It's been a while, hasn't it? I blinked a little too much into the sun and now it is September, New York Fashion Week came and went and I still refuse to transfer into fall. Mainly because that would mean that I would have to get working on my various deadlines (for those who haven't been counting along with me for the last three years, I am graduating fashion school this fall - man, I can still remember those exhausted, ice-cream-craving Gilmore-Girls-binging winter nights in freshman year when I literally had no work to do except showing up and feeling sorry for myself), but also because I love summer and feel like I haven't spent enough time outside showing off all the pairs of sandals I keep buying (four pairs of shoes in a month, a personal record I think).

I have a thing for dots at the moment, is what I'm trying to say

But alas, in a series of coincidences I have already aquired tons of fall-appropriate clothes, so that's something to look forward to! And my Gosh have I been living sustainability or what: I dug up smart jacket-and-pencil-skirt-sets and oversized cardigans from my mom (she has a magical closet, seeing how I seem to have only just discovered a whole decade of power-dressing in there that I never laid eyes on before), got gifted a series of leather skirts and Parisian silk as a hand-me-down from a whirlwind socialite who went a bit overboard with her shopping recently and I got beautiful, dark bordeaux-colored pumps a size too big for me so they don't kill my heels (each summer I forget to tape my feet before walking around the city for hours in tight strappy sandals and each summer I am astonished how many blisters you can get on top of each other). And if that wasn't enough to make all my fellow materialists go mmh with label-lust, please sit down for the approaching:

Prom-dress-shopping! 'tis a little early for me to fully indulge in that, considering that I should whip up some sort of creative wisdom to be graded on before I think about getting a certificate. But my oldest friend is shipping off to nine months in Cambridge in a week, and we had to get her equipped with some fancy European cocktail gowns. The one we found the other day has an absolute charming 20s vibe to it, and it is such a specific color that we had to lounge it around with us to hunt down some shoes, and it just so happened that we found a match so perfect that the employees cheered for us with tears in their eyes. One of them threw in an anectode about a well-known TV presenter whom he had "literally just sold a pair to", as if we needed any more convincing. Ah, the high of handing out your credit card in exchange for something so pretty. I've never felt this good after working out, certainly. Well, at least not due to the physical activity.

By the way, I dared to try something out of some random online mag article recently. The tip went a little like "to get close to him, just pretend to brush something of his face and lean in, then let your fingers linger a bit". Those writers surely never tried this while being excited about that person. Because if they had, they would know that you'd be too scared to actually touch his face - like, who does that, it's so unsanitary - and instead opt for his neck, and hesitate to get out the sentence, and then you don't linger smoothly with your hand on his shoulder but kinda draw circles with the tip of your finger, and when you say "you've got something there" he steps aside and says "no I don't", 'causing you to fall over (because you were leaning in like the stupid article told you to do) and very non-seductively grabbing onto his arm to keep from collapsing onto his feet. And then you realize that he is probably self-conscious about the little fuzz that he has on his neck and which he thinks is what you meant, not getting that you straight-up lied in order to awkwardly touch him. So you drop the plan and proceed to drum onto his (very hard, I should mention) stomach, and honestly I wouldn't vow on that being a turn-on, but then again what do I know, I tried brushing away fuzz. The moral of the story is, if you're in gym clothes, don't try to pull any moves, because it is very hard to get your message across if it is not a hundred percent obvious to the guy already.

Now go out and get some sun before we're snowed in again!

Love,

Rosy Smith

Hi, hi, hello, let's skip the "yeah I kinda didn't post all month last month again" sermon and get right into it, shall we?

The first semester of senior year is almost over and I'm nowhere near confident about my project deadlines. I think so is everyone else in my class. We're a fun little group with great shoes and panic in our eyes, ordering too much coffee and spending the first half hour of every lesson down at the vending machine, eating our nerves. I got five seperate To Do lists and it turns out that "writing the whole pr concept" does not get any less time consuming just by putting a little dash in front of it. What a nasty surprise.

On the move to the copying machine. How very dynamic.

Some people do sports to reduce stress. I went to my beloved ballet class yesterday, with all the best of intentions. However, when the ballet baby (my teacher always brings her eight (or nine? I'm new with this) month old boy, who used to be a total delight, lying peacefully on his back, listening to the classical music; now he's still absolutely delighful, just way more mobile and sound-intense) began leaning out of his little car seat, and the others were all talking about the choreography and looking the other way, horrors began forming in my mind, but before I could alert his mom, his cute big head threw off his balance and he rolled out of the seat and onto the floor. He wasn't seriously hurt (though he sure cried like he had just been pushed out of a moving car) and his mom assured me that things like these happen all the time, but I'm deeply ashamed for not having said anything sooner. I don't even wanna know how much of an annoying helicopter I'll be if I have children one day. I'm already dancing the dying swan scene with an alarmed twitching in my eyes because I can see the baby in the mirror, grabbing the power chord of the stereo behind me. I mean, I love this class with all my heart. But I'm still a teensy bit stressed.

I'm more of a "carbs fix everything" kinda gal

Focus on the little things. I am sitting in my car after riding the train home for an eternity, parked in the parking lot, and I am devouring a cold slice of cheese pizza and washing it down with coke from a plastic cup while blasting Taylor Swift. That scenario might not sound especially desirable to you, but think about it: I got my own car with a drink holder. I got enough time to enjoy my lunch in here all by myself without rushing. I had just the three dollars for my pizza floating around on the bottom of my purse. I'm not lactose intolerant. And I get to decide what music to put on.

