I can't  fathom that it's almost May again! I definitely had less to do this time last year (Blogging has made me incredibly "this time last blahblah"-ish; I feel like I live in monthly updates) but it's okay, I'm not overwhelmed with hard work or anything, I'm just squeamish. Here's what's on my list (in no particular order):

Find a photographer/model for a fashion designer's lookbook shooting until Wednesday. See, it might seem like that's something I should know how to do but all I'm capable of is writing emails to agencies and asking for specific types. I don't know where to find talented people whose work fits the designer's concept who don't ask for money and live down the block. Right now, I'm browsing through questionable web communities where most sedcards consist of semi professional lingerie shoots with lots of soft lighting. Kinda running out of straws to grasp. I knew I'd get caught not getting more out of those networking events than the free popcorn.

Learn how to use a lighter without hurting myself. I tried to be really romantic last night but only managed to burn my thumb with an open flame. Twice. Who knew you'd have to tilt the candle instead of the light.

Be a good student and do the assignments I wrote out for myself because I get really mad when other people ignore my little To-Do-lists for them (I even use color codes for their names. I'm far gone) while at the same time I just groan every time I think about my own. I'm putting them off by writing this at this very moment.

Decide if I should splurge on heeled shoes or wait for it to get warmer and get myself some nice sandals instead. I mean, the shoes I could probably wear to my internship as well because I hear it gets pretty cold there, but I should also have some office-suiting flats because I don't want to lose all feeling in my toes by the tender age of 21. In conclusion, do I need three new pairs of shoes now? I almost want to think so.

 Go to Australia and take a trip to the supermarket. I saw a documentary about a girl who got discovered as a model that way and never had to return to her homecountry because she's making such good money being a foreigner in the secluded Australian fashion world. And if that doesn't work, I can still marry a doctor who develops groundbreaking sun lotion for surfers in his free time (same documentary. The guy married a journalist that he took home on his bike - that could have totally been me, too lazy to walk).

Not be intimitated by the life masterplan a friend who's a year younger than me has confronted me with - it included his "own philosophy" that he wants to "carry out into the world", traveling by foot with his girlfriend who "has written a book", all while "blogging a bit, maybe going into journalism" (no, you can't do that. I study three exhausting years in a brickbuilding filled with lunatics to be able to do that, so don't you dare become successful before I do. I'm a nice person, by the way). I'm not even gonna mention the webshop he's programmed and the band he's involved with. I was already annoying all fellow commuters with my chirpy voice memo reply ("That sounds so interesting! I don't even know what to say!" Do you have all the immunizations you need?). Nothing new, as my public conversations are usually frowned upon. They prefer sad silence on the train.

May's gonna be good, lovelies. As soon as I find that photographer.

Love,

Rosy Smith



 

Apparently, as my parents used to tell me, I never do summaries but always re-tell the story. Let's try again at this:

Takeaway one: If you marry an artist, you're likely to live in a great loft with lots of cool pieces of his work at the walls, and a room full of books and paper and canvas and supplies and paint where you get hit by so much creative energy that you stumble back and down three espressi like it's juice. If your artist is successful, that is. Doesn't sound too bad, does it?


Takeway two: Putting a magazine together involves up- and downswings, meaning that you're on a excitement-filled, high-spirited roll sometimes and other times you wish you could fire everyone around you. Then you realize you're in college and no one's gonna leave, so you might as well be nice. Also, if someone asks a fashion-related question, just repeat it loudly while looking at every single person at the table like you want to give off the question to show off leadership skills when in reality, you hope no one realizes that you don't give a fling about current events.

Takeaway three: Warehouse concerts are still the same as they were when I was fifteen and had a crush on a certain band guy. There's smoke in your hair, people jumping like maniacs and bumping into you (I don't even know what happened but after one big guy ran into me, my cheek of all places hurt) and the base drum cracks at the end of the set. However, live music that vibrates in your ears is always kinda cool.

Takeaway four: You shouldn't talk about long distance before trying it because it's not fun to talk about based on friends of friends who only provide poor statistics of making it work. Give me some success-stories, lovelies, will you?

