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