Plan fun things for when it's over. I booked a hotel room for September. I got no way of getting there yet, but we won't be nagging about details, are we? "Book as many trips as possible without digging too deep into your pocket, because you don't know if you're gonna get a job right after graduating" is....probably too long for a new bumper sticker.

But honestly, like I'd ever put a bumper sticker on my car.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Could say this matches the marriage theme but actually, just wanted to show off the dress

 Because why the hell not?

I mentioned before that I'm going to the gym now. Well, I've stopped. Because as far as flirting with the young instructor goes, he now feels it would be unprofessional to further pursue our flirtationship at the same time as him being my instructor, so obviously I quit the instructing part for the sake of my satisfaction. You haven't seen the chest on that man. Also, what a way to save money, am I right?

Mind you, I don't want to be his girlfriend. I'm unhappily in love with someone else, thank you very much. The last thing I need is a boyfriend I have to explain my sudden outbursts into tears to. But oh my gosh, those arms. Anyways, I made that very clear to him. I have a feeling that he's also unhappily in love with someone else still, so we're actually perfect for each other, speaking unhealthy-rebound-wise.

Now we crossed that tmi-line for good.

Meanwhile, other people are getting married. Remember that one guy my bestest friend very, very briefly dated two years ago? That slightly weird one who seemed to support kitchen kisses with other couples at that party? Yeah, he's getting hitched next year to his former on n off girlfriend from overseas. I am feeling a multitude of feelings towards these news, which is probably more than I should be, considering that I'm not really much acquainted with the happy couple. But think about it:

Firstly, how weird is it that my friend can now say "That one guy I once dated is currently on his honeymoon" or "Oh I don't know her, but I went out with her husband a few years ago"? How did we get this old? I mean, sure, they're also on the younger side in the marriage business, but still, it kinda freaks me out. Remember, I'm currently being complimented on my butt by a complete stranger and that is the maturity level we're at. Secondly, I know this guy through my certain someone and I so wish I could trash this topic with him instead of just imagining his side of the conversation while staring out the window with an amused look on my face. Also, and don't ask me how the decision of an almost-stranger does that to me, but it brings up all kinds of sorrowful thoughts and general anxiousness linked to the fact that I'm not in a position to call up my certain someone for the aforementioned trashing.

I like to pretend time is standing still.


Love,

Rosy Smith

I sure did! No worries, I'm still here, back at school, physically unharmed except for the big scratch on my underarm that my cat gave me - love hurts, lovelies.

So what's going on? The semester started a month ago but, as always, I didn't do nothin' to get my projects started until this morning. It's tradition. This is the final stretch, and it comes in the form of me creating a literary magazine. Why yes, three years of fashion have sure ruled out that topic for me. I'm all for this, actually, creating my own vision and ladidaa. Let's just hope that "I work best under
pressure" line works out once again, shall we?

I'm being a good girl and going to the gym. Not to work out, God forbid, but I'm taking classes like I did in Hamburg, stretching and stuff. Using the steam room, drinking protein shakes at the bar with my oldest friend and flirting with the young instructor - isn't that what gym life is all about? And it gives me something to do in the evenings when I'd usually just come home from college and cry about the fact that the day is already over. Which brings me to the next point:

Keepin' busy is key to survive senior year in style. I'm dead tired every single day, but it's the good kind of tired, which is not owed to working too much (I know, that is probably a bad thing given the deadlines) but to having too much fun things to do at night.

That sounds so wrong. Let me give you an example, I went to that yearly birthday party (I guess they're all yearly, but whatever) this weekend, and this time, I didn't meet any creepy guys, but I had a heart to heart with the host who is most definitely the sweetest thing alive. He's just come back from traveling to all kinds of crazy places and now he's producing his own music. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out if I should wear a fringe (I'm leaning towards no, by the way)

All by myself....we ain't big on attendance

 What I'm saying is, I found that I get less cry baby-ish over my stupid commute (we can actually almost count down the days as far as that's concerned - only three more months!) if I gotta rush to the next event that same day, be it drinks in the city or a nice night of catching up with my bestest friend. She's got a boyfriend now, and he seems to be absolutely adoring, which I like to hear about, because it makes me very happy (so he better watch out and keeps it this way, 'cause I hate disappointment).

Writing and working and writing some more - that's what I want to do, all the time, because the doom of going out into the world and having to get a job and buying my own pasta and learning about laundry detergent is hovering upon me, and these are the only things I know to get prepared. Oh, and a good manicure paired with Rouge Dior. That never fails to help.

Good to be back.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I went on a little European adventure to visit my loveliest friend abroad, and I fell in love with Italy all over again (the first time I did was in 2016 when us two summered in the most adorable town by the sea and got us our very own gang with a quaint but nice neighbour)....

It's not always hot. In fact, the first thing I saw getting off the plane was the snowflakes falling down at crazy speed. Good thing I traveled in the fuzziest clothes I own, my black fake fur and a long wool skirt that made me look like one of the Olsen twins in their homeless-chic phase, but more on the homeless side (is that politically incorrect or a fashion term or both?).

