Prom-iscuity not allowed at this all-night party
By Mark W. Mayfield
Throughout my illustrious career as a gullible father, I've made my share of stupid mistakes, one of which was volunteering to "chaperone" a group of rowdy sixth-grade boys during a three-day "learning trip" to a mountain retreat. I later learned that "chaperone" is an old French word that means "unsuspecting parent who experiences two consecutive nights of insomnia because several very rude, remarkably flatulent 11-year-old boys in nearby sleeping bags are loudly singing that classic old campfire song 'Beans, Beans, the Magical Fruit' while they shamelessly prove the validity of the lyrics."
But that regrettable lapse of parental judgment pales in comparison to something I did a few weekends ago. (At this point, Mark begins to sob because it's difficult to publicly admit that he was so incredibly, inexcusably stupid. He finally regains his composure and bravely continues the column.) During a recent, unexplainable brain outage, I reluctantly approved my daughter's request to invite 27 of her friends (girls and boys) to "hang out" at our house after their prom. When I nervously asked her if "hanging out" had anything to do with the V-neck on her prom dress, she assured me that the term simply means watching movies, eating, talking, eating, playing video games, eating, listening to music, eating, roasting marshmallows, eating, and, of course, eating.
Although it sounded innocent enough, my wife and I knew that such an event requires some rules. Ours were simple and reasonable.
1. No "funny business." (Whenever teenage boys in tuxedos and teenage girls in slinky dresses are placed within a mile of each other, "funny business" is a distinct possibility.)
2. No profanity.
3. No mischievous behavior that would cause a certain dad (me) to violate the "no profanity rule," which I would surely do if I caught any guest playing with my power tools, riding my lawn tractor, spray painting our dogs, sneaking alcoholic beverages onto the premises or engaging in "funny business."
To ensure compliance with those rules, I planned to patrol our premises at regular intervals during the event.
When the kids arrived at approximately 12:30 a.m., they immediately launched a full-scale invasion of the designated snack area. Tons of pizza, deep-fried mozzarella sticks, cookies, cupcakes, brownies, chips, trail mix, and soda disappeared at an alarming rate. My wife was afraid that we would run out of food. I was afraid that if we ran out of food, the prom creatures would devour our furniture. Fortunately, our fears were unfounded.
At 1 a.m., I conducted my first patrol. Most of the kids were still eating and talking. I found no signs of "funny business." I celebrated by eating three slices of cold pizza and a jumbo chocolate-chip cookie.
At 2 a.m., all was still well. A few girls were roasting marshmallows in the backyard, and several boys were playing basketball in the driveway. My dogs were unpainted and my lawn tractor was undisturbed. I celebrated by eating two chocolate cupcakes and a handful of trail mix.
At 3:34 a.m., I inadvertently fell asleep on my feet. When I woke up two minutes later, I frantically ran from the bathroom and patrolled the premises to make sure that no "funny business" had occurred during my brief nap. Fortunately, the guests were still behaving themselves. I celebrated by consuming a large brownie, a can of cola, and two more chocolate-chip cookies.
At 4:48 a.m., as I patrolled the marshmallow roasting area, I spotted a couple that appeared to be on the verge of engaging in a little "funny business." "Okay, break it up, lovebirds," I said, waving my aluminum baseball bat in a threatening manner. The disrespectful delinquents completely ignored me. "Did you hear me?!" I asked with fatherly sternness. When I reached out to grab the boy's arm, I discovered that the "couple" was actually a small tree and a fence post. Sleeplessness, sugar and caffeine were causing me to hallucinate.
At 5:30 a.m., as I watched pretty psychedelic rainbows floating from the coffee maker, I realized that the house had become very quiet. Our guests had finally exhausted their energy supplies. The floor was covered with sleeping, snoring teenagers. My wife and I looked at each other and breathed a collective sigh of relief. We had done the impossible. We had successfully supervised more than two dozen teenagers who undoubtedly had "funny business" on their minds. To celebrate, we shared the last chocolate-chip cookie.
You can e-mail Mark at markmayfield@mindspring.com.
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Los Gatos, California Since 1881
