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

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



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

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

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

See you so soon.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

Everything Must Go

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

    
I Need More Bookshelves

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

See you there.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Rosy Smith

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




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

Love,

Rosy Smith

Well, that's to be hoped for indeed.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you were, too.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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



The Place

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

The People

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



The Food

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

The Takeaway

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

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

Love,

Rosy Smith

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


Arcadia Awakens

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

Wuthering Heights

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

Anne of Green Gables

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

Hope you're reading something special.


Love,

Rosy Smith

Hi hello and happy St. Nicolas Day lovelies!

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

Quick "before" snap:


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



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

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

Red leather gloves

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

The "Melodrama" songbook by Lorde

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

Anne Of Green Gables

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

A straightening iron

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

Avène Thermal Water, belgian pralinés and Christmas ornaments.

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

Come and find out with me.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

In my apartment

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

Oh.

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

In the hallway

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

The bulding administrator's office

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

The café next door

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

In the hallway again

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


In the office

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

Outside the Apple store, in the freezing cold

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

In the hallway, again

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

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

And get excited for December.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Yes, I know, I have been terribly neglective, but I think I might (almost) have reasonable excuses. Also, Blogmas is starting on Friday, so by the end of December you'll have heard every thought that ever entered my mind, and some made up ones too, and until then, we got this:

Sorting out the magazine's wardrobe for the new season turns into group therapy sometimes. Last week, I sat on my little footstool (did I mention that footstool? I'm a fashion farmer), with my pen and delivery forms and a bunch of clothes huddled on my lap, and I spent a good half an hour listening to my fellow intern explaining the struggle of trying to plan Christmas with his boyfriend and their respective families. See, he did so much of the talking and arguing himself that all I got to do was thoughtfully nod and make understanding/surprised/appalled sounds - I never knew how many variations of non-judgmental facial expressions I got until now.

Turning into the dark lanes turns out well sometimes. I don't recommend trying it by yourself and in, like, a really bad neighbourhood, but my bestest friend and I went to St. Pauli the other night and found a very cozy bar away from the cheap vodka-to-go places and the drunken old men/sixteen year old boys. There was dimmed red light, vanilla cake and strong Caipirinha and we were the loudest people in the room, which means that it had to be really quiet, which I like in bars. There were, however, no unsolicited advances (unless that one guy walking over to look at the cake display by our table twice was meant as one). I like that, too.

There's no need for room diffusers once you bake something. I did that with friends, and my whole apartment smells delicious. And I spent a day eating nothing but Christmas cookies - didn't I say I'm livin' it up? I tried to replicate the sensation by myself, but I ain't got the gift, it seems. Or a recipe, for that matter.




Oh, there is this book called Christmas In New York (I think that's its name. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't, but there you go) which looks absolutely lovely and has all these stories and recipes and pictures that make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. When I'm grown up and have a kitchen book shelf, I'm gonna put it there, and it's gonna be a triumph.

That's it for now - we'll meet again on Friday. And the day after that. And after that, and so on....

This shouldn't have sounded scary.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Once, when I was little and we were on vacation somewhere in the South of Europe, a man gifted me a rose. I say gifted, but what I mean is "exploited my innocent materialism to sell my dad a rose he didn't want to buy". Since then, my parents have told me a million times to just say no to people who seem to be giving you something for free on the street, because when you grab it, you buy it. A couple weeks ago I was approached by a rose vendor on a busy shopping street, and this time, being my responsible adult self now, I basically ran away. It was a proud moment.

Well, today I managed to spoil all of that progress, and in a bit of a way more pricey dimension than five bucks for a rose, too.

You see, I had just dropped of this weekend's visitors at the airport, and I was a little sad to be alone again, so my nose had probably turned a healthy shade of red, and I didn't have any makeup on so I looked like a twelve year old with a runny nose when I was walking past one of these airport pop-up spa stores (I always wondered who goes out of town to the airport to have an expensive facial) and the guy outside offered me a handcream. The plan was to take it and walk faster (a bit like running away, but more elegant). However, totally out of the blue, the guy asked me what I use for my skincare.