There's always coffee. It's cheap. And it's good. I didn't even need caramel flavored syrup and chocolate infusions to get it down, like I usually would at home. Since the weather wasn't exactly the sunniest and we were more interested in catching up than standing in line for the duomo (it's very pretty from the outside, too) anyways, we made stops for coffee at least twice a day, which could last a couple hours. However, I feel like that's one of the best ways to get familiar with the country; watching people and the city going by and listening to other guests' conversations (even though my Italian is basically at level zero).

Sightseeing means strolling around high fashion stores all day long. The buildings are beautifully built and the clothes are gracefully presented and everyone crossing your way is carrying a well-known purse. Exactly my kind of vacation. Even the corner newsstand hands you a black shopping bag that could easily mean you've been shopping something way more expensive than the latest Vogue. Your crepe literally comes on a golden plate. I wonder what the trashbags look like.


The Lago di Como is a happy place where nothing bad can find you. We followed the weather forecast and took the train (the wrong one, forcing us to freeze on the platform in some village and put on a harmonizing performance of our childhood jams in order to keep warm, probably disturbing everyone else for life), and suddenly, it was 60 degrees instead of 30 and we were wearing sunglasses while drinking our coffee on a sunny piazza. I bought a red bag and red heels (in a store that was probably the Italian equivalent of Target, but still, it's Italian after all) and my loveliest friend got some gorgeous boots and equipped with our new belongings, we climbed up into the mountains (to board a train up to a mansion. Never found the train, almost suffered a heatstroke from unplanned exercise. But the view was awesome). We got ice cream that tasted like the strawberrys were handpicked that same day (a garbage collector came up to me when I was done and said something I obviously didn't understand; I thought he was mad at me for setting my empty cup down and tried to form a sentence swearing that I'd throw it away, but in the end he just took it from me and we left). And we walked all around the lake and watched the sun set over it and the swans swimming and stumbled upon romantic corners and scenic balconies every five steps.


Trains fail you like they do anywhere else, but in Italian. I was already calculating my ride to the airport closely, and when I rushed up to the platform, people were just shaking their heads at me when I asked "Airport?" with wide fear-struck eyes. Cancellato, said the sign, and no official was around to be found and none of the announcements were in English, so I kind of gave in and made my peace with missing my flight and staying another night (it's not the worst to be held up in Milan, is it?). Made it though, with a full ten minutes to spare (and feeling absolutely disgusting in my not-made-for-running-outfit).

I hope your March started off full of dolce della vita. Let's see how the rest of it goes....

Love,

Rosy Smith

Aah, February. What are we gonna do with you. Let's find out, shall we?

This is not the greatest picture ever taken, but it's the only one I could crop myself out of. Not 'cause my friends aren't pretty, but 'cause I'm not sure if they'd wanna be on here

Yeah we went out to celebrate carnival. Interestingly, Hamburg is like, the one place in Germany where they don't actually do carnival, but we tracked down a party, threw together some costumes from scratch and merrily went off (after changing in the fancy foyer bathroom of our workplace, scaring the concierge in the process). When we made it to the location, there were literally fifteen people there, so we refused to waste our hard-earned money and sat down outside, counting the arriving guests. We made minus. Two guys left, but not without coming by and telling us how much that place blew and that we should come with them to another spot, so naturally, we took up their advice and ended up having a lovely night at a very authentic bash right underneath city hall. The lesson here, lovelies: Don't talk to strangers, unless they look like they know where it's going on.

Currently listening to: Cry Baby, by Melanie Martinez, as well as Cry Baby, by Demi Lovato. Different approaches, same belt-out potential. Love me a good "mascara all over my face" aesthetic. You must think I'm such fun at parties, right? But don't you worry, because

I'm all moved back into my parent's house, to finish up my last year at fashion school! I have to say, looking at the still-not-unpacked boxes around me (and the fact that all my clothes are holed up in my suitcase and I am too lazy to hang them up and therefore have nothing to wear at all), there is a certain nostalgia for my spacious, generally orderly apartment with the great shoe rack. However, home does have lots of perks to it, such as fully cooked food at reasonable hours of the day, cough medicine (I'm not an addict, I actually am sick. I think my ribs are broken, but I might have just pulled a muscle while coughing out my lungs. Again, glamorous party trick) and loved ones around.

For instance, I met up with my bestest friend already! She is currently seeing someone new (or rather, new in the sense of him being "seeing" material), and we were wondering: When is the right time to ask to see the other person's health record? Do you just casually whip out your own and say "oh, I just happened to pick this up, why don't you show me yours, too, sometime?" To be honest, I'd probably totally forget about that. Even though it is an important matter and there's no shame in checking your health and ladida, you know I get queasy talking about my UTIs, so how do you expect me to be cool about this? Also, it just seems so unromantic and un-fun and un-spontaneous. But maybe there is some kind of secret code to use? I am a big fan of using secret codes for uncomfortable conversations (remember Sunday?).

Someone who's in a wholly different sphere of being right now is my loveliest friend. She's currently studying in Milan, and if you haven't been hiding from humanity you'll know that Milan fashion week is going on right now - so it's Fendi for lunch and Prada at night for her. Everyone's there, Anna, the other Anna, Olivia, Gigi; notice how I'm already using their first names like I'm a close personal friend? And I'm not even there. Got the pictures to prove it, though. I'm flying out next weekend, which I'm already overly excited about, not 'cause of the fashion (well, a bit, too), but because we'll be finally reunited (my loveliest friend and I, if that wasn't quite clear. It's hard not to get caught up there).

