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 ;)

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 :)

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. :)