2016 - Rosy Smith

I just started a conversation by writing the two goat emojis on WhatsApp and asking "Are those supposed to be different animals? Or just two different animation styles? Weird". If you ever wonder how to make a guy think of you, I have the key. But seriously, what's with those goats?

Oh, he wrote back. And without asking me if I'm drunk. How sweet of him.

Today's one of those days where you swear you'll never have a bite of anything edible ever again after eating way too much Mexican food and a burger on top. Yes, I am aware that this blogmas, I talk about being full a lot, but don't we all stuff our faces way more often during wintertime? It's 'cause food makes us feel warm and sleepy, something you don't neccessarily need when you're planning to go swimming in July, but that doesn't sound bad at all on a foggy December day when your vision for the night included nothing more than a blanket and electricity. For light and TV and things.

The goat conversation hasn't moved to "So when do I see you again" yet but, surprisingly, still revolves around goats. Maybe I don't have the key. I'm not sure. Give me a bit more time.

So, in a couple weeks (I fear that if I count them now, I'll be stressed out about my timing so I don't) I have this third-semester-exam that is more important than the first two rounds and my topic is gonna be "scars". If that doesn't sound exciting. Especially for me, someone who is incredibly paranoid about getting a scar because I hate them with a passion that is remarkable. I wanted to sue the last doctor that told me a cut that was bleeding like a knife slash didn't need stitches "because it's not that deep". Let's see how deep you'll have to reach into your pocket for compensation, shall we? Sadly, my mom didn't let me go to court for that. Anyways, I'm planning on using my bottomless hatred to trigger a flow of creativity for the exam booklet. It's a foolproof thing. As long as I get an interview partner, preferably tomorrow. As easy as that might sound, not everyone likes to get their words twisted by some time pressure fueled "fashion" journalist student. People are so demanding these days.

Love,

Rosy Smith

That sounds like me, naming a post after the chocolate flavor I had today. But it's a really cute bar of chocolate I got for my birthday from a sweet friend who lives in Maastricht (in the Netherlands). It's pretty salty but also pretty tasty. Does anyone know why salt and caramel are such a great combo? My loveliest friend has made some cupcakes in that style a while ago and I've been meaning to ask her for the recipe for ages, they were so yummy. Even I would bother to bake in order to have them.

What else? I haven't done enough studying today, either, but more than yesterday, so we're on a good road. I also, and I'd like to applaud myself for that, finally gotten around to order part of the gift for my certain someone. I'll tell you what it is after he gets it, because if he politely seems to hate it I'll just pretend I never got him anything and not mention it again. Oh, we have also finally settled on a New Year's plan. I think. See, I had thought he hadn't decided yet in our last conversation about it, so I subtly (directly) asked him about news from the New Year's front and he responded "XXX's party, wasn't it?", like it was perfectly clear. I'll say it once more, texting isn't for me. But yeah, so the party it is (au revoir Paris for now. However, I guess a family vacation wouldn't have been the most romantic manner to go there). Now I can finally narrow down outfit choices! One important accessoire I already have (again, a gift. I have the most thoughtful friends)....

As I'm talking about gifts already, I can also mention that I picked up the copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion that I got, just an hour ago or so. I've only read a couple pages so far, but what can I say - lovely Jane makes everything sound beautiful and witty and if I'd lived in her time, I'd have founded a fan club of hopelessly romantic, feminist, bookish, fun, 18th century gals. Thinking of that, why not do it now? Applications to me, please.

I should probably go on and work on my design booklet (oh the sound of that alone), but I could also, like, do something fun. That's the greatness of choice we have.

Love,

Rosy Smith

So it's the last day of school before Christmas Holidays and I just made a list of all the highlights in 2016 (none of them having anything to do with school, surprisingly - who'd have thought?) and it reminded me of my loveliest friend and my beautiful summertime in Santa Marinella, Italy, and the series I started to do. So in the vacational spirit, dive with me into the golden sunshine and take a seat on the piazzia as the following happens around you....