Love,

Rosy Smith

It's my last night alone in the apartment, because my parents are coming tomorrow. I'm watching Youtube  (my Netflix trial subscription ran out on Valentine's), and I may or may not be in the middle of an attempt to empty half a bottle of wine, because I'm a good girl and don't want to waste leftovers. I'm just realizing that this spot, sat in the spare room in front of the window, is a lot like Carrie's writing situation in Satc. If I actually lived here and would actually spent time working, this would be so cool. I would totally sit and gaze over at the supermarket across the street. It's not the Village, but still. It's such a weird feeling to know that I'm not likely to live in this apartment ever again. Maybe in this city, but who knows?

I've only just come to have a lovely social circle, to know some cool going-out destinations, to get more confident at work and settle in a home routine. I got my favorite supermarket sushi, my Saturday ballet class and the people I go to lunch with and who call me when they're walking home in the dark. I just remembered how I wrote a while back that I had yet to meet someone who I'd talk to about things like marriage and having kids while sitting on the living room floor, and I spent Wednesday doing  that exactly with one of the intern girls.

I think I just spat on my screen coughing. Did I mention that I have a grand cold? I'm near losing my voice, and I've screeched at everyone at the office today while trying to finish up with my work.

My work - even though there's been days when I just wanted to call in sick and keep to myself for the day, I've never dreaded it. I like going somewhere with a purpose and knowing that I'm spending my day being somewhat productive. I like being part of this big business and whirling into the foyer in my black fake fur coat, greeting the doormen, knowing my way around. I like being taken seriously and being given responsibilities, even if I get stressed out as soon as I have more than two things going on at a time. I'll get to that. I'll get to being calm and organized. I've been doing this current job for six weeks only. so I'm practically still starting and I'm sure that it'd be totally different after six months of training.

Also, I have made some choices regarding what I want to do when I finish university this fall. Or rather, regarding what I don't want to do. And I think that, especially in the creative field, it's okay to start off with something that you already know you only want to be doing temporarily, until you get more comfortable and can branch out into something less safe, and then switch it up again, depending on the contacts and experiences you made and the opportunities that present itselves to you. There's only crooked ways out there, am I right?

God, I love this place. I'd be lying if I said that I'd been solely happy here. At times, I've been incredibly lonely. But I would have felt that wherever I had spent the past six months. And apart from that, I loved being here. Part of me is ready to go home, because of certain people, certain things I miss. But I hate the finality of saying goodbye to this apartment, to this independent routine of my own that is closely tied to this place.

The cough is getting worse now so I better get on with packing and drinking this up. Next time we'll talk, I'll be back to my childhood home, which will always be, you know, home to me. But this comes as a close second.

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

A bit of a general mess

First of all, we're boycotting Halloween this year. Don't ask.

The second month of my internship is over and I barely managed to memorize which cost center number to use when, so I'm thinking about using different names when asked so it doesn't get too embarrassing. What I do know is how to tape a parcel together that is falling apart when you blow at it ('cause we reuse them until they start to recycle themselves) so that it still makes it to its destination. I'm also good at making prs feel like I'm considering their client called "Thunder From Down Under" (I couldn't think of a similar rhyme so I guess name's are not changed for the sake of anyone's privacy. Too bad.) which may or may not be a male strip company, for a feature when I'm

a) working in the fashion department, so guys whose thing it is to literally take off their clothes aren't the most relevant topic, and b) really not in a position to decide this, but will probably write a note to someone who won't remember to read it and there's that. It's a cruel world out there.

I have rewarded myself  - I have the ever-present need to do that, because I'm "working" nine hours a day. Which might make sense with a real job but is not the healthiest attitude when you're not being paid. Ignoring that, I got myself some home bits (including a cake stand because I might decide to serve afternoon tea someday) and some clothing bits (including a pair of baby blue velvet sandals because sometimes you just gotta have some) and a huge frozen yoghurt that I ate in a café by myself (because yes, please). Money might not buy happiness, but it does alright for a pleasant afternoon, doesn't it?


I started a gym membership and before you lose your faith, I'm not working out in a classic sense. I'm going to dance classes, and there's so many to choose from: Ballet, Zumba, Bellydance - I'm taking everything that has good music and some nice stretching. See, I think that my body is only able to excercise to music because it doesn't realize it's doing something exhausting then. Cause I went to Pilates once, almost fainted from muscle burn and couldn't think about anything else because the music was this hushed panpipe peeping I barely noticed over my brain going "why does standing on my leg hurt so badly? Don't I always do that?". So yeah. Dancing it is.


I got a couple of visitors annoucing themselves for November so I'm very excited to play the gracious hostess once more - just hoping for nice weather, because this weekend saw the second big storm since I've arrived and it's hard to really roam the city against a breeze of 30 mph.

Fingers crossed.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Being in a new city means being lost on generally all information valid to daily life whatsoever, but there's lots of advice and top-tens and tripadvisor reviews out there to make sure you stay alive and get a picture of the oldest chapel around. However, there's not so much wise words for those of you who are interested in the, um, locals, but do not wish to take the drastic measure of swiping your phone screen dirty. Well, I'm here to help y'all out with suggestions.

Of course without granting any guarantee or use from this.

