemporary class and there was a lot of floor work involved. I think I have burnt both my elbows rolling around from right to left. And there will be blue marks, I can just feel it. At one point, four of my toes cramped at once. I didn't know they did that. And there was one figure wher you have to put your feet behind your head while lying on your shoulders and then turn your entire torso, and I just couldn't figure out how that's possible without breaking your neck, so I didn't try very hard but stayed in the starfish position (flat on my back, arms and legs out. Perfect) during the sequence. All in all, it was fun. A bit bumpy, but fun.

I'm going to a Contemporary dance class tomorrow and I've spent about half an hour wondering which top to wear. See, I have made this cropped t-shirt for myself, but I wore that to Zumba class last night, and I have a polka dot cami, but it doesn't go too well with my pantskirt, so I have finally settled on a plain black halter top which I still have to find in the mess that is the bottom of my closet.

So there's reason to congratulate us interns - we finally (mostly) cleaned out the whole fall winter section of the prop stash! It took a lot of dust on my tights and scratches on the back of my hand (from the thingie that makes the tape go on the cardboard. Does that have a name?) and yesterday I hit myself onto the collarbone and you can still see the blemish (that thingie is a safety hazard all right), but we did it. We overcame the curse. Now press your thumbs they don't put us onto the jewellry return task because that is pure harrassment. All that dingly tiny golden stuff without tags, appearing from formerly empty shoe boxes, but only at the fifth shake. It is tiring me to think about it.

I have only seven working days left until Christmas break, and afterwards I'm starting a different position at a different magazine - this came somehow unexpected. We'll see what we make of it. Well, what I make of it. You'll hear about it, still.

Love,

Rosy Smith

So the reappearing background is the magical place where I spent most of my interning time recently - the prop closet. Isn't just big-city-fashion-circus-sparkling to the mostest?




But hey, I got that black sweater out of it. That's something for packing all those packages and listening to the local radio station which does not seem to have enough songs to play without repeating "Perfect" thrice (once in the new version if that makes any difference) .

Love,

Rosy Smith

Well, that's to be hoped for indeed.

Love,

Rosy Smith

It was snowing this afternoon, but it didn't stick until I got out for a chocolate run around eight and was surprised to be walking on a fresh layer of whiteness on the ground. Also, I forgot how stingy snow gets in your eyes when you're walking against the wind. But it looked really pretty and I could go back to my place and have some chocolate, so I for one enjoyed it. I'm actually excited to see if it'll still be there tomorrow.

Oh, I also remembered that the complete Gilmore Girls series is up on Netflix, and since I have finished Jane the Virgin so far (oh my God I was absolutely devastated by the finale) I figured I could squeese a little rerun in until my subscription runs out. Season four, here I come.

To be honest, I didn't do much else today - I planned on going to dance class but ended up skyping with my mom for three hours and showing off all my beauty products I got at the magazine. And watching the cat, who always looks to see where my voice is coming from. So yeah, I guess you could call that a quiet Sunday. It's the day of rest, after all. Ha.

Ah, what I did do is cut a black slogan t-shirt cropped (very short. I'll have to wear another cropped top underneath it if I don't plan on never raise my arms or shrug at all) and use the bottom of it to cut out a cold-shoulder shirt. I might be a design candidate after all.

See, so I was almost productive and very much relaxed, which is an accomplishment all on its own, isn't it?

Hope you were, too.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Yes, you read right, it was finally here: My very first office christmas party. The greatest thing about it, to start with, was that it didn't take place in the office itself but at the stylish Italian place across the street where it actually felt appropriate to throw on an eighties lurex top and sparkly heels higher than most people's self-esteem (who does that to stand around at the printer drinking from plastic cups, right?). So let's reminisce about last night while sitting on the couch in a chocolate stained sweater!



The Place

Think "why is this ceiling so high" and "why are children's paintings hanging over the bar" mixed with designer looking stools that magically don't hurt your back and long white tables. Also, there's a big black light installation that might resemble a solar eclipse.

The People

Well, there was us, The Interns ( yeah we spell that in capitals now 'cause it's a thing), the other magazine people mingling with each other, holding Moscow Mules in those rose gold cups, a group of guests that looked so absolutely unconnected to each other that we figured they had to have something to do with the Mafia, some private school guys that reminded me of this sorta penpal of my bestest friend (same haircut) and the padrone that basically screamed at every regular in his extremely hoarse Italian (I heard he likes to powder his nose a lot).



The Food

Oh my Goodness, the food. First, quail egg sunny side up on fir twigs (so that might have been a bit much but it looked so pretty), then soup, then the cheesiest truffle pasta I've ever had, and even after  being filled to the brim with that I simply had to devour a perfect lava cake with vanilla ice cream. All of that was washed down with the white wine miraculously appearing in my glass when I thought I'd drunken it all. I'll tell you, free refills are a dangerous thing. On the other hand, you gotta embrace the gifts you get handed.