Love,

Rosy Smith

Pig parts people: Some construction workers outside were roasting a suckling outside our school grounds and while it was, indeed, quite a disturbing sight, most of my classmates were standing at the windows practically inhaling the scent of fresh meat and coal (refuting the rumors, us fashion girls are a hungry crowd). However, other girls weren't so happy about the free live-cooking action, seeing it more as a live-cruelity act. Rude gestures were spotted, is all I (being totally noncommitted, comme d'hab) am gonna say.

Easter rolls around: What are you gonna do? Egg hunts, fire hazards, or a little easter barbecue (please don't be mad at me)? I have not been eating any chocolate (well, my definition excludes Ben&Jerry's, obviously, but that's really not pure chocolate. Na-ah) for the last six weeks and I haven't gone full-on crazy yet; such victory! Can't wait for Sunday, though. There are some nougat eggs with my name on them.

Reoccuring question: Is my stomach rumbling because I'm hungry or because I've eaten too much raw avocado? Should I just eat some more and hope for the best? Isn't that the answer most of the time?

And while we're at it, what not to eat on dates: A quick reminder, in case you want to brush up on these life-savers. It is strongly advised to avoid anything that can't be eaten with a fork, par exemple salads (those greens get all over the place), soup (slurp) and burgers (lockjaw, or at least unattractively widely opened mouth, not appropriate in public). Holding back on strong flavors such as garlic and liverwurst (it makes me gag to write this) goes without saying. Oh, and don't underestimate the power of carbonic acid to make you feel like someone is pulling your corset strings so tight your rips shrink to the size of Scarlett O'Hara's waist. It's hard to be enticing/funny/able to speak feeling that way.


Love,

Rosy Smith

....um. Yeah. Did that. I didn't want to, obviously; it's not something I'd go around doing for fun. It really wasn't. See, I was driving home this morning and I was going through a small village and a narrowed part of the street and two cars in front of me had to slow down because of the oncoming traffic and it's all a bit blurry now, but I kind of slowed down, too, but I got closer and closer to the now standing car right in front of me and when I realized that I wasn't going to get to a halt in time, I tried to hit the brakes but I guess I must've not done my driving instructor's lesson on emergency braking proud, since I, well, I hit that car instead.

 There wasn't a very loud sound, no airbags, no bruises (Thank God), so I flatly sang the last lines of "Driveway" by Miley Cyrus (yeah, that was playing that moment and yes, I realize the irony), but my hopes that I could just roll back and we'd all happily go on with our lives were shattered when the driver in front of me got out of his car, accompanied by a honking concert (people behind me weren't pleased - I was sorta blocking everyone's way). Suddenly a bit shaken, I turned off the engine (and the music), threw my keys somewhere, jumped out on the street and looked at the middle-aged man like a rabbit looks at headlights. "You hit me", he said to me. Duh, kinda noticed that, too. "I'm sorry", I said, flustered. I took a quick look at his car, and there wasn't much to see, actually. Just some damaged paint. So I didn't get too hysteric. I like to think I handled the situation quite calmly.

Up until the guy, who was seriously pretty calm for someone who just got hit by a sunglasses-wearing teenage girl in last night's clothes that doesn't have a clue what to do (I'm sure I would've been annoyed with myself), suggested we call the cops. That's when I took out my phone, started to dial, and, at the thought of talking to the police while being the offender, lost it. I'm not proud of it, but my shocked system toyed with the idea of a little hyperventilation for a bit before reevaluating and calling for a classic bursting-into-tears instead. The poor driver mumbled something about it being "not a big deal, no reason to cry" and kindly taking the phone from me to do the deeds himself.

If you've been here a bit longer you'll know that my experience with learning how to drive wasn't the smoothest one. But after finally getting my license two and a half years ago, I really settled into driving - I've come to like it, at least when the sun is out and I'm going somewhere fun. I was pleased with myself for never grazing other cars while parking, or scratching mine on bushes, or losing the rearview mirror. And this car, the shiny red one I'm driving right now, I just got it in January. After the cops had been called, I nervously searched for damages on it, but it's nothing much except the license plate is a little crumbled on the edge. Relieved, I called my parents and told them what happened, even though I couldn't recall it all that well (I'm dramatic, aren't I? Other people don't make this big of a deal out of rear-end collisions, do they? Oh well. Sue me.).