Platform chat. I saw living proof of this fairytale unraveling the other morning. A security guard used his morning shift for good, flirting with a blonde college student and escorting her into the train like a public transport VIP (I wish that was a thing). He wasn't my kind of sexy, but I guess almost every guy who does not have some kind of hideous feature, strong body odor or fangs for teeth will appear attractive to some girl out there. You know, every pot has its lid and all. Is that a condescending statement, a philosophical questioning of beauty definitions or just a snarky comment? Your decision. So anyways, if you see a guard that floats your boat, linger by the tracks.
Conversation starter: "So, do you have a car?"

Deliver y guy. Don't get too excited, 'cause I don't, if you know what I mean. It's just essentially the only straight male figure showing up at the office (apart from the middle-aged lunch cashier that I paid in pennies today. Which he was actually pretty nice about) so it's all I got for you. I never did so much as uttering a "thanks" and guessing his cigarette brand from the smell while giving him crappy signatures up until now, but I guess you could seize those close-up moments to their full potential if you wanted to.

Conversation starter: "So, that your package?" (Oh no she did not)

Plane person. That guy you've chosen when you scanned the seats around you for someone you could force to help you get your carry-on down from the storage shelf. He doesn't like kids, judging from the looks he gives the toddler behind him who dares to make noises, and is a light sleeper, since he doesn't manage to actually sleep even though he has headphones in, but he holds his crotch even while not-sleeping as if he had to protect himself from all the girls that get too giddy when there's turbulences. He's not exactly your best catch, I'd say. Though he, for one, is conversatively attractive.

Conversation starter: "So, how'd you get stuck in economy?"

Try these and tell me what happened.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Me to me: "Sooo, we're gonna fucking write a blogpost now". That's why we're here now.

I'm having a reality show about birthing on in the background by the way, so if I yell "No you don't and you never will" I'm referring to the husband telling his wife "I know how hard it is". You know, I am all for the nice tradition of having the men wait in a nice hallway in white shirts with the collar open and smoke cigars together.

Alright, back to me. I've been having a marvelous weekend so far and by marvelous I mean it pretty much sucked.

Thursday. I feel a bit of a cold creeping in, a feeling which is only fueled by the view outside my window (through which a freezing drift is coming through to enhance things nicely), where the trees are bending in unhealthy-looking angles and everything's hella wet. A mixture of actually feeling sick and being unorthodox enough to calculate myself some more time to prepare the apartment before my oldest friend comes to visit tomorrow sends me home early from work. I freeze my butt off on the train for twenty minutes and then stand in a huddle at the bus stop for another six minutes, which never happens because usually the busses come every three minutes or so, but today's the day fate decided to keep us waiting in the drizzling rain to give us the full Chinese-Water-Torture-Experience. When I finally get off the bus, the rain has reached Niagara level and the storm is being called "hurricane" on the news and I get soaked all through my fancy dress pants in the span of thirty seconds and the cross of a street. I'm close to tears when I drop my keys in the bulding and have to crouch down and feel my wet pants on my knees.

Okay, now I've made soup, I've poured tea, I've necked my meds, I've changed into fleece pants and got Friends running. My Sim Plumbob (just googled that. I always called it "thingie") is green again. But my head kinda hurts.

Later on Thursday. My head is killing me whenever I move. So I don't. I fell half-asleep on the sofa and now I can't get up because my head will explode.

The bathroom is a mess. There's towels and fancy pants on the floor. The kitchen is a mess. The sofa is a mess. Even if I miraculously feel better tomorrow morning I will have to stay home to make this place presentable to the public. But as of now, I can't even bend to pick up a towel, so I stagger back to bed at eight pm and ignore that. Gosh I'm cold. Or hot. It's changing so quickly, I can't tell.

Friday. So apparently I had a fever yesterday for the first time in years. It's gone now, so I've started cleaning the place a little. But wait, what's that on my feet?

I have weird red dots all over my feet and my left hand and my oldest friend is gonna be here in six hours. Eek. Google says it's Hand Foot Mouth disease. It sounds awful. Guess I'll run over to the doctor's office. For a cold. Yeah. 

(Great, now I want a baby. And a C-Section.)
 
The doctor didn't seem familiar with my diagnosis and says it's nothing but I'll believe her because it's more convenient that way. However, the storm from yesterday seems to have gotten worse after I blacked out in fever and now my friend can't get up north. Apparently we're all cut off from the train system. Cool, cool.

(Oh my Gosh that Amazon commercial with the dog and the baby always makes me cry.)
Saturday. Woke up to a (finally) clean apartment, the (devastating) news that there's still no train connection and my friend won't make this weekend, and a (slightly alarming) new set of red dots all over my fingers.

Later on Saturday. I'm alone until Tuesday (when I go back to work), it's raining so I'm stuck in here and my fingers are itching whenever I touch stuff (typing this is lots of fun, by the way) and I think I might have the plague. Maybe I should go to a bar in my neighborhood. But then again, is it the smartest thing to do two days after getting struck down by the slightest trace of a virus, to fling myself into the rain in a short skirt? And I'd have to wear a short skirt or I wouldn't be comfortable going out alone. I'm a bright trailblazer for feminism. Also, my hands feel like I'm infecting everyting I touch with some unspeakable disease, which I probably don't, but it's not the most social feeling in the world. Do people even chat up girls sitting alone in bars, drinking apple juice? I mean fun groups of friends who'd like to add me to their group, just like the original Friends did with Rachel, not sleezy guys who think I'm a prostitute. I guess I'd have to try and see. Would my friends chat up a girl like that? Probably not- we'd probably think of some ridiculous reason for why she's there, though. It's probably too early to go out, anyways. It's pretty dark already, though.

