School Night Antics

I'm kinda annoyed right now. I wrote this fabulously succinct post about 'school night antics', otherwise known as 'shirking responsibility', and Blogger decided to be an ass and not save my document.

Thus I now start again with less enthusiasm. Perhaps because I feel thoroughly robbed of the good twenty minutes it took to write the original post.
Anyway,  rant over.  I'll simmer in private,  victimize ants and kick dirty clothes all over the living room.
So 'school night antics' is a summation of my predisposed notions of tucking in at night,  eating peanut butter and watching television versus exploring other options despite the alarm clock due to blow my mind in four or five hours time.
Perhaps childhood instilled the deep seated need to be indoors from Monday to Friday rather than soaking up the possibilities of after dark entertainment. But the ill-conceived belief that my head might explode if I stay up past bedtime has been shattered.
I went out. On a school night. And the world didn't end. 
However, on this new journey of self discovery I've entered into in recent months,  it's become clear that although my body appears to be up to the task of partying me into the wee hours and still functioning like a sensible adult the next day, my common sense sometimes gets left behind. Thus a few delicious cocktails,  wine,  dinner and a barrel of laughs with good friends = I totally forgot I was my own designated driver. Needless to say that I now welcome the possibility of new experiences, explore options that may offer brief glimpses of belly-clutching laughs and face-changing smiles,  but the trick is not to get lost in the vastness of forgotten responsibility.
What say you? 
Have a good one everyone,

Kristy ;)

Kristy Berridge ... Just ... Gone

Christina & Me

Hello all, long time no post!

I've been wrapped up in author interviews, book releases and book reviews lately, so you haven't really had a chance to take a stroll in the whacky world of me.

Well, a lot has happened since we chatted last. My younger brother claims that I have finally become a woman since breaking the virginal status and claiming my first tattoo. And can I just say ... never again!

Aman & Christina

Don't get me wrong, I adore the design and can't praise my tattooist highly enough, but bloody hell, whoever says it doesn't hurt really is full of s@#$t.

Christina, Me & Chantelle

Okay, so besides getting inked up, something I took thirty-one years to carefully consider, I didn't exactly sit back and plan last Saturday night. I mean, you know me. I'm the girl that sits in front of her laptop, eats peanut butter and goes to the gym for fun.

Apparently not anymore.

Can someone say Vodka Soda?

Oh yeah. Mix calorie reduced alcohol with the infectious desire to have fun emanating from my single female friends  and all of a sudden I'm throwing on a black mini, tousling my hair, slapping on lipstick and heading out to a nightclub.

Pick your chins up off the floor! I know it's a foreign concept but I swear it happened and have no idea why I haven't let my hair down sooner. I honestly had so much fun it's ridiculous. The pleasant hum of too much spirits robbed me of inhibition and blighted the otherwise unsightly blisters formed from hours of dancing. I inhaled the cheap aftershave of men far too young for me and attempted to sing along to a band I'd never heard of until that night. Naturally I was insanely humourous and managed to avoid a hang over. All in all the night was a massive success  thanks in massive part to best girlfriends who refused to leave the Hobbit behind when it came to experiencing any and all illicit activity.

Next Saturday? I'll keep you posted.

Have a good one,

Kristy :)

Pocahontas - Part II

So I promised I would regale you all with my tale of becoming Pocahontas. If you haven't read my post about two weeks ago then you can check it out here, but if you have then you might be wondering how my night went.

A quick recap - I, Kristy Berridge, was invited to an eighteenth birthday party filled with bar hopping Disney characters. Minnie Mouse, Esmeralda, Cruella and Tinkerbell were along for the ride - my friends dressed in their most favoured of the Disney bunch, the aim - to party on into the wee hours of the morning.

Mission accomplished for some.

First off, you may recall that the dress code was 'slutty Disney'. I had no idea how to make Pocahontas slutty, I mean she already wears next to nothing, I was already doing the character a favour by adding a bra and a pair of shoes to the ensemble. Team that with a pair of Spanx and a much longer dress and Pocahontas was practically running the convent, so I guess I blew it in that regard.

Moving onto the initial stages of the night and I find myself arguing with a bouncer outside when of my cities busiest nightclubs. The big guy won't let me in, not because I look like a super tool but because he wanted to card me. Naturally at thirty I don't even bother carrying ID since it's been about ten years since someone, anyone mistook me for a teen. Perplexed, I stood there adamant that he take a closer look at me, observe my wrinkles and the credit card in my wallet otherwise unobtainable unless age appropriate.

Ten minutes later and I'm standing on the curb outside by myself, angrily dialing hubby to fetch me my driver's licence. Twenty minutes after that and I'm shoving it under the big guy's nose with a, 'Ha! Told you I was over eighteen!'. He didn't especially give a crap and waved me on in.