Okay, the third day, my loveliest friend and I decided to explore the towns a trainstop away to get a bit of privacy (for those who didn't read this, we had previously met two men who were very, mhm, chatty). However, I had been sprinkled with mosquito bites all over my legs and feet during the first night and I always have some kind of allergic reactions to those; by the time we arrived at the castle we set out for (it looked like a couple metres away from the station but it was actually miles to walk in complete fallow land with the sun burning on us), my right foot was throbbing with every step. So we had some gelato and left for Civitavecchia. While we were making our way along the harbor, looking for some food and not finding any along the length of the ocean, the itchiness got almost unbearable and eventually, my loveliest friend set out to find a pharmacy while I sat on the ground in front of some random statue where families were taking pictures and sceptically glanced at me. Couldn't blame them, really, 'cause my hair was plastered to my head, I was practically crying (okay, I was totally crying) and rubbing an humongous foot.

In the pharmacy, I made the most tremendous (and only) purchase of our stay: A cooling pack shaped perfectly to be strapped to my foot. It's the best. I'd have died without it. I put it on first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It's wondrous I didn't baptize it in the ocean.

I also bought some hella expensive cortisone pills but they're prescription at home and that says something, so I refrained from actually taking them (however, I slapped on my 1% cortisone lotion like it's free).We can't all be as mellow as our Italian friend.

He himself stepped out onto the piazzia that night when my loveliest friend had just made a quick run to our apartment and came up to me sitting on the edge with my knees prepped up. "How's it going", he asked and I pointed to my foot and explained the deformation And that's the point where things got slightly out of hand and I'm not sure how that happened, once again: Suddenly, I was sat on a lively piazzia in the middle of everything with a strange thirty-year old I met 48 hours ago at the beach who likes to smoke pot gently massaging my foot in his lap while mumbling on about homeopathic methods for itchiness. Yeah. Well. I just kinda let it happen because my mind didn't really know how to process this scenario that it certainly never planned for. Also, it would be rather unpolite to make him stop - how many men give you voluntary foot massages? Still, a bit odd. And it dramatically increased the itchiness when he tenderly stroked the freaking luminous red, sensitive area. But he meant well. When my loveliest friend came around again, I almost fell off the brink with the urge to hysterically laugh at her confused, then baffled, then "Should I leave the two off you alone or...." expression. It was a scream.

So, yeah, that's the story of how he and I bonded over inflammation. It's an experience I'll treasure forever in my heart. Something along those lines.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm getting the feeling that my classmates have a tendency to attract full-on stalkers. First the "complete romance package" - guy, now some Insta-messenger from Miami who really has a screw loose (that's a new saying I found. Look it up). People are leaving marketing class to call the police and I'm just trying to mind my rep exam over here.

Now another prof is comparing the self-evaluation forms we had to do a while ago to Stasi methods. That's a bit harsh. "But I don't want to talk about it anymore", he trompetes and goes on about it for another twenty minutes. "On my island, there's fun" (referring to some team building concept he's in love with). Well on my island, no one is talking about team building.

I'm a bit confused about my plans for New Year's Eve. See, my certain someone had implied that his plans involve me being there, too, and then suddenly leaned toward spending the day in Paris with his family, making me get irritated (as you might remember from Day 13) because what I took from it was that I didn't have any plans anymore. And as you know, having absolutely no plans on New Year's Eve is the party equivalent to having a life crisis. Now you're asking yourself, how dare he bring me into this disastrous situation, but I think the male mind just doesn't always draw all the wide-spread conclusions there are to draw from his decisions. So I decided to matter-of-factly bring to his attention that I was displeased by that circumstance and phrasing that message took me half a day and a night and I ended up cutting it down to three sentences that didn't transport any information at all apart from "I was *sniff* really looking forward *sniff* to spending the day with you". It's terrible - don't ever send anything after eight hours of loathing. It's all good now, he asked me to either go to Paris with him or stick to our originals plans (my loveliest friend says I should force him to make us go to France because it would be a pretty darn chic place to be), and I said that both would be fine with me (with the slightly stalkerish undertone of Every Step You Take).

