Conformity is for Dickweeds

Pretty much every day of the week, when I pick my 15 year-old son up from school, he has some sort of comment/critique on my daily blog post. This always makes me stop and think. And wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’d always wanted to write something that my kids could be proud of their mom for. Yup, I know that sentence structure is grammatically abysmal. I used abysmal correctly. I give myself half credit. So bite me.

I didn’t really set out to write a blog full of potty mouth ramble-fests, that would make me the envy of every Stepford Wife in the OC. (I’m not really the envy of anyone.) It just kind of happened that way. (Not really.) Which is pretty much the norm for me. Not much planning, and a whole lot of flying by the seat of my pants. Yes, really.

I’m not saying that I’m bummed that my son reads my blog. He seems to take some sort of pride in his warped mom. I love him for that. He’s the kind of kid that has a lot of pride in the fact that he’s not a generic, cookie-cutter, conformist, OC kid. And I rejoice in this. Honestly. I’ve always felt like the worst thing I could do was fit in, disappear and fade into the background of conformity. Why? We should be rejoicing in our differences, people. Conformity is for douchnozzles. Boring. ass. douchenozzles.

Timing is everything, my darling son. I’m talking to you. There’s a time and place for everything. That’s what cotillion is all about. They teach you how to act in those times. I had to do it. You have to do it. The most important thing I can teach you, is when it’s ok. And when it’s not. Some people take themselves way too seriously. Skirting the edge of conformity… it’s a balance of timing… a dance of sorts. Or for those of us who get a chuckle from the too too serious folks… a game.

I’ve been trying, for several years now, to hammer out an endearing novel with a sweet message that my kids can live by, and be proud of. I’ll finish it some day. I used to pressure myself to get it done, so they would have some nice little message to live by. Like somehow they needed this message to guide them through life. But as I’m watching my kids turn into the amazing individuals that they are, I realize that no matter what I’m doing here, they’re becoming kickass kids who can think for themselves. They’re growing up quite nicely. In spite of me.

I know we’re inappropriate at times. But we laugh. And, more importantly, we love. I had the most wonderful dinner  last night. We enjoyed some family together-time at the Bluewater Grill in Newport Beach. But it wasn’t lovely because it’s my favorite restaurant, in a quiet little location tucked away on Lido Island. Or because my husband and kids were spoiling me for Mother’s Day. Or because I had the creme brulee almost all to myself. It was wonderful because I laughed til I nearly peed. And yes, it was an inappropriate joke. Something about fish sticks. Has anyone else noticed how fish sticks sounds like fish dicks? Me neither, until I had a teenaged boy.

There’s really nothing better than sharing a side-splitting laugh with your 15 year-old son. I see a lot of teenagers looking at their parents like they’re aliens. Or dickweeds. Or alien dickweeds. There’s nothing better than knowing that, for now, he doesn’t think I’m an alien dickweed. Most of the time. And we all enjoy one another, however inappropriate the conversation may be. All I ask is that my kids don’t hurt anyone else, and they don’t hurt themselves. Laughing is the jelly in the doughnuts, y’all. Suck it up.

I hope everyone else had an epic day yesterday. And I hope you laughed til you almost peed too. It’s ok. Conformity is for alien dickweeds.