Tinselitis #3: Presents!

So it's happened. I've started my Christmas shopping. Admittedly I haven't bought much and I fear that if I don't wrap the presents soon I'll keep them for myself. But, in my mind, Christmas has officially started. No need to wait for the Oxford Street lights (being switched on by The Saturdays because, apparently, no one famous/with talent could be bothered to turn up) or to buy wrapping paper. I have twelve carefully selected (read: first things I saw) presents just waiting to be beautifully wrapped and then savagely unwrapped by my family.

I'm close to driving The Boyfriend insane. I've already explicitly explained the Elf Story to which I was greeted with looks of pity. The Elf Story is as such. If a person finds out what present they have before the Big Day, one of Santa's Elves will die. Not just a silly little elf-died-in-his-sleep death. Nope. The elf will BLOW UP. The complete lack of Christmas Spirit (TM) causes the poor little elf to literally explode. Now, keep in mind that my mum told me this story when I was three. THREE YEARS OLD. The Boyfriend is now fully informed of the Elf Story so hopefully will not contemplate sneaking around to find his presents.

Now, luckily for the elves, I have plenty of Christmas Spirit (TM) to go around. I'm doing my bit to save as many elves as I possibly can. That includes buying and wrapping presents, singing Christmas songs and continuing my Tinselitis countdown. You know you should join in now. For the elves.

Age is more than a number

I was laying in bed the other night with the boyfriend watching some piece of rubbish on the television when a harrowing realisation hit me. For the past four months, I've steadily grown to accept the fact that I'm 20 years old. It's just one number up from 19, and one number below when I'm allowed to go to Vegas and get drunk, gamble, and marry an Elvis lookalike. But that one fateful night delivered me a crushing blow. I'm not just 20. I'm in my twenties.

I think it hit me pretty hard because the "twenties" are when everything happens. It's when I'm supposed to get a career, get married, sacrifice my vagina and start a family. It's when I have to move out, buy my own food and pay for my own internet. It's when I have to become a proper grown up. I've known it since I was a kid. So now, it all becomes real. I have to become an adult.

That wouldn't feel so impossible if I wasn't chronically childish. Disney makes my world go round. I insist on play fighting with my boyfriend. I can't even get a job, never mind a career. The only "old person" thing I do is bake. I've spent so long avoiding becoming old that it appears to have crept up on me. I might take up knitting now, just to soften the blow.

Contagious Fear

I am a germaphobe. I carry hand disinfectant gel with me at all times. I shower twice a day. I wash my hands frequently. I refuse to touch people who are ill. For as long as I can remember, I have been absolutely terrified of germs, diseases, illness, the whole lot. It's not just a silly little fear.. It's a full on phobia. The mere thought of germs and bacteria makes my skin crawl and me shudder. So it's obviously more than a bit stupid that I went to see Contagion last night.

For an hour before, the entire duration of the film, and six hours after, I refused to touch anything other than my phone. I got home and disinfected my laptop (which is why it's safe for me to use right now) as well as my boyfriend's hands (God knows where those have been). The film absolutely paralysed me with fear, which is undoubtedly the hallmark of a great movie. Except, I doubt the producers/director/screenwriters/cast were expecting a complete germaphobe to walk on up to the cinema, sit down anxiously and nervously watch the entire film (mostly from behind my hands, I must add).

It has done two things to me: First of all, I'm now convinced that my phobia isn't holding me back in life, nor is it irrational. Instead, I'm absolutely convinced that it's good sense. From now on, I shall no longer be embarrassed when I insist that people wash their hands before touching me. I'm doing it for the Greater Good! Secondly, I'm now contemplating a career in science. Not the horrific dissecting-animals-in-a-lab-for-the-fun-of-it science, but the "Hey look! We found a cure!" science. You can be damn sure that if the world is to experience a breakout of strange bat/banana flu as seen in Contagion last night, I'm gonna be first in line for a vaccine (and this is coming from someone who also has a severe needle phobia).

Actually, scrap that. I'm gonna be the type who is actively using myself as a guinea pig to find a cure. I will voluntarily stick experimental medicine into my body if it's going to prove that germs are bad and my phobia/OCD/intelligence was right all along. I'm not dying because Gwyneth Paltrow is a whore. (I should add that this is, to the best of my knowledge, only in Contagion. I have no proof that she's a whore in real life.)