Problem is, he hasn't exactly told me what country it officially is now. Either the undertone wasn't so slight after all or he hasn't decided yet or something happened to his phone during the 16 minutes it took me to reply. I'll keep you updated. As long as I know when to pack, I'm fine.

God, I hate the whole texting business. I would misread my own messages if I got them.

Oh by the way, I ordered this luscious dress in deep red velvet and I can't wait till it arrives - there's a chance I'll be chanting "Santy Baby" in the dining room on Christmas Eve in it, it just asks for a stage.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Remember that I was about to go to the movies yesterday? The double date (yuck) - but it turned out not to be so double-datey anymore as the girl couldn't be there and I was left with my certain someone and two of his friends. One time they asked me if I preferred clean-shaven guys and I said yeah, 'cause I do, and I realized halfway through explaining my choice ("It's, well, more clean. And more pleasant, overall") that one of them sported a little more than a five o'clock shadow. I did my best to ignore that faux pas in the hopes that everyone else would do it, too (seemed to work).

When we went for drinks after the movie, we passed a small christmas tree stall that had already closed down for the night. I, feeling melancholic about my whole not having a tree situation (I told you about it here), mumbled "Get me one?" over to my certain someone; see, sometimes I should just hold it in for my own good. Obviously, I meant that he'd buy me a tree, and yes, I was aware of the fact that it was nighttime and impossible to do that, but I was partly kidding, for Goodness' sake. Mostly, I was suddenly struck by the vision of him buying one and setting it up with me and celebrating our own little Christmas underneath it and that's where the urge to say that came from - however, if I took off and made my every daydream reality immediatly after having it, I would be very busy and very strange (Imagine forcing some random guy on the street to marry you). So I quickly tried to backpedal and insisted on not needing one after all, but it was too late. Three guys with a surprising amount of criminal energy were hooked on operation christmas tree. And I was head of the gang.

Just lovely.

I swore to keep quiet about this next part to protect my innocence, just this much: I didn't see nothing of my company and walked a couple of blocks all by myself until they suddenly reappeared beside me, a very cute little tree hunched over their shoulders. Where that came from? We'll never know. But I loved it all the same and left it in good hands, namely the ones of the host of an apartment bash we stopped by at. I don't know her personally but she hugged me like we were long lost cousins and that kind of hospitality is exactly what I wanted for my baby tree. Dozens of people were crammed between the narrow walls of her apartment and drank punch from mismatched mugs, staring at our present in awe. One room was set up like a club, with the base shaking the walls, another was occupied by guitar-strumming folks and the third one, the non-smoking/no-music zone became our little gift's home. There's picture proof, but that's private- I don't look my best on them because the flash was on, anyways.

We left the strange, strange (but nice) party and promptly missed our train, but it was still a delightful night. "Two things off the list", he said, and I could have kissed him.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm wearing a skirt today and lipstick (NYX lip butter, very smooth), so that's a big improvement compared to the rest of the week. I found a plaid shirt I haven't worn in ages that color-matches the deep purple curdory skirt and called it a look. I'm feeling so motivated by that, I'm even planning to make a grand To Do list today, categorizing the whole mess my assignments and Christmas shopping and money managment and foreseeable worst case scenarios are at the moment. Never start on something without a To Do list and the right amount of time pressure (oh for Heaven's sake, my exams start in a month from today and I haven't done anything, anything yet – that's what I'm talking about).

More time pressure: Christmas shopping

Another issue I haven't done anything, anything for yet. Oh, wait, I might have something for my parents, but the specialness of the thing means that they're not getting anything like the usual books this year so I hope they'll bring their own to the trip. I'll have to subtly mention that. It goes on the list.

