Dance hard. Home early.
A monthly dance night for the women who still know every word to Since U Been Gone — and would also like to be in bed by eleven. No bottle service. No 23-year-olds asking if you're someone's mom. (Yes. Just not theirs.)
Somewhere between the last good wedding you went to and a Tuesday at 9 p.m., the version of you who closed down the bar disappeared. She's still in there.
This is the night where she comes back out — for three hours, in good lighting, surrounded by women who also have a 6 a.m. alarm and zero interest in pretending otherwise.
We start at 7. We end at 10. Your hips will hurt tomorrow. Bring Advil. Bring a friend. Leave the kids.
Dance floor warm by 7:15. We don't pre-game. We hydrate. There's a snack table. There's water with electrolytes. You ate at 5:30 with the kids — this is the rest of the evening.
Hard out at 10. We respect the bedtime; the bedtime respects us. Be in your car by 10:20. Be in your skincare routine by 10:45. Asleep before the news wraps.
All bangers, no filler. Yes, Yeah! Yes, Bad Romance. Yes, the Beyoncé song that ends every wedding. We take requests. We do not take "anything by Mumford."
Yes. We respect the sleep. Doors close at 10:15. Be in your car by 10:20. Asleep before the late local news wraps. This is the entire premise — we are not negotiating.
You knew in 2003. Your body remembers. Trust her. The first ten minutes are awkward. The next two hours and forty-eight minutes are not.
Possibly. They've been briefed. The room is not built for them — it's built for us — but partners and friends-of are welcome if they understand the assignment.
Whatever made you feel hot in 2008. Or whatever feels good now. Or jeans and a nice top — the official uniform of the recovering mother. Wear shoes you can actually move in. Heels optional. Sneakers blessed.
Yes. The "Mom" here is more vibe than credential. If you've ever yawned during a 9 p.m. Netflix episode, you qualify. Bring her.
Snacks. Water. Something with electrolytes. This isn't dinner — you ate at 5:30 with the kids. Some venues will have a bar; we'll always note it on the event page.
You will. She'll be sweating too. It's fine. It's actually the best part.
Tickets drop about three weeks before each event — get on the list and you'll be the first to know the price and the venue. We keep it reasonable. You're paying a sitter; we get it.
A small preview. The full playlist drops in our newsletter the week of each event — usually with one regrettable surprise that we stand by.
We'll email you the next date, the venue, the playlist preview, and absolutely nothing else. No funnels. No drip campaigns. We're moms — we don't have time for that either.
No spam. No 6 a.m. wellness newsletters. Pinky swear.