Also, as a side note, Jude Law has an absolutely awful Australian accent. I spent the best part of 45 minutes trying to figure out if he was a Brummie or an Aussie. Awful.

Tinselitis #2: Advent Calendar Galore!

I’m at that stage. I’m walking into shops and suddenly becoming overwhelmed by an intense craving for chocolate. I’m not a big chocolate eater - I’m the obnoxious arsehole who gives back the Easter Eggs people buy me so that they can eat them themselves - but I go batshit crazy for chocolate in the run up to Christmas. For this compulsion, I blame the following:

Advent Calendars

There’s something nostalgic about these things. I remember the excitement each morning brought as a kid.. Wake up, CHOCOLATE TIME, Christmas is one day closer! Maybe I’m trying to desperately recapture those magical childhood moments. Maybe I’m trying to inch myself closer to diabetes. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the stupidly bright packaging and miniature chocolate that taps into some strange part of my brain. Because, you know, bright colours and miniature things are amazing.

Massive Tins of Chocolate

Roses, Celebrations, Quality Street. Three hallmarks of the British Christmas that are completely ignored from January-October. The idea that you can get miniature (see, miniatures rock!) versions of otherwise larger chocolates makes every individual I know go insane. I can eat these miniature delights until I feel sick (which I do. Every. Damn. Year) but there’s something satisfying about that. Also, God help the person who takes the last Malteaser Celebration. I will smite you.

Originally Posted: October 22nd, 2011 at this blog

Baby Wanted

I’m not the most maternal of people. At school, I was forced to endure two torturous weeks of work experience at a nursery where I spent my entire time disinfecting myself whenever a kid came near me. If kids touch me, I have to wash my hands (who knows what diseases those miniature humans have?!) and I refuse to entertain the idea of ruining my body and life for one of them. But around this time of year, I suddenly get a huge craving for a baby. Only for one day, mind. Halloween.

See, my mum’s pregnant (apparently, two drama queen daughters aren’t enough for her) but she timed it crappily and the baby won’t be here until the end of November. So I can’t dress up the kid as a pumpkin or gremlin or gnome for the big, made up day. So unless I can find someone who’s willing to loan me their brat for a day, I won’t be able to fulfill these epic daydreams…

WARNING: The following may persuade you to steal a kid for a day. Don’t do it. The trouble you’ll get into is just not worth it for one of these disease carriers. Okay?!

The Jersey Short

Now I’m not exactly the biggest fan of these Jersey Shore types (I’ve never even seen the rubbish) but if you just so happen to have a few miniature humans lying around on the 31st, you could do worse than dress them up as Snooki et al. Just pray they don’t have the same attitude problems.

Baby Wacko

Inappropriate? Yes. Hilarious? Without a doubt. Fake ‘fro, Thriller red jacket, and weird noises no one understands. Baby Michael Jackson could probably even learn the Moonwalk if you had enough patience.

Baby Einstein

 The above photograph requires no additional dialogue.

McBaby

I’ll be stalking the interweb over the next week to find some more epic costumes and possibly a baby to borrow.

Originally Posted: October 19th, 2011 at this blog

Tinselitis

I know we haven’t even reached Halloween yet (crappy, made up holiday) but I’m already planning for Christmas. Ten weeks. 10. Ten weeks until I reach the happiest day of my year. Ten weeks until I come crashing down to earth with a crappy realisation that it’s all over.

I will whole-heartedly confess that I am 100% a Christmas addict. I have tinselitis, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve spent the past few weeks months planning the entire day in my head. I’ve drawn up a full, comprehensive list of what TV shows and movies to watch once November rolls around and it’s somewhat acceptable for me to admit to watching them day-in, day-out (Miracle on 34th Street first, followed by Love Actually). I’ve planned how to decorate my Christmas cupcakes. I’ve fantasised about miraculously winning the lottery over the next few weeks so that I can actually afford to buy the presents I have planned to buy for the people I can’t escape my family. I admit, I’m addicted. And soon, you will be, too.

The giant tree at Trafalgar Square, the Regent Street decorations, the never-ending loop of Last Christmas in shopping centres…I look forward to it all year. And here marks the beginning of my 10-week blog countdown to The Big Day. You’ll hate me by the time December reaches. But you’ll learn to love me again in time for next year.


Originally Posted: October 14th, 2011 at this blog