Furthermore, there's one gift I need to get that I haven't even thought of, so I wouldn't know if it might take a while to get it, so I'm in a bit of stress about that. I'm so bad at gift ideas, especially when I've never gotten something for that person and I kinda do want him to like his present because I like it when he likes me. The main reason why I'm so undecisive about presents is that I'd hate for someone to think I haven't put thought into it, so I'm probably putting way too much thought into it so that I never know if something's right. Ugh, why can't guys just drop hints or wear jewellry, too.

Okay, so I did the To Do list and feel like I forgot something. Anyways, my advent calendar for the day (that my loveliest friend made me) says to play a Christmass-y tune on the piano today, so that's what I plan on doing tonight. I'll start on the rest tomorrow. We have to set priorities around here.

Love,

Rosy Smith

P.S: Um, and what about that new Taylor Swift song? Isn't it a blessing that there is one? They could have let her do it all by herself for all I care, but it's nice no matter what.

When a soldier deliberately tries to harm another soldier who's on his side, that's called fragging. At first I thought that it's friendly fire, but that happens by accident. In fashion, it's not an accident.

Small things, like a girl not wanting to share her oh so precious talent of photoshopping to the point where she refuses to give us our own group work because we could profit from it. Seriously. Like I had an exhibition at the Met planned to showcase the excellent airbrushing of our model's skin. I'm sure that I would also get an internship at Vogue, just by handing in those pictures and stressing out the modified light intensity. So sorry to disappoint her, but I really just want to have them because they're mine and I especially want them now that she's making such a row of it. Heavens.

Big things, like the abuse of models in the industry that James Scully pointed out in his VOICES speech on Business Of Fashion (go watch it, he's so great and sincere and you'll cry).

But onto more positive issues! I think I just stole someone a seat on the train, sorta ducking underneath him and throwing myself onto it. I heard him sniff in a annoyed way, that's how I realized he wanted to sit there, but I'm not about to give it up just because he may have seen it first. As every commuter knows, it's a case of do or die. If you show weakness, you grab onto the nearest seat and get strong calves because honey, you're standing up another ten miles. Learn to live with it, like I did.

Do you know the law of attraction? A friend of mine recommends it. I'm too impatient to follow anything to do with waiting for things but she seems really happy with it. It's the thing with the cosmic ordering. I like the restaurant allusion. Oh, I'm tired and thinking about food even though I already ate. Anyways, it also reminded me a bit of the whole waiting for love phenomenom: That's the one thing you really can't force and something that drives me absolutely crazy, so if you're like me in that respect, try to place an order to the universe. Can't do no harm, can it?

Love,

Rosy Smith

Let's go back in time to November 30th, when I planned on writing this but forgot I had to be somewhere at eight and was way too tired afterwards (I need to go to bed at eleven the latest. I'm that old)....

Today's motto is "move b*tch" by Ludacris. It comes very handy while shuffling out of the train behind the slowest people ever (MOVE) when I'm already half an hour late to a fashion shoot (A group work, so the fear of being strangled with nude underwear is there). Or at the bus stop, where I'm contemplating to buy hand sanitizer for the visagist, who forgot hers. However, if I leave my frozen place now, it would be just my luck today to catch the next bus in an hour, so I stay. Praying for the bus to be early for once in its lifetime. I can't believe I'm this late when I didn't try to be for a change. I'm not sure what I'm even gonna be doing at the shoot, but being there would be a good start, I figure.

I was perfectly on time yesterday, when we launched our student magazine (Hell, it's called. Goes well for describing the process of making it, too). But the technic guy messed up, shining a red spot when no one was supposed to go onstage all the time and not getting our slashing neck motions. He especially didn't get it when my audio was playing, stopping it halfway through and shining the darn spot for so long that I finally went onstage, did my thing and left to stand in the curtains, loathingly glaring at him for the rest of the performance. My dad mumbled something about high school lit class presentation. Poor thing seems to realize just now that this whole school is one big high school lit class. We all wore artistic black, me in a sheer blouse and ballet flats, shivering all the way through but from the cold, not fear. Still, authenticly enough.