The Takeaway

There was dancing, there were cocktails tasting like melted coca cola Haribo's and there were soft leather seats for when you needed to sit steady and show off your shoes. It was fabulous.

Hope you had a great night/next day spent doing nothing because having a great night is exhausting.

Love,

Rosy Smith

As an aspiring writer I have a reputation to uphold concerning my reading. I do it all the time, usually - while eating, while doing my makeup, while doing math homework (needless to say, that prolonged the task a little). But moving here, I couldn't take a lot of books and the ones I did take were kinda random....


Arcadia Awakens

This is a teenage fantasy romance that I got at an age where it was actually appropriate for me to read, don't worry. It starts off as a nice mafia love story in Sicily and turns into a questionable tale of dynasties turning into reptiles and stuff. I just happened to read it the night before moving and grabbed it in the morning because I was unprepared as ever.

Wuthering Heights

To compensate, the next one I picked up from my shelf back home got to be Emily Bronte's story about two star-crossed lovers on the moor who sabotage their every chance on happiness until they're both dead. It's a real mood enhancer. But honestly, the first time I read it, I couldn't stand any of the characters, and the third time around they're still screwed up, but the story gets you more and more (or moor - oh my God I'm sorry).

Anne of Green Gables

I mentioned before that I used to read this series when I was about 14, and I just started over on the train ride this morning, and it is absolutely as endearing as I remember, if not more so. I think this will tap on my spin for beautiful phrasing again, because I just love books that are not only a great story, but also written carefully, like language is a craft that can be formed out to be pretty. Also, this is a children's book in some ways, but one of those that can be appreciated even more when you're older, and those are the best ones.

Hope you're reading something special.


Love,

Rosy Smith

Hi hello and happy St. Nicolas Day lovelies!

Today, after listening to most beautiful voice message of my loveliest reminiscing about our dreamy vacation in Santa Marinella, I was in such a good mood I decided to decorate my little Christmas tree. If you know me, you'll be aware that I have sworn to get a tree whenever I move out because we never have one at home (okay, we used to when I was little, and there's one at the hotel, but come on) and now that I am at least temporarily moved, I ordered a tiny one for the apartment. So, let's do this!

Quick "before" snap:


So these adorable red glass balls are one of the birthday gifts from my loveliest friend, the little gift packages and the nostalgic wooden ornaments are from back home and the snow, well that was already on it.



Aaaaaand there's the finished product. Put some pr gifts and velvet shoes under there to make it even more Christmass-y. I gotta say, just looking at this corner makes me feel festive as hell.

Love,

Rosy Smith

After a whirlwind weekend between waking up 21, meeting friends and family, running around in a swinging dress and flying back and forth, I'm not gonna come at you with a detailed description of that - but what about a little "some things I got for my birthday"?

Red leather gloves

Because I got it into my head to be walking around with those this winter - can't resist a bit of a Cruella de Ville vibe. Just without the puppy thing. See, I can only accept the fact that I have to dress warm if I can look like a Russian figure skater while I'm at it.

The "Melodrama" songbook by Lorde

Searching for piano chords that are almost never right on a tiny phone screen that slides off the piano and makes the speakers go crazy is stressful, so I like to have sheet music. Also, that theme speaks to me.

Anne Of Green Gables

Ah, simpler times. I used to read this when I went on a horseback riding vacation with my loveliest friend, and I still had those very skinny grey jeans and could eat as many gummy worms as I wanted without getting sick, and when my heart wasn't broken and a story of love wouldn't make me hurt all over.

A straightening iron

Finally! I mean, I know I look like a gnome with straight hair (my precioussss), but I only want to use this to tame those nasty flyaways (my shadow resembles a halo sometimes) and maybe solve the mystery of how to do curls with a straightener. What a milestone.

Avène Thermal Water, belgian pralinés and Christmas ornaments.

 I can see myself, skin glowing healthily, munching chocolates from a pretty package, in my own decorated living room (well, the side of the room with the sofa). Is that what grown-ups do?

Come and find out with me.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Welcome to this year's Blogmas, lovelies! Coming to you from the airport, about to board a plane home, so let me start off by cheating a little and tell you about yesterday....

In my apartment

Shoes on, coat on, earbuds in, bag on shoulder - oh, this place is a mess. my boots are leaning against the front door, so I carefully open it so they don't fall (you know how much I love those boots) and slide through it, getting my hair stuck on the speaker system and my coat stuck on the door handle, so I use both hands to untangle it - and before I know it, the door is shut.

