Aah, February. What are we gonna do with you. Let's find out, shall we?

This is not the greatest picture ever taken, but it's the only one I could crop myself out of. Not 'cause my friends aren't pretty, but 'cause I'm not sure if they'd wanna be on here

Yeah we went out to celebrate carnival. Interestingly, Hamburg is like, the one place in Germany where they don't actually do carnival, but we tracked down a party, threw together some costumes from scratch and merrily went off (after changing in the fancy foyer bathroom of our workplace, scaring the concierge in the process). When we made it to the location, there were literally fifteen people there, so we refused to waste our hard-earned money and sat down outside, counting the arriving guests. We made minus. Two guys left, but not without coming by and telling us how much that place blew and that we should come with them to another spot, so naturally, we took up their advice and ended up having a lovely night at a very authentic bash right underneath city hall. The lesson here, lovelies: Don't talk to strangers, unless they look like they know where it's going on.

Currently listening to: Cry Baby, by Melanie Martinez, as well as Cry Baby, by Demi Lovato. Different approaches, same belt-out potential. Love me a good "mascara all over my face" aesthetic. You must think I'm such fun at parties, right? But don't you worry, because

I'm all moved back into my parent's house, to finish up my last year at fashion school! I have to say, looking at the still-not-unpacked boxes around me (and the fact that all my clothes are holed up in my suitcase and I am too lazy to hang them up and therefore have nothing to wear at all), there is a certain nostalgia for my spacious, generally orderly apartment with the great shoe rack. However, home does have lots of perks to it, such as fully cooked food at reasonable hours of the day, cough medicine (I'm not an addict, I actually am sick. I think my ribs are broken, but I might have just pulled a muscle while coughing out my lungs. Again, glamorous party trick) and loved ones around.

For instance, I met up with my bestest friend already! She is currently seeing someone new (or rather, new in the sense of him being "seeing" material), and we were wondering: When is the right time to ask to see the other person's health record? Do you just casually whip out your own and say "oh, I just happened to pick this up, why don't you show me yours, too, sometime?" To be honest, I'd probably totally forget about that. Even though it is an important matter and there's no shame in checking your health and ladida, you know I get queasy talking about my UTIs, so how do you expect me to be cool about this? Also, it just seems so unromantic and un-fun and un-spontaneous. But maybe there is some kind of secret code to use? I am a big fan of using secret codes for uncomfortable conversations (remember Sunday?).

Someone who's in a wholly different sphere of being right now is my loveliest friend. She's currently studying in Milan, and if you haven't been hiding from humanity you'll know that Milan fashion week is going on right now - so it's Fendi for lunch and Prada at night for her. Everyone's there, Anna, the other Anna, Olivia, Gigi; notice how I'm already using their first names like I'm a close personal friend? And I'm not even there. Got the pictures to prove it, though. I'm flying out next weekend, which I'm already overly excited about, not 'cause of the fashion (well, a bit, too), but because we'll be finally reunited (my loveliest friend and I, if that wasn't quite clear. It's hard not to get caught up there).

Love,

Rosy Smith

It's my last night alone in the apartment, because my parents are coming tomorrow. I'm watching Youtube  (my Netflix trial subscription ran out on Valentine's), and I may or may not be in the middle of an attempt to empty half a bottle of wine, because I'm a good girl and don't want to waste leftovers. I'm just realizing that this spot, sat in the spare room in front of the window, is a lot like Carrie's writing situation in Satc. If I actually lived here and would actually spent time working, this would be so cool. I would totally sit and gaze over at the supermarket across the street. It's not the Village, but still. It's such a weird feeling to know that I'm not likely to live in this apartment ever again. Maybe in this city, but who knows?

I've only just come to have a lovely social circle, to know some cool going-out destinations, to get more confident at work and settle in a home routine. I got my favorite supermarket sushi, my Saturday ballet class and the people I go to lunch with and who call me when they're walking home in the dark. I just remembered how I wrote a while back that I had yet to meet someone who I'd talk to about things like marriage and having kids while sitting on the living room floor, and I spent Wednesday doing  that exactly with one of the intern girls.

I think I just spat on my screen coughing. Did I mention that I have a grand cold? I'm near losing my voice, and I've screeched at everyone at the office today while trying to finish up with my work.

