Chapter Twenty Four; The Attack of the Modesty Nazi

I feel sorry for my children.

And not because their parents are divorced. I feel sorry for them because their mother is a nut. And not a loony nutty, unfortunately I am completely sane (I say unfortunately because I literally have no convenient excuse for the off the wall commentary that often falls out of my face.) And being a nut isn’t bad. The problem is I am an opinionated nut. And opinionated nuts, well, we have opinions. And we are nutty enough to tell you what they are. Like it or not.

Last week a letter arrived at my home. From my daughter’s Catholic school.

The content of this correspondence was intended to inform the parents that the upcoming graduation dance is upon us. Okay good. I can use a reminder letter from time to time. I am blonde. I’ll take it. I note date, time, etc. All the logistics. Got it.

And then I hit the paragraph on attire “requirements.”

“Please be informed that the dress for this dance is to be reserved in nature. The boys are to wear button down shirts, dress pants and ties.”

And had I been the mother of a son it all would have ended here. But oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no. Little did I know, the girls at my daughter’s Catholic school are in danger of becoming heathen harlots who must be closely monitored by the modesty Nazis.

The next two paragraphs proceeded to outline instructions that her principal obviously photocopied out of Good Housekeeping circa 1958:

“When choosing your daughter’s attire for the evening please note: hems are to be below the knee, hair is to be done modestly, no spaghetti straps or strapless dresses are allowed without an appropriate shawl or sweater, make up shall be applied lightly, and all jewelry is to be subtle and not flashy.”

Jewelry? Too flashy? Isn’t that the purpose of jewelry? To add a little flash? What do they think I’m going to have her wear around her neck? A knock off of the hope diamond? Or perhaps I should make sure she’s all pimped out in no less than ten gold chains? Or maybe they’re worried about her donning full sleeve tattoos and a dog collar?

After reading this I was half tempted to dress my daughter up like a call girl and march her into the dance while belting Reba’s classic, “Here’s your once chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.”

Give me a break, give me a break, break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.

I take this parenting gig seriously. I could be driving a Lincoln Navigator with the money I voluntarily choose to invest in her educational and spirtual upbringing. Or maybe I just send her to Catholic school for show because obviously I can’t decide what is and is not respectiable attire for my own child without micromanagerial monitoring or blatant instruction from the prude police. According to the implications of this letter, she runs around town in sexy stilettos and daring Daisy Dukes when she is not in a school uniform.

I sat on the archaic letter for a few days in order to let myself calm down/hatch a plan/plot revenge.

Two days later I left a voicemail for Mr. Piously Proper Principal. And no, I did not leave a message diplomatically letting him know I am capable of discerning for myself what is and is not appropriate dress for my own child.

Oh no, not nutty opinionated me.

I offered to chaperone.

After all, I can't think of a more perfect place to don my new leather mini skirt, sequin tank top, fishnet stockings, and four inch black boots.

Can you?