Poor midwives must get hit all the time for sounding so chipper. But they also must get lots of "I'm  sorry I hit you" cards.

Hope you have a good weekend.


Love,

Rosy Smith

Face Mapping. So, according to this, I'm stressed, my digestive system is all wrong, I'm either dehydrated or an alcoholic and definitely stuffing my face with greasy food. The latter might be true as I have developed an obsession with mini mozarella balls, but stressed? Okay, I'm not used to being in an office all day long, but whenever there's not much to do for me, I'm free to browse fashion-related websites for face mapping advice and call it research. That's the life, right?
 
Speaking of websites, I just read that cords are back in style on the-pool.com. I think I'm scared. Having had to wear cord pants since childhood, I've only recently (probably about ten years ago, though. I'm old.) escaped the order to wear them to "keep warm" and got to deliberately enjoy myself getting cold in my nylons. Cords make me feel boyish (when I was little I sometimes wore hand-me-downs from my older brother. Also, in the nineties, pants were not meant to have a shape. Whoever put shapeless pants on the runway - why, oh why?) and warm (duh, they served their purpose alright. But in school, we had a thing called heating. Well, most of the time) and slightly childish later on when all the cool kids started wearing jeans. Nowadays, I have to think hard about the last time I wore those, so maybe I should take a second thought on the cords as well? I mean, I own cord skirts. They're cute and seventy-sy. And I know I have some grey pants in that style, somewhere in the back of my closet at home. I could get them shortened (nothing compares to the dread of too-long pants against my shoes) and pretend they're velour. It might work. I'll keep you posted....

Oh great, now my desktop froze and on a window that is not work stuff (work stuff - that sounds like such a weird thing out of my ink). I just hit reset, probably losing publishing data in the width of the internet in the process. Oh, well.

Anyways, I have taken a special liking to the "Parenting Honestly" posts on the-pool.com. Even though I have no reason to read about parenting experience whatsoever, I enjoy the writing styles of the authors, I like cute stories about toddlers (that sounds so bad if you wanna hear it the wrong way) and I tear up constantly when all the motherly love hits me through the lines. Oh and my other discovery is a lipstick column on there ("Sometimes it's the little things" - it's over now I think but there's loads of posts to catch up on). It's actually touching on some quite tough subjects but it does it well, y'know what I mean?

By the way, this is not a paid for advertisment for The Pool. I wish. Ha.

Last but not least, I bought new shoes. They're brown, and when I saw them in the store and they didn't have them in my size in black, I asked myself: Don't I need a pair of brown shoes? Because you see, the only ones I own are my cowboy boots, and they're not exactly everyday-wear (but I should get them out more often, thinking about it). And I am a firm believer in the theory that you should have a list of staples that you're sure you'll be needing in your life so that you won't feel bad when you splurge on them because you have valid arguments that support your decision.

Boom. Bought 'em.

Love,

Rosy Smith

The chief editor just told another editor her hair looks good in a sidepart. "Less fluffy than usual". Fashion, baby.

The hours. They're long. I mean, they start pretty late - I need to adjust my system to having time at home before nine am that is not spent sleeping. Otherwise, I'm so early that it doesn't even matter when I miss my subway stop due to composing risky texts. I even had time for a quick picture of the picturesque water situation at the wrong station. And today I got let out early because the editors were having prosecco anyways and were so kind to not make me work either.


The work. The first day, I was only packing boxes of specific clothes I had to find off racks of stuff that is hung in absolutely no apparent or even hidden kind of order. I swear I have had every single one of those items in my hand and I still can't remember where anything is. I'm itching to flipping reorganize that whole room in every way possible. Alphabetically, by use, length and color. Just give me a week. That day, I seriously wondered whether I am making enough of a difference in this world by doing this, but I blame those thoughts on my aching feet and back (a bit of existencial pleading never hurts. It makes your skin glow). Anyways, my tasks get more fun each day and right now I'm happily cutting out little purses and hats to go with some flatlays. If only the phone would never ring - I don't have my phone voice on spot yet, so I refuse to answer even though that's probably something an intern would do. But seriously, how do some people sound like they've been trained in a calming callcenter for years when they're speaking on the phone? It must be a God-given gift.

The desk. It's big and it's next to a huge window and there's all the good stuff on it (magic scotch tape and markers and little post its of which I use twelve a day just because I can). And a mac computer - when did those take over the world? And most importantly, why? Nothing follows intuition and everything's on the wrong side. The only positive thing about it is the giant screen behind which no one sees me checking my texts while I chat to the editors about annoying people who are on their phone all of the time.

I wish I could show you a picture of my precious paper cutting work but I believe I signed something like "I won't publish anything I see or hear" that sounded pretty serious.
Good thing I'm not a vlogger then.

Did I just laugh out loud to the TV or was I just thinking laughter? Is this what living alone feels like?

Hope you're good.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm here! I moved! I have six doors and countless cleaning agents that sit pretty in the supply closet (yeah, that I have too) until I figure out what to do with them. But let's go back a little before getting right into the dirt-dishing, shall we?