My work - even though there's been days when I just wanted to call in sick and keep to myself for the day, I've never dreaded it. I like going somewhere with a purpose and knowing that I'm spending my day being somewhat productive. I like being part of this big business and whirling into the foyer in my black fake fur coat, greeting the doormen, knowing my way around. I like being taken seriously and being given responsibilities, even if I get stressed out as soon as I have more than two things going on at a time. I'll get to that. I'll get to being calm and organized. I've been doing this current job for six weeks only. so I'm practically still starting and I'm sure that it'd be totally different after six months of training.

Also, I have made some choices regarding what I want to do when I finish university this fall. Or rather, regarding what I don't want to do. And I think that, especially in the creative field, it's okay to start off with something that you already know you only want to be doing temporarily, until you get more comfortable and can branch out into something less safe, and then switch it up again, depending on the contacts and experiences you made and the opportunities that present itselves to you. There's only crooked ways out there, am I right?

God, I love this place. I'd be lying if I said that I'd been solely happy here. At times, I've been incredibly lonely. But I would have felt that wherever I had spent the past six months. And apart from that, I loved being here. Part of me is ready to go home, because of certain people, certain things I miss. But I hate the finality of saying goodbye to this apartment, to this independent routine of my own that is closely tied to this place.

The cough is getting worse now so I better get on with packing and drinking this up. Next time we'll talk, I'll be back to my childhood home, which will always be, you know, home to me. But this comes as a close second.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm wearing net tights today. We're going to some photography exhibition tonight and I felt that was appropriately artsy, paired with a black all over look and moderately heeled boots to soothe my foot (remember, I hurt that walking down the beach). I feel like people are looking at me, though, and I'm wondering if this trend has never made it to Hamburg. Or maybe it's already over, in which case too bad, I just got this pair and I like it.

I think my skirt and sweater are different shades of black. There goes my artsiness. Maybe the lighting will be really dim in the gallery and no one will notice. An hour to go until lunch. I'm researching a story about a handicapped woman and now I'm knee-deep into reading articles and book excerpts from and about mothers of disabled children. The internet truly is a black hole. But I really want to push this story through before I go home, because I really, really don't want to do another spreadsheet.

A success: I confidently pushed through my concept talking to the editor in chief. Well, I turned red and practically begged her to let me do it, but a true journalist fights by all means. However, she completely turned my idea around, and I'm not quite sure my interview partner will approve of that new angle. But of course, I nodded along, and now I rewrote my concept and sent a cryptic email and I hope the woman, who is a published writer herself, will have a bit of sympathy with me.

Five to six (that's when I leave work) and I've been to the washroom to put on lipstick, fluff out my hair and ignore the disgusting lighting. I look so much better in the reflection of my desktop. I intend to go with that version.

Okay, so we're at that waffle place I sometimes go to, and we had these delicious waffles, and now we've seen a mouse. A tiny, squeaky one, but still. One of my friends practically has her feet up on her stool. The owner went out to telephone the vermin exterminator - I think he's scared of being sued, but I'd rather have him get this mouse out. Now we're all alone with the little one, and it just went behind the counter. That's where the precious waffles are!

Alright, it ran out the door again, and we got a vermin discount. Also, we were already finished when it happened, so no food got wasted due to sunk appetite. That's something, ain't it so?

The exhibition is crowded. Good thing we tend to be overly punctual, because when we left, there was an actual line that went on for days. The inside was nice and felt culturally enriching, but I surely wouldn't wanna get cold for that.


































We're on the Elbphilharmonie - I've never been this late at night, but it's almost nicer than by day, because there's practically no one else (except for the odd couple making out) and all of the city lights shining onto the water look so very pretty. Even though this bulding is not actually that high compared to lots of buildings in the states, I really love being up there.


What did you do Thursday night?

Love,

Rosy Smith

So, that was over in a blink, wasn't it? What did we even do all this time?

Started a new internship and got mean-tweeted in the process. You know, the main struggle in the life of a women's magazine reporter is finding real women to write about. Like, I was given the assignment to look for women who don't fit society's image of a perfect body and feel good about themselves, you know the drill. So I found a woman who has a blog where she's already written about her personal body love history and I thought she was really funny, and she made me think about maybe going to university some more once I finished this course, and I thought oh, maybe we'll have this inspiring conversation and she'll mention me in her blog, and then I hit her up with my interview request and she said "no". Well, she said "thanks for the offer but I'm not interested". Which is pretty close to plain "no". And since I had been reading her blog for days and therefore felt like she would usually have responded in a different tone, I was taken aback a bit. Didn't seem like she was gonna write about the aspiring young journalist who approached her ever so lovely. Seemed more like she was gonna write something about how I had the sheer nerve to even contact her. Let's check her twitter, just for fu-oh.