Oh.

Like, "shut and my key's still in there".

In the hallway

So, apparently I locked myself out. If I try really really hard to see a bright side to this, I'd say I'd get to experience adulthood in all its annoying facets. It doesn't sound very convincing, to be fair.

The bulding administrator's office

"Well, that's something you come here with, kiddo." He sounds a bit bugged, which bugs me, because it's not like I planned this (which I tell him) and this kind of stuff is his job (which I don't tell me, 'cause I need his help). He says you can't just put the extra key in there because my own key is stuck. He also says that, in case there's no McGyver-way to open up, the locks need to be changed and that is gonna be expensive. Awesome. I nod it all off and try to call into the office because I have a feeling this is going to take a while. No one answer's, which is weird, but I'm too stressed wondering what exactly "expensive" means to this man to care.

The café next door

I can't even get into the building and it's freezing, so I'm here to wait for the locksmith. I'm also crying a little after calling my mom (she didn't make me cry, but I hate to have to admit stuff like this, especially with the word "expensive" being used. It's just such a waste of what could've spent shopping or eating or doing your hair), and the barista made me sit and have some hot chocolate and her husband is offering me to go have a look at my door. When I say that we can't get to the door he drafts up a plan to climb onto the balcony, which does so not sound like something the building administration would approve of, so I (hopefully) politely decline. His brother comes in and gives me the number of his personal locksmith service which is supposed to be the cheapest, and even though I kinda have to use the one that's coming, I obediently write down his phone number. And his cell number. Then I try to change the subject from forcefully breaking locks to "so, where are you from", which the barista's husband gladly picks up. They're Aramean, he tells me. "Oh that's nice, where is that", I ask. "We have no country." Oh. Well. "We speak Aramaic. Jesus' language", he solemnly nodded. "Really", I say, "that's cool". I have to admit I never heard of that, but I just googled it and it is a thing. You really do learn new things everyday.

In the hallway again

"It doesn't work with the card. We might have to use the drill." The locksmith is a little grumpy, but he's not thrown numbers at me yet so I like him. What I don't like is the word drill in this context, however. "And you're sure another key wouldn't help?", I weakly say. "You have another key?" Um, kind of. The mother of the guy who usually lives here does. But the administration guy crushed my hopes that simply giving her a call would do any good, so I didn't. And now you're telling me it's going to be as easy as that?


In the office

Okay, easy is not the right word. I've headed to the office, because the mother of the guy who usually lives in the apartment was in a meeting and is gonna call me "this afternoon", whenever that is gonna be (the locksmith only works until four, so if I don't get in before that I'll be homeless for the night. Or call that number the barista's husband's brother gave me. So that he can use the scary drill and wake all the other tenants up. And I still have to pack for tomorrow. And the kitchen's an embarrassment. Gosh, this is actually stressful). When I arrived here, all ready to rant about my crazy morning, I walked into the weirdest atmosphere ever. All the editor's look like they've just seen a ghost. Some are crying. Some are disappearing for a smoke that seems to be turning into a nicotine fest. Us interns are huddling and whispering about why everything is so ominous and when someone comes in, we jump apart and back to our desks like we're starring in a really bad sitcom. I'm not sure I can tell anyone what's happened here (no matter of life or death, in case you're getting worried) but you might figure it out on your own. Anyways, there isn't much work to do, so I don't feel bad about constantly staring at my phone.

Outside the Apple store, in the freezing cold

I'm waiting for the mother of the guy who usually lives here, who said she'd be here in an hour and a half exactly an hour and fourty minutes ago, and my fingers are turning red with cold. I'm wearing t-strap heels. The only things keeping me from shivering are my disco pants and my hair extensions (I've got such thin hair that it never provides me with any extra warmth on its own. Is that too much information to share?). Man, this is like waiting for a blind date, only messed up in that I'm waiting for a middle-aged woman to save me from the cold hard streets (alright, I'd probably wind up at one of the intern's places) and I'm holding a packet of Merci chocolates (ain't I thoughtful. Even though I did send that woman all over town on a workday). Great, now she's calling to say that she'll make it to the station right by my workplace. Where I'm not anymore. Now I gotta run in my heels, to top all this off.

In the hallway, again

I made it! I got inside! It was the lightest motion, a flick of my wrist, and the lock snapped right open. Phew. And it's only four pm, so I got loads of time to get my stuff done and won't have to go to bed at 1 am, as it has become my habit lately (I really don't know how that happened, but my new obsession with Jane The Virgin and my 30 day trial Netflix subscription might have contributed to it).

So yeah. Always have your key in your hand where you can see it before you shut your door.

And get excited for December.

Love,

Rosy Smith