The Sock Hop

My poor children and husband. If there is an occasion of any kind…and I mean any kind…there will be photographs. I will bark orders and physically force folks to comply with my evil compositions.

If there is an opportunity to dress up, my inner-thespian goes on a rampage, rooting relentlessly through my hoard of random items stacked ceiling high in junk rooms and attics, which I saved ‘in case we need it’, and of course, we always do.

So, tonight was a church Sock Hop and Papa Bruce was the DJ. I had to explain, multiple times to the offspring what a ‘Sock Hop’ was. Throughout the day, it was referred to as ‘an 80s party’, ‘the nineties’ and ‘the party for when Papa was born’.

I pulled up Grease on YouTube and in a Google images search to give my clueless younger children a quick and dirty education on the finer points of a decade in which I was merely a sparkle in my daddy’s eye.

I was in two different musicals in high school which took place in the aforementioned era however, so I confidently declared to my progeny that I am, in fact, an expert on the fifties, thank you very much.

I dressed them, poked and prodded them, strangled them with scarves and teased their hair unmercifully. The outcome was so adorable, I almost choked on my pork rinds.

I stayed home, though, because there were Sunday School lessons to prepare and teenage speeches to proofread and also two very grumpy Komodo Dragons to gently coax into hibernation.

Anyone who knows me very well, knows that sleeping times for twins are sacred events. There must be a funeral, an emergency involving bodily harm or an exorcism to convince me to leave the house with the beasts in tow during a time which will over-lap with a nap or bedtime.

Anyway, here are the the fruits of the labor. My winsome Sock Hoppians.

…or ‘office workers’ which is how Harleigh refers to people in 50s get-up. 🤷‍♀️