She actually did tweet about me. Two minutes after sending me her one-sentence blow-off, and not in a nice way. She called me a bunny. At first, I penned out a draft of an email where I'd tell her just how much of a misunderstaning this is and that I had all the best motives in asking her to participate and that I am just an intern with a dream and can't help the fact that these magazines advertise diets....and then she sub-tweeted herself with even more personal critique on my email, and I thought: No way, josé. Not gonna apologize for very politely asking a question that can be easily declined in an equally polite, less public way. I mean, did she think I wasn't gonna read this? Or did she want me to see it but thought it would spice things up a little to go cross-social-media? Who knows. I guess these things are to be expected when part of your work is to drag people out of the corners of the internet and into your weekly. Bunny out.



Went out every weekend and hurt my foot in the process. Funnily enough, what killed me wasn't the dancing until 4 am part, but the long healthy walk alongside the beach. Halfway through, I had to put a tissue into my shoe to stabilize my foot, and some little girl just stood there staring at me taking my boot off like I was performing a sketch. Her father couldn't get her to move until I got up and limped away like a pirate. I am obviously mesmerizing. Anyways, after telling everyone who listened how badly it hurt for two days, I went to the doctor, and he was lecturing me for wearing two year old inlays and high heels everyday, and I got out of there knowing that I didn't have that really bad condition I google-diagnosed myself with, but with no relief of pain at all, as you do.

Did Yin-Yoga and quit the studio. Okay that was misleading, I didn't quit because of the yoga, because I actually loved that - an hour of stretching really intensely and lying on your back with your eyes closed most of the time, how much better can exercise get? - but because I only have two weeks left here. I have not yet figured out how I feel about that, but I know I'm gonna miss that studio. 

Went home for 48 hours and ate my body weight in New York cheesecake. Good stuff. Nothing left to add.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Disclaimer: I wrote this months ago and forgot to put it up. By now, I am fully socialised with three other interns who are absolute dolls and with whom I happily share bottles of red. But read on to learn about the time before, will you?

I have wonderful friends. Gorgeous and fun and witty and smart friends. But they're currently being all these amazing things back at home, while I'm here in Hamburg, sitting on my beautiful red couch on a blue Sunday night.

Well, doesn't that sound perky already. Just wait for the rest of this.

I haven't been living here for a significant amount of time, and I haven't exactly been to many social gatherings, so it's not like I've tried and tried and not made any friends, but the outcome is the same, being that I don't really know anyone which leads to the following conclusions:

I don't know where the cool kids go. That's a bit of a vicious circle, too; because I have no idea where to go to meet people who would know where to go to have a good time, I neither meet those people nor do I learn about any insider locations where I could have those "only in Hamburg" experiences. Those places simply do not show up in tourist guides, small cafés with the best homemade hot chocolate, restaurants where they sing the menu to you, bars where the drinks are cheap but the music is good. Stores where quirky girls work the counter and take you dancing after hours.

Me when I was so bored I had to take pictures of myself for fun

I don't go out alone, therefore I don't meet people to go out with. I want to try and bring myself to go somewhere on Friday or Saturday nights, but apart from the "being a girl out in the dark with a semi heavy handbag as her only weapon" situation, which I could overlook, it's just so weird to find a table to yourself and then stare at groups of young people and try to telepathically make them like you. Is that how adults make friends? It seems awkward.

Maybe I should try harder to get on with the other interns, but even though we chat nicely at lunch I can't picture us grouped around my coffee table with a bottle of red, talking about life and the way we want our hair to look when we get married. (See, those were different interns back then)

My visitors from last weekend have friends here, so we met up with them and I instantly liked them, but we didn't make plans to get together when it's just me - how do these things happen? Is making new friends like dating, only even harder because you have to convince multiple people at once that you're a desirable addition to their circle?

If you have the answer, do tell.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Someone took a picture

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

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