We did it. We shot the shoot. I hope I didn't mess up the poor model's earlobes when I fumbled with her earrings. She didn't scream in pain, but then again, she might have been too polite to do so. She was only fifteen and way more gorgeous than most fifteen year olds are. When I was fifteen, I had my first mixed party and decided that I would never invite some particular guests ever again because I realized I didn't even like them. This girl, she's shooting in underwear with a twenty-something guy with a great body all professionally. Oh well. It was good fun, sprinting into the lights in between shots, looking important while fumbling on the clothes, or the hair that fell out of place every five seconds, or screaming "clips! We need more clips", or standing behind the camera staring at the model the way I wanted her to stare at the camera, "Imagine you're in the arctis! You're so excited! But, like, only with the eyes!". I wouldn't want to have to do it as a job, because I'm too prissy to steam clothes and stuff, but assisting and confidently yelling "That's it! That's what I want!", that I can do.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....and I'd cry if I wanted to, but I most certainly and decisively don't. I had a marvelous birthday yesterday and today I'm having my soiree with friends and it'll be just lovely, too.

The last but not least present I got yesterday: After dinner with my parents ("Is there anything that'd make me more happy than shrimp pasta?", I asked in delight), my certain someone and I made our way to his car in the absolutely freezing cold - I couldn't stop chattering my teeth (turns out it was pretty brave of me to go outside in sheer nylons and velours heels), so when he handed me a card and a walnut - yes, a walnut of all things -, I didn't even express any surprise, I just took it like it was the most common item you'd expect to be gifted. My brain cells defrosted noteably in the relative warmth of the car and I shook the nut (forgive me, I didn't mean to be punny); ah yes, there's definitely something in there, and capably judging, I think it's jewellry. "How should I open it?", I ask, getting aware that my nails aren't meant to crack nuts open (especially not if someone glued them together). "You don't happen to have a nutcracker with you, do you?" He doesn't (it's like when people bring cake to school and always forget the knife), but he hands me a golf ball and I press both things in my hands until I hear the satisfying crunch. It's a necklace. Golden, with a....an angel, well, an outright putto dangling from it....I'm still searching for a valid reason why he'd choose this particular pendant when he laughs and offers me something else to exchange it for. I jump at the chance (Thank God. I got a bit scared there for a second) and he breaks out a different necklace from his pocket, again golden but with an amulet pendant, embellished with a hypnotic embossment. It looks like something you'd find at an antique market, slightly bent but not dusty. It fits my birthday dress perfectly and it feels warm and smooth between my hands. My very own pirate gold.

My vintagy - attic - Age of Adaline - party ist about to start in a few hours and I still look like a mess (what's new). But take a look at a bit of the decor, if you will:

Now imagine a bit of Glen Miller and some champagne and you're getting where we're going here.

Have the sparkliest night, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Good morning lovelies! I'm in my dressing gown, wearing a pink bow around my head, lounging on the couch with my gift table in sight 'cause it's my birthday and I can do whatever I want to do - in fact, I was just browsing pinterest to steal a cute quote picture and got lost in Gilmore Girls themed coffee cups (I have not seen the revival yet so don't you dare spoiler me).

It makes me especially happy that everything matches so well

I can't believe I'm supposed to be twenty years old now - the only way I can put up with that is to think of myself as a twen of the golden twenties, finally able to put on a flapper dress and do the Charleston until dawn. Doesn't that sound marvelous? I got a black velvet dress with gold sparkles and a matching headpiece and clutch, to really live that vision. It's raining now (and my cat insists on having the door open so it's a bit chilly in here), but I really want to wear strappy pumps to dinner tonight (oh oh I just got my Sephora gift email, I mustn't forget that) to complete the picture. I can get very perfectionistic about these things.

I like to use my special time to eat cake. My mom made this absolutely sweet one that knocked me out in all its chocolateness (all the best ones do):

And I had to finish the advent calendar I'm making for my loveliest friend - I'm not exactly the brightest talent for crafting so I won't show you the result (the perfectionism). I also wrapped a present for a friend whose party is tonight - that one came out okay.