Then I felt sorry for my own car, the other guy's car, and myself because I messed my perfect no-accidents streak up in an unnecessary way ( I could, probably, have gone a bit slower a bit faster) and started crying again, blurting out "I never hit something before" as if that was of any interest here. The other driver was a sweetheart, really, saying "It's not that bad. No one was hurt, it's all gonna be fine" over and over. So did the police officer that arrived soon. You'll be pleased to hear that his own kids have done much more damage to cars already and they're younger than me. It might also interest you that these kind of accidents happen all the time, maybe not so much on Sundays (I don't know why, but that seemed to be funny to him), and that I'm not going to get a record or anything, like I feared for a split second when my form was filled out, and I almost cried again, but pulled myself together (a true example of self-composure, I am). We had to wait for my parents for a bit and the cop told me to "Get some sun while waiting", like it was the perfect opportunity to work on my tan (he was being nice, obviously, and there's no wrong in getting something good out of every situation, after all). Everyone chatted about the smallness of the damage and the fact that "no one's dead or anything" for a while (the cop even joked about me wanting to try out hitting cars as I'd never done that before, and my mom didn't hear it and asked "what?" but I thought she'd probably wouldn't find that funny so I didn't bother repeating it to her) and then we went home.

So I guess it was a trifle, and it is definitely a good thing no one was actually hurt. I'll be braking like crazy from now on, though. I'm not always gonna be on my parent's insurance, after all.

Drive safe, lovelies!

Love,

Rosy Smith

I will not rest until I walk around wearing all of this at once: Tie-up shoes with a block heel, net tights (I'm late to the party but it was way too cold for them, wasn't it) and a denim pinafore dress. That's the March call.

It's time for spring, lovelies! I'm so excited about every bit of sunlight I can get these days; there's few things better than not being uncomfortably freezing everytime you leave a building and being able to wear one pair of tights instead of three, don't you think so? And wearing sunglasses finally makes sense again; I love to slip them on not only to cover my eyes from the sun but also to look like I am on some kind of important fashion business-y mission, which I'm essentially not (unless you call snatching the last frozen Latte at the Deli a mission).

Break has been over for a month now and my calendar has started to fill up with assignments and things to do again and while some of them I could do without, I actually sorta like the main event this semester, which is to put together our own version of a known fashion trade magazine. My function includes chasing people down if they miss their deadlines and that is something that suits me well, I feel like. Also, I'm taking lots of notes which is what I do all the time anyways so it's not too much trouble. I still need to find a story to cover, though.

The internship thing is moving forward quite a bit but I'm pretending that it's not so I don't get freaked out about the job/ the move / the feeding-myself part before it's absolutely necessary. But we'll get back on that  - It's always nice to have something to look forward to!

What else? I have watched PS: I Love You yesterday for the first time in eleven years, and my friend and I noted a couple things; Firstly, we never seem to meet hot guys while disorientedly standing around in the midst of gorgeous landscape, let alone guys that are so enchanted by said disorientation that they propose to marry us at 19 (well, that ship has sailed already anyway, I'd say). Secondly, why is everyone so pushy on Holly to go and get over it already? Have some empathy, people. Especially you, Daniel. Hitting on her at her husbands funeral service, for crying out loud.
Oh and I have finally read Michael Ende's The NeverEnding Story (I've been meaning to since, like, fourteen years) and I loved it. It's a thoroughly good story, and those are scaringly rare. It's a children's book that also works for adults because it's just, it's so full of imagination, made-up things from scratch, and that reminded me that that is actually what makes books and fiction so marvelous, the fact that they can be a place in this world that has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Be all happy and jumpy in April, lovelies. That's what I'm planning on.

Love,

Rosy Smith