The rest of the night passed by in a blur, drinking out of tea pots, riding the party bus, watching other people dance, frowning at the too loud music, getting groped by unknowns and of course, exiting the scene by no later than 11.00pm. That's right, I carried my tired feet and grandma-eye-baggies back to my hotel room, sent a quick text to John Smith (hubby) and was fast asleep by midnight.

All in all, a great night was had by all, even if I once again proved why this thirty year old usually stays home on a Saturday night.

Have a great weekend everyone,

Kristy :)

Pocahontas

Do you remember when you were a little girl and you used to hide in your mother's closet, trying on all her clothes, playing with her lipstick and draping yourself in enough jewelry to sink the Titanic? (Forget I just said that if you're a boy ... unless you're a fan of that sort of thing)
Well I do, and truthfully, I thought I'd never be able to play dress-ups without enduring public ridicule until I recently received an invite to a friend's eighteenth birthday - the ultimate free pass!
The theme is Disney - to dress as any character that takes your fancy, and honestly, I thought (and still think) this is the most exciting concept on the planet. Not only does the thirty year old (me) get to hang out with the young-ins on a pub crawl, but I also get to trawl through Google images in search of the perfect Disney ensemble and spend hubby's money buying it.
Kidding.
Anyway, I decided on Pocahontas on account of my long, dark hair and the fact that I'd rather wear a loin cloth in the decidedly feral summer heat  than pour myself into a ball gown and call myself a princess.
With the decision made, I was aghast when a new piece of information was sent via text, crumbling my Disney fantasy. Not only was I supposed to be a seemingly innocent tribal daughter, hugging trees and whispering to the wind and all that crap but apparently now I was supposed to be slutty one at that! I mean, how on earth do you make Pocahontas look easy? Show John Smith my furs?
Yes, the looming question mark of whether or not I will actually debase Walt Disney's beloved character is still a mystery. I suspect after a few hours of cocktails and three bucketfuls of sweat staining the armpits of my new outfit that Pocahontas may just take a few clothes off merely to avoid expiration.
Watch this space ...

Kristy :)

Resolutions

Happy New Year one and all and thanks as always for stopping by my blog and reading my reviews, commenting on my antics and generally spreading the good word about my writing!

So, it's a new year, filled with hope and the promise of fulfilling drunkenly promised resolutions. Naturally the disappointment of failing my own obligations won't come around this year as I didn't actually resolve to do anything.
Shocking, right? Not exactly.
While most of you clinked glasses, sloshed some wine and stumbled pant-less down a public stairwell while trying to escape the drunken groping of that crazy guy from the IT department, I was fast asleep, undoubtedly snoring and thanking the mystical ghost of New Year's present that I would not be forced to spend extra time on the treadmill or take up French Cookery. I mean let's face it, resolutions require effort and I'd rather be eating the Creme Caramel and snuggling up on the sofa watching inappropriate reality television than adding to my already hectic schedule.
Why the negativity you say? Simple. I have merely come to accept that my thighs may one day have their own zip code, my hair will never co-operate while I live in the tropics and I simply cannot be nicer to children or old men wearing cowboy hats and driving twenty miles under the speed limit.

But to those of you brave enough to attempt world peace and reducing carbon emissions one fart at a time, I say good for you and good luck!
Happy New Year!

Kristy :)

The Hobbit Lets Loose - Or Does She?

You have probably often heard me refer to myself as a Hobbit, mostly on account of my lacking social skills and fear of my neighbours. I love the solitude of reading books, writing my novels, and generally staying indoors where it's dry, safe, and absent of confrontation.
Don't get me wrong, I do go out occasionally. In fact, a few months ago I was out until two in the morning at the clubs, dancing until my feet hurt and sweating so much I slid all the way home and collapsed into bed by three.
I do have fun ... when I get there.
The problem for me is getting motivated. The idea of going out seems like a lot of work and I'm more of a button pusher than a doer. I keep thinking about how long it will take to shower and put make-up on, how long it will take me to choose an outfit after I scream and cry about my thighs for a few hours. And then of course, I think about the giant waste of money spent on watered down drinks, the too loud music aimed at deflecting any and all conversation, and the dirty old men that leer at your butt when you walk on by.
Alas, a colleague of mine finished up at work the other day and he decided to have good bye drinks at a local bar. After my sorry excuse for a showdown with my thighs, I finally bit the bullet, let my brother-in-law choose my outfit to negate drama, didn't bother doing anything with my hair, and lightly re-applied the make-up I was already wearing.
Two hours later I was in the car on the way home again.
It was too bloody hot, the music was too loud, and I saw Jesus ordering drinks at the bar - that just aint right. Oh, and I stopped for ice cream ... twice.
Needless to say that leaving the house is a fattening activity with little highlight. On the upside? I got to say goodbye to my friend and give him a sqidgy before he departed. I also got my sugar rush and a quiet ride home.
Yes. I am a sorry excuse for an under thirty.

Hobbit - out. :)