Now my nailpolish is drying and I'm getting ready for dinner - Mind you, I might have an hour left, but before I know it I'll forget to even put on earrings and that would be such a shame. Gosh, I love birthdays; the day passes in a golden glow of content and tradition and the evening is one exciting whirlwind.

Fun fact, I have always planned the ten years between now and the mischievous thirty to be the crucial ones: You know, for having a career, getting married, but also for legally having the time of your life. Seems like I have to start on all that now.

Looking forward to a fabulous ride.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Welcome to this year's Blogmas, lovelies!

After an explosive November, I promise you a cozy, sparkly and nontheless inflamable December – I'd say it's my favorite month of the year if it wasn't for the horrible cold. Let me tell you why....

First and foremost, my birthday

I'll be twenty tomorrow and tomorrow I will definitely fill you in about that to an extend no one needs to bear twice, so we'll wait....

Christmas, duh

A whole month dedicated to love, joy for all, Coke advertisements and gifts? I'm so in. Honestly, everything smells of cookies (I actually don't like cookies, except for speculatius. But they do smell good), the light is dimmed (makes for a great complexion) and clothes are velvety and wooly and it all just feels more quiet and festive and pretty to me.

Other girls just offered an old lady a train seat and now I feel really bad I didn't. But it was a Christmass-y scene, so.

I have to repeat myself, but there's so many birthdays and parties and reasons to buy and get gifts in December, and I adore all of that so much that it's the biggest reason I love this month. It's like there's a huge bow wrapped around the whole of it. And, come on, glitter!

The schoolyear feels like it's come to an end. Although it technically isn't (the worst is yet to come, exams in January = a whole month to scratch from the calendar), classes are over and half of December is spent away from all the inconveniences they bring (trains, people with train personalities, ALL public transport actually, homework, early hours, stuff I don't care about, late hours, everything with wheels besides my beloved car). Heaven.

Advent calendars. That's not the same point as Christmas, mind you. It's about pre-excitement in form of chocolate, or stories, and I love a good tease like that.

I'm wearing such a tight dress that my sparse meal of the day – apple juice and cereal – is sticking out already. I'll give you more details later. Not on the sticking out, but why I'm wearing that dress.

Family time away. A couple of years ago (feels like forever has happened since then) I already told you that I can't imagine Christmas spent at home. For most of my life, we have strictly gone away every year, to ski or, recently, just to be somewhere else. It's just so easy, being at a hotel – you can concentrate on being in the right holiday spirit and putting on your clothes for dinner and going Bowling or whatever together without having to deligate potato-skinning to your loved ones. You don't even have to eat potatos if you don't like them (so gross).

The only thing I miss is a tree of our own (no one has ever let me put my presents under the one in the lobby), so I'll probably grow up to fill my living room with the hugest tree I can find every year.

In that spirit: Get yourself a tree and read my daily updates under it. That would be fun.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....I got so soaking wet, I could easily pretend to have fallen into the Hudson. My hair is at its absolute worst - there're like seven streaks of rain-curled frizz on my head right now. See, we were forced to walk practically a hundred blocks in a constant drizzle to examine current fashion (meaning we touched stuff and mumbled "Oh, velvet" in the tone of a tv cook critically tasting someone's apple pie) and I had not considered that when I chose my teddy coat (that's not supposed to get wet), my boots (that are not supposed to be worn for hours of walking) and my bag (that's giving me a reason to go to the orthopedic) this morning. After reluctantly shuffling through Barney's with our over-excited teacher, a lady in running shoes bearing a linnen bag who has no fear of sales people asking if we need help (eg "buy something or I'll throw your lot out"), total doom followed.