"Um. Micelle water?" Shoot, he got my weak point. I have the crappiest skincare ever, as you'll know if you read this. He sensed my fear, and I honestly can't remember how it happened, but I found myself on a stool with my wrists out and smeared with something creamy, nodding along to the guy explaining the wonders of the facial peel he was sampling on me. And it did sound like it made sense. And it did feel nice on my wrist. But seriously, what doesn't? After he showed me the matching toner, cleanser and moisturizer, I frantically tried to think of the perfect polite "goodbye and thanks but no thanks" phrase to get me the hell out of there. I could hear my parents' disbelieving moan echoing inside my head against the copious monologue of the sales g

uy that culminated in the much dreaded reveal of the price. It was ridiculous, at least for my personal taste (eg. I bought a baby moisturizer for less than a dollar because I felt like it was as good for sensitive skin as pharmacy bought stuff), and I thought I had won when I fake-sighed that I didn't have that much money to spend.

But oh, then he went all half-price on me (and I am painfully aware that this is probably the only legit price there is) and I considered the size of the product and the fancy effects he promised and the design of the packaging and the dawning realization that I was already in there for far too long to leave empty-handed and thought "oh well, I'm not gonna starve" and whipped out my card.

I just want to point out that I was emotionally vulnerable, all by myself, very insecure about my lack of proper skincare, and a sucker for luxury items. Also, the month of all gift-giving there is to a year is coming up, isn't it?

Maybe I should give it back as long as I haven't opened it. Maybe it isn't any good? It's called "D'Or Facial Peeling" by Gold Elements. Let me know until Friday if you got the inside scoop!



Meanwhile, I'll try to look as unapproachable as I can when walking by stores.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Now the whole autumn/orange/temperature-irritation madness is finally over, we can proceed to ignore that there is a whole other month before December and just pass the time pretending it's already appropriate to start piling up the wishes. In fact, it is for me, as it is gonna be my birthday in three weeks and four days - which brings us to the first poi
nt....

A vintagy dress to turn 21 in. As you may know, I take joy in making an absolute fuss out of my birthday, and I almost always buy myself a new dress for it way in advance. I'm pretty late with this year's choice though and just ordered it today. I think it's being shipped off from China (I scouted out this website named rosegal.com because they have loads of vintage inspired stuff and that's the theme I'm going for. I kind of see myself in a hazy cocktail bar with low chairs, looking up from my drink in my petticoat dress with dark eyes and fair skin. I may be also seeing myself in a black and white movie), so fingers crossed it will arrive in time for me to take it home (that's where I'm going for that weekend. I want to meet up with my loveliest friends in said hazy bar and roll our stockings down or something).

A small but kinda medium tote bag but square with a handle but also a strap to wear it crossbody. It's hard to describe, but it has to be that way. I don't even know where that need comes from, because it is a well-known fact that I'm a shoe and not a bag person, but I genuinely do not own anything similar (not sure if anyone does) and I think the last bag I got is from 2015, when I first went to college. So it's not like I'm being totally arbitrary here. We have one at the office by Karl Lagerfeld that I fancy, in pomegranate, which sounds so yummy that I feel obliged to want it. Speaking of red....

All Those Parcels, Nothing For Me

Red velours gloves. These ones I actually saw at &otherstories and they just got that Cruella De Ville vibe to them (without the puppy murdering part) that I think suits me. The longer I think about it, the more I want them. And it is getting pretty freaking cold pretty freaking quickly up here, too, so we're talking necessities and practicalness and stuff here.

Clear make-Up storage thingies. And kitchen storage mug thingies. And coasters, for God's sake. I've been left alone in the homeware section of a lifestyle store for way too long. Gotta keep in mind that I am in fact returning to live at home again for at least another year and won't need my own quiche casseroles. I don't even like quiche (but maybe I could buy some for someone for Christmas?)

Clear skin. It is the rule that when you come home visiting from another place where you're supposed to liven' it up on your own, you have got to look nothing less but stunning. It is also the rule that when you live alone, you (I) tend to eat all the bad (but how can it be bad if it feels so good?) stuff all of the time, so these two are a bit counteracting. My loveliest friend texted me lots of product recommendations this morning and I'm still trying to figure out what to put on when. It's like while some people are slow with reading, I am slow with skincare. I'm astoundingly lost. My usual regime is to buy random stuff I stop using after a week until I have a bad phase and buy something else.

As for last but not least, it is a secret, but I sincerely wish for it more than for everything I've mentioned, so root for me, pretty ple
ase. I'll be rooting for you, too.

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