Teachers have a tough time enjoying an adventurous personal life when they reside in the same counties as their schools. Mothers of students can appear anywhere at any time, especially when you are a first-year teacher hoping to snag some parental votes of confidence. During the summer before my raucous debut in the classroom, I once ran my cart into a nice lady and her son near an endcap of kinky lubricants at the Wal-Mart. I didn’t mean to—I was moving my new thongs over so my beer and tampons wouldn’t wrinkle them up. The woman thinly disguised her annoyance and disdain with a toothless smile to acknowledge my fervent apologies. I didn’t think of the incident again until she brought her son to Open House in my classroom before the first day of school. I just hoped Cart Lady couldn’t see my thong line through my new skirt.
The most bizarre parental confrontation happened at a bar FAR AWAY from where I taught. Mr. Jenn and I were newly married, rearing his two kids, and dedicated to lascivious date nights on our weekends off from parenthood. I was dressed like a whore in attire unbefitting an educator, and Mr. Jenn was all pimped out in fresh khakis, a Hawaiian shirt, and a gold chain bracelet. While we were wearin’ it out on the dance floor, the DJ announced a CONTEST! Since both of us were drunk as hell interested in spicing things up, we perked up and listened carefully to the directions. Mr. Jenn had to lay flat on the floor, and I had to insert an orange into his pants leg. I had to then maneuver said orange up and AROUND and out the other pants leg—with my face. As the DJ handed me the prize for first place, I looked straight into the smirking face of Cart Lady, sitting across the way. This time, I think it was highly likely she had seen my thong.