"Let's go to Chanel", she chirped, and we all stood there on Madison Avenue like abandonded dogs, muffled into our coats, faces frozen in a frightened mask. She was serious. We trot in behind her, and I become urgently aware of my chapped boots, my non-existing makeup and the subsequent resemblance of a traumatized twelve-year old I am and my hunchbag walk due to my bag that's feeling more and more like a sack with cobbles every minute. Still, I try to remain dignified and haughtily let my gaze wander over the sparkling items, as if I was actually contemplating what I think is desirable. Same game at Gucci. Even though the carpet there is an actual dream - I wanted to lie down and sink into it so badly but that kind of behaviour, may be acceptable in an overcrowded Forever 21, not here, obviously. However, my teacher hasn't gotten the memo (I always thought that it was sent to everyone as soon as they touched an issue of Vogue. My bad) and tucks on everything and stretches the fine Italian fabric to the core - does she mistrust the legacy of good ol' Guccio? How dare she? We blinked hectically, morsing "We don't know her" to the security people hovering behind us (Gosh, they never trust anyone, but this time I kind of understood).

For the grande finale, we all tumbled into the sterile white glass castle of Dior. This time, our baggage didn't even make it to the stairs, because a young woman clutching a walkie-talkie threw herself in front of us, called something French to another employee (probably "I got them! womenswear is secure, repeat, womenswear is secure") and very kindly informed us that we weren't supposed to disturb the customers 'cause shopping is such an intimate experience and would we like to see the men's collection (where no one would be offended by the pitiable sight we are) instead?

You know, it is a bit demeaning that no one considered us customers. That's mostly our teacher's fault, who always darted into the store yelling "Hello, we're students from fashion school and just want to look around". If that hadn't been the situation and if I had only washed my hair and put on shiny shoes, I would've gladly wandered through all the shops I plan on raiding as soon as I have an adult job/marry rich (Joking. Mostly.).

The only great thing about my rank look has been that come that day, no one there will recognize me.

Love.

Rosy Smith

....This is the life: My train is actually on time and I won't die of hypothermia (there is always a draft on the platform, even at 90 degrees. I'd like to request a scientific investigation for that phenomenon) today for a change. And I have some take-out in my bag which will make for my dinner if it doesn't spill all over my stuff, that is. All I have to manage now is getting through the door without being crushed by other aggressive commuters. Goodness, back off - great, now my bag is stuck between the door and who-knows-whom and they're not gonna stop for me. I fear for my life and shrimps, so I tuck and pull and when I finally get free, I brush over a dog that's trying to enter and he stumbles over the gap but makes it into the wagon safely. Thank God I didn't kill a dog. I turn to find a seat, when the dog owning lady screams at me "Hey you! Cant'cha pay attention?" and I shiver with fear and apologize faintly, to which she just blows some steam from her nostrils and takes off. The humiliation. Who doesn't love to be accused of being cruel to poor little furballs in front of a diverse crowd of traingoers? Not me.

Previously on fashion school floors: We're all mad here, lovelies. I don't want to exclude my snotty self, but some more than others. I'm not dropping names, of course, but you can imagine, the usual stereotypes. The hysteric prof who reacts to desperate we-need-help-messages with "I'm out!" (note the exclamation mark, because subtle clearly isn't our style) and just ghosts you like you've been on two bad dates together. Which is out of the realm of possibilities on so many levels. The student who stresses everyone out in a passive-aggressive manner and then just kinda....leaves when everybody else has a different opinion. Like, poof, deal with it. Oh, I'll be just fine.

In other news: Everything's better in person, The Accountant wasn't half-bad even though Christmas with the Coopers is still winning this time of the year (It was as awesome as last December (remember this?) when me and my loveliest friend rewatched it this weekend), and I love being brought home in a car (I'm a living, walking 50s movie cliché) and it's my birthday in 9 days - only a photoshoot and a magazine launch away.

Get excited.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....One of my bestest friends said recently, while we were talking about the guy she likes, who seems to like her back but hasn't made plans to see her in a while, which leads to some confusion about if he likes her the way she likes him (a well-known confusion that always sets in whenever one doesn't see each other in a while); she said "See, you don't have to worry about that anymore, because you know." And well, she's right - I know because he told me so just two nights ago. And believe me, I'm as amazed by that incident as anyone should be, breaking into dazed expressions with stupid little grins several times a day, whenever the memory hits me and my brain is like woah, that happened. I'd also like to tell everyone including my church paper editing team (six 40-Somethings and a priest), but I don't because I don't want to be one of those people. So instead I tell my two ride or dies several times a day.

