I love a good fundraiser.
Tonight, the childcare centre had one.
No! Not a chocolate drive.
No, they organised an 80s themed disco.
Given I am a self-confessed 80s tragic and generally forget to involve myself in fundraisers, I thought we should make a family night of it. And the family will damn well enjoy every moment of it, whether they like it or not!
I donned my favourite – and, if I’m totally honest, only dressup, which is why I only attend 80s/rockstar themed events – Monkey Boy went as an axe murderer again, although we couldn’t think of any particuarly noteable axe murderers or movies featuring axe murderers from the 1980s. I did suggest, if anyone asked, to say he was Jeffrey Dahmer, but Jeff didn’t look like an axe murderer, nor murder anyone with an axe. He looked like a nice young man.
Chippie put his Buzz Lightyear dressup on, then took it off, and put his Thomas the Tank Engine one on. Decades out.
Godzilla coveted my authentic, late 1980s smiley t-shirt, and Grumpy is a grumy arse and refused to cooperate. On the way out, he put on his Acubra hat and tried to tell me he was Crocodile Dundee. Nice try.
We arrive. As we’re getting out of the car, I notice lots of children dressed up, but no adults. I’m slightly taken aback, and a little nervous that I’d be the only adult who went to any effort. In we go anyway. I am beyond caring, despite the sheer amount of Look At Me hot pink that I’m wearing. Oh, and lime green.
I spot a couple of other dressed up mums in the back corner and join them. I take in the room and discover I am the only person over the age of two years wearing a tutu. Nice.
I wiggle to the music at the back of the room for a bit, cuddled Chippie, who’d been taken out by a seven-year-old being chased by, or possibly chasing, my Axe Murderer, got snot all over my too small denim jacket, and gave up and just danced around the dance floor with a bunch of two year olds wearing tutus, lured by the Nutbush.
A few of the other dressed up mums joined in – hurrah! And we had an absolute ball.
Monkey Boy refused to dance with me, stating “Please don’t come near me. Please don’t let anyone know I’m here with you. Please don’t, Mum, please …” I think I nearly made him cry.
I was soon accompanied by a prep-aged child, who had a mother who refused to dance, and I made a point of passing on some Very Important Life Lessons. Namely, the Bus Stop and the correct moves for Stayin’ Alive.
It was with much regret that I was loitering around in the Ladies’ loos, awating Chippie to finish his business, and missed the Macarena entirely.
Then they drew the raffle prizes and had a competition for the best dressed.
It wasn’t me.
Nope, I was ousted by a bubble skirt – although, I really do doth proteest. It wasn’t an authentic, and was, in fact, purchased that very day at Best & Less. Or so I was advised. It didn’t have the same “bubbleness” as the originals do.
But she was also wearing one of those tops that came off both shoulders, lots of plastic beads (which I detested in the actual 80s and still have no desire to own) and … wait for it … leg warmers with pom poms.
I had no hope really.
But I did have an awesomely fun night, with loads of dancing.
AND we were back home my 8.00pm, showered (to wash the lame-not-as-good-as-the-80s coloured hair spray out of my hair) and snuggled down to watch 101 Dalmatians.
Yeah, I know, I ROCK!