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