So, I'm over the moon and everything, but I think, regarding the worrying about his state of affection for me - I guess deep down I knew for a while now. I mean, I hoped as well, and I worried a little for the sake of it, but I still believed, judging from the way he is when I'm with him, and the things he tells me and the fact that he watched the new Bridget Jones movie with me, that there must be a reason that's sorta coming from that direction.

And please, ignore me if you like for I'm sliding a bit along the lines of those people now, but I feel that in a "thing between people" (not to say relationship, 'cause that sounds like I'm giving psychological advice and I would be annoyed with myself if I did that) it would be great if both of these people would make each other feel like they know. Not from the beginning, 'cause that would be creepy and honestly, who even knows anything themselves at that point, but you get it. Sometime.

Because the whole texting-game is so tiring and time-consuming and we all have much better things to do, such as painting our nails (something I never seem to get around to).

Love,

Rosy Smith

....Frankly, I think I lost my battle against the hoodies. For now. They're not in stock at the moment and I'm crossing every finger I have that the hideousness gets dropped.

Also, I'm cold, I just missed my next connection, I haven't eaten all day (I tried to have some strawberry yoghurt but they put bits of fruit in it - how could they?) and there are way too many people on this platform. I'm also elegantly carrying an open bag with my sleep shirt stuffed in for everyone to see, clenching my laptop so I don't get a hunchback from my other bag I've swung over my shoulder. I just hope I fit through the train door if it ever shows up.

There's a mom in here, standing with a baby strapped onto her body that is dressed in an adorable striped suit with a hood (the only time they're cute) with ears. The baby's not making a whimp, either, so I allow myself to consider it sweet. However, the mom has a toddler with her as well, with blonde ringlets and more hair volume than I currently have. The girl wants to sit down, so it crouches onto the single stair between compartments. "Don't put your hands on there or people will step on you", the mom says. And she says it many, many times - I'm afraid for my fingers by this point. The train stops, people come in, walking up the stairs, scooting past the little girl, but one unlucky man with Beats on his head ever so slightly puts down his foot inches too far on the left and brushes the girl's tiny fingernails - I see everything in slow motion, thinking "Nooooooo for God's sake" - and needless to say, disaster strikes. The girl says "Ow.". And starts bawling. Cue to the mom to begin going "Oh, no, I told you not to put your hands on there" again, and again, and again, and the girl changes it up by alternating between "Ow" and "Mommy" and I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. I have so much respect for mothers who mildly endure their children not ever shutting up.

Finally! I'm breathing the fresh Connectictut air, I can see the car that's supposed to pick me up, I get into it without a word, my bags a mess in the legroom, he turns the key - nothing. Just a weird, stuttering sound with slight similaritiy to what an engine should sound like. "We have a problem", he says. I burst into a fit of (okay, hysteric) giggles. "No, we really do", he says. "I know", I chuckle, "Sorry". I can't help it, it's such a classic "Can this day get any worse?" and the day being like "Oh yeah, I actually can" situation that it's starting to get funny (excruciatingly so, but still funny). It's hard to explain though, so I understand why he's not laughing with me. I mean, it's his car that appears to be breaking down. And I'm not exactly helpful crisis company, as you can imagine. Neither do I have a clue on what to do when a car doesn't start (Except calling my Dad) nor do I have calming things to say or constructive comments to make ("We could walk away and never return"). Oh well. He doesn't seem to mind that much / is too sweet to say "Damn, I really wish my friend who likes motor sports was here with me instead". Anyways, help is coming (He called his Dad, so technically, my approach has been pretty sensible after all) and all I can concentrate on is the pizza I'm gonna stuff my face with as soon as we get home so I'll leave it at that.

Hope you had a sparkly weekend that didn't involve anything on wheels.

Love,

Rosy Smith