My bestest friend and I met up on Sunday and went on a walk (how does getting back always go so much faster than getting there? On a walk, I mean) and we decided on the following: When we meet up in a couple years, we're gonna be so fabulously busy that the waiters in the cute secret-hotspot-café will be wondering why no one's at the reserved corner table yet, and then, a charming ten minutes late, we'll both arrive in front of the door and hug and tell each other about the important-but-fun things that held us up and then we'll sit and talk and drink coffee like the Gilmores.

My loveliest friend and another friend and I tried to go out salsa dancing, but unexpectedly (I'm serious - I mean, there has to be a demand if even us wanted to go), Monday night isn't exactly prime time for latin parties. What a gap in the market. Anyways, we ended up doing the next-best thing to dancing, which is, obviously, eating. Gosh, it's so good. There's this small tapas bar by a kind of designated square where college students seem to go hang out (even on Monday nights, I may add) and we sat outside and watched them. It's a bit like a high school playground, only that you never know if the guy you have a crush on will be there the next day. Ah, the joy of adulthood.

And then I went off to Hamburg - such a pretty city! There's lots of brick and glass and water, and yesterday we ran right into some sort of food festival going on around the river, and today we drove out to the beach and walked some very steep stairways (sometimes I realize just how long I haven't exercised. Then I usually sit down and forget all about it). See for yourself (only the beach part though, 'cause I forgot to bring my camera transfer cable):




Did I mention I have two wardrobes now? The guy who usually lives here is a) amazingly clean and b) thankfully chose nicely sterile, white Ikea closets. Since I only brought the more wintery half of my clothes, I have so much space that I can do little flatlays inside the drawers. Arranging my pantyhose by color is so satisfying. Tomorrow I'll set up makeup and office stuff in the spare room. It's gonna be a blast.

And on Labor Day I'll start working - the irony! Be still, my beating heart. Stay tuned, lovelies....

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm in my car in a white linnen summer dress, strappy sandals and huge sunglasses (everyone insists they're too big for me but I bought them in 2013 and I'm bringing them back) - I'm not going somewhere special, I'm just determined to become the notoriously overdressed person you see at the supermarket. Anyways, I just spotted a tweet from the lovely Billi from Billi Loves Beauty saying that she nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award - isn't that sweet?

Now, I'm not sure what that actually means, but I imagine it to be kinda like one of these chain messages that moms send each other on WhatsApp, that say something really nice about you and then you send them to other people that you think are nice?

Yeah, that's not quite it.

I just read up on the VBA website as well as Billi's own post and it is done as follows: I am going to share seven facts about me and then nominate seven other blogs to do the same, so here we go!

1) I like even numbers. If I did, say, a fitness exercise (a far-fetched example, obviously), I'd do two or four or six sets. If I drew a house, it would have four windows. If I knocked on wood, I'd do it four times. Uneven numbers are just so icky, aren't they?

2) I hate the sound of vacuuming. Someone is doing it right now and it distresses me so much - I used to cover my ears and cry when I was little and what can I say, that reaction still makes sense to me. It's not only the loud slurping sound, it's also that you have to shout over it in order to talk to someone, and then everything automatically becomes urgent and stressful. Has no one invented silent vacuums yet? Probably, and they're probably worth a lil trip to Europe so no one in their right mind buys them.

3) I never colored my hair and I don't think I will. First of all, I like my hair color and am too scared that it will never be the same afterwards. Second of all, my hair is in such marvelous condition it would probably break off at the roots and then fall out of my scalp if anything chemical touched it.

4) I couldn't whistle if my life depended on it. My mouth does not do the thing with the tune coming out.

5) I am about 162 centimeters tall (or short, however you view the world). I can wear all the high heels that float my boat.

6) I learned to play the recorder in elementary school. I still know some of it. One day it'll come in handy and I'll get famous with a recorder band.

7)  I like handwriting. In class, there's usually a row of macbooks (I don't have one because I'm PC all the way) and me. That means it's much harder for me than for everyone else to subtly text while pretending to take notes.

That's all from me, now onto the nominations....

Lily Blogs Life

Becky Bedbug

VictoriaaHelenn

Jessica's Life

Thania's Beauty

BeeBecca Blogs

Sarah in Wonderland

 I'd love to see them do this and find out more about them. Thanks again for the nomination!

Next time we talk I'll be in Hamburg....

Love,

Rosy Smith

The Harold Song - Kesha

Found this hidden gem (hidden because I filed Kesha under fun party anthems in my head) some time ago and I love the specificness with which she describes their relationship (although Harold is some unromantic name): "I miss your white sheets / I miss the scratch of your unshaved face on my cheek". Also, the chorus just hits it perfectly: "They say that true love hurts / Well, this could almost kill me / Young love, murder / That is what this must be"

Amnesia - 5 Seconds of Summer

They formulate the everlasting question: "If what we had was real, how could you be fine?". Also, the fact that sometimes, you wish you could forget all about it, because the pain is too intense; however, I personally wouldn't want to forget anything because even though it might hurt to think about good times gone by, those memories are still too precious to bury. "I wish that I could wake up with amnesia  / And forget about the stupid little thing / Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you / And the memories I never can escape / 'Cause I'm not fine at all"

Littlest Things - Lily Allen

If you ever feel crazy for wishing you had just a little bit more time, don't. Lily got your back, and if she experiences this, it must be legit. "I know it's not right, but it seems unfair / The things are reminding me of you / Sometimes I wish we could just pretend / Even if only for one weekend / So come on, Tell me / Is this the end?"

