A new meaning for the term "Open House"

Hmm. Scorching heat. 15 hour days. AC on the fritz. Dry cleaning bills. Working four weeks before you see a paycheck. Yes, it must be open house time!

So Youngfella teaches next door to me. Nice guy. Last year at open house, he went through three-fourths of the night before he realized his fly was unzipped, and boy, did the other loud, juvenile Neanderthals social studies staff give him the razzing of his young life for the rest of the year.

So we're sitting there waiting for yet another hellish, mind-numbing experience chance to bond with the parents, goofing around in my colleague the Guitar God's room (He and I play together in the faculty band, and I've forgiven him for preferring the Stones to the Beatles-- he's young, he'll learn some day.) In walks Youngfella, lookin' sharp in crisp black slacks, gray shirt, blue tie. He sits down on a desk, and I see a flash of gray below the belt. Could it be?

It's the mother in me. I can't help it.

"Hey, Poohbear. XYZ." I tried to say it quietly. Yes, he had done it again.

He blushes and closes the ol' barn door. My colleagues begin to ki-yipe to the heavens. Total mayhem. Then they start harshing on me for warning the poor young sap. Can you imagine the fallout if he'd done it two years in a row???

He has been sufficiently worshipful of me in the days since, as is my due as the only kind-hearted soul in the department.