Pity Party - Melanie Martinez

I don't care what this is supposed to be about, it's a damn good song for any situation in which you just want to get into some fancy négligé and cry your eyes out while lighting something on fire. Happens fairly regularly, these days, doesn't it? "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to / Cry if I want to (cry, cry, cry) / I'll cry until the candles burn down this place / I'll cry until my pity party's in flames / I'm laughing, I'm crying / It feels like I'm dying / It's my party and I'll cry if I want to"

Writer In The Dark - Lorde

Firstly, this one's got such a pretty melody to it, and secondly, the whole "sitting in the dark, penning a song about how I'll pour all my love for you into this very song, but because it's so artsy it's not creepy but cool" attitude is totally my thing: "Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark / Now she's gonna play and sing and lock you in her heart / Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark / I am my mother's child, I'll love you 'til my breathing stops / I'll love you 'til you call the cops on me"

Diamonds And Rust - Joan Baez

I was actually researching Bob Dylan for a trend booklet when I found out about his romance with Joan and how this song is supposed to be about him, the bohemian outcast musician who might have just screwed things up between them by being too damn bohemian outcast-ish and solemn and melancholic. Still, I think they loved each other. "Our breath comes out white clouds / Mingles and hangs in the air / Speaking strictly for me / We both could have died then and there / Now you're telling me / You're not nostalgic / Then give me another word for it / You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague / Because I need some of that vagueness now / It's all come back too clearly / Yes I loved you dearly / And if you're offering me diamonds and rust / I've already paid"

Love,

Rosy Smith

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Yeah, just putting that out there. Okay, now let's get to this month's scoop....

Basically a month off everything. I did it all, the sleeping in til noon, the sleeping in the middle of the day, the series marathons, the eating nutella out of the jar thing - it was good while it lasted but it needs to stop. Or, at least be reduced considerably. This might just be the last summer break I ever have (excuse me while I go panic about that for a few minutes) so there needs to be some more disciplined self-treating.

Retail Therapy. I didn't try it yet, but just today I got the urge to go out and buy myself somethin' pretty just for the hell of it. I'm still figuring out what exactly, though. Maybe inspiration will hit me once I hit the town. But I'm quite optimistic that I won't return empty-handed and I've always been a defender of the theory that materialistic things can indeed make you a little happier than before; at least no one's ever gotten worse after shopping.

Comfortable socialization. I managed to see a couple of my steadiest friends at least once a week (seeing as I'm not exactly the most organized planner when it comes to outings, that's a success) and now my loveliest friend is off to travel Europe for the next few weeks, which is such a cool thing to say (and will certainly be cool to do, as well). So I'll try and fill my calendar with lots of fun dates because, well, the best things to do can be done during summer, and I'll be gone in September so I need to stock up on time with people I actually really like.

Planning stuff. I find it easier to not end up on the aforementioned sanctuary couch when I write To Do Lists with obvious, no-brainer tasks, like "stretch" or "write more lists". Okay, written out, that sounds a bit concerning, but whatever. Even though I don't even usually do all that, at least I had a plan, and doesn't everyone love to tick off chores and congratulate themselves (again, sounds pretty bad, but again, whatever)? I also started to make random sheets with things to pack for Hamburg. So far, I've established that I need about 13 pairs of shoes in total. I mean, the season's changing while I'm there, and I need my shoe variety to dress properly, or I'll get cranky.

I hope you got your summer down, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith




 

....and I had it on in the store and I have been walking around in it and it feels amazing and comfortable and it looks smokin' good and I am hopelessly in love with that shoe. But now, the shoe starts talking and says "Take me off, you'll get blisters if you walk in me any longer, and I will get damaged" but I don't feel any pain and I don't see any blood, not even redness, and the shoe is so unbelievably pretty and exactly what I wanted. But it started talking so loudly and wiggling to get off my foot that I couldn't possibly get it to stay on, and now I'm crying in the store because I can't understand why I should leave these beautiful shoes that bring me so much joy. And people keep telling me that there are other shoes that are just as nice and waiting for me to give them the time of a day, but I don't want to see them, because my perfect match is right in front of me and it's still shiny and intact and I can't just leave them there.


Does this work for you or does it just make sense to metaphor-obsessed shoe fanatics like me?

Love,

Rosy Smith

4th of June: Me being completely, honestly happy and watching ducks ducking.

10th of June: Me being slightly confused, but still very happy. Also, "Alien - Covenant" is the worst movie I've ever seen, and I have seen bad ones.

16th of June - now: Me being inconsolably sad. And yes, here's the disclaimer: Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely aware that I am a very lucky girl in so many aspects of life. But reminding yourself of that doesn't help all of the time. In fact, in some cases, it just keeps you from dealing with whatever's hurting you, because you'll feel guilty for feeling bad on top of everything. So let's just keep that in mind.

Wow, this is my second draft and let's just say it reads even more depressing than the first one even though it's not half as oversharing. Well. Priorities, I guess?

Let's liven this up a little, lets see....I've finished watching The Nanny and even though the lovey-dopey-ness of Fran and Mr. Sheffield got a tad annoying in the end, I can't believe I haven't watched this sooner because I bet it would've inspired me during my teens. Maybe I'd be married by now? Ha.

I think I'll close this now before I try to sell you the fact that my loveliest friend and I made it to the ice cream parlor 30 seconds before closing time yesterday night as some kind of achievement.

More of this hard-hitting investigative journalism to come.

Love,

Rosy Smith