Search Terms

So, I’m sitting here watching Armageddon while my kids have rest time… And I was perusing the different things that people have searched for that got them here, and, uh… We need to address this. People, quite obviously, are strange. For your viewing pleasure, here are some noteable ones… And if you got here via one of these searches, we won’t hold it against you.

(Search terms are bold – my commentary is un-bold)

• if i have conversations with myself am i schizophrenic: Well, that depends, dear friend. Are you arguing or just conversing? Either way, you’re in the right place. Hope you stuck around.
• give me poop: I’m fresh out. I hope you found what you were looking for.
• birth day party gift by fucking: May I suggest a Hallmark card?
• moms i’d like to fuck daisy: Well, thanks! I’m.. honored?
• how to make c section go smoother: Well this makes sense. Good luck!
• walking like a 90 year old woman after a c section: This makes sense, too.
• car stickers for single people: Seriously? You want to put a single, solitary stick figure on your car? Just buy an ipod and slap the apple on it.
• i just love daisies: I do, too. I also love babies and strawberries and people that don’t suck.
• daisy cooks: I sure fuckin’ do.
• can you buy premade hummus: For many reasons, this made me laugh. Have you never been to a grocery store? That being said, my hummus is homemade. Straight from the package into a bowl.
• sex stick people car stickers: Like, stick figures engaged IN coitus?
• screw your stick figure family: I hope you stuck around.
• everything just seems pointless what’s everything?: texting you and sitting here wondering: Who searches for this? Seriously? I thought the emo movement was over.
• violet inappropriate: She sure can be. We love her, though.
• pee her pants purpose: FIVE people have searched for this. Seriously?
• peinis picturs: Who let their 10 year old and her friends on the computer?
• class 4 narcotic: We are in no way medical professionals. Proceed at your own risk.
• baby poo lots breastfed: Yup, that can happen!
• daisy a vagina: I’ll just shake my head and wonder at this one.
• corned beef hash joke: There are jokes about corned beef hash? I’m missing out.
• does chicken kitchen curry sauce have mayo: Much to Violet’s dismay.. It does.
• if you would listen mommy wouldn’t have to loose her shit: I agree!
• daddy issues oral fixation: And this is a good example of why we don’t post pictures of our children. Thanks!
• morphine in a c sections whore out during surgery?: Uh…………… Personally, I didn’t whore out during my c-section…
• fat girls at prom: Hmm.
• neighborhood children girls let out blood-curdling screams when playing outside: Are you throwing things at them?
• intensity not your mothers vibrator: Hope you found what you were looking for!
• families who want to be naked: Hello to our nudist readers.
• i toss my stepmom salad: I *really* hope you mean a salad consisting of vegetables.
• stick figure car decals woman with cats: Maybe you and the person looking for “single people decals” should hang out.
• can i work out on the elliptical while on pelvic rest: Yeah, that’s a good idea.
• daisy kick boxing: Nope.
• lots of cats stick figure car: Sigh.
• pictures of gay stick figures families: Wouldn’t two males or two females as the parents suffice?
• people who are obsessed with working out every morning before work: I’ll take “Violet” for $1000, Alex.
• driving daisy naked: I drive clothed, thank you.
• babies”r”us is filled with useless crap: That, it is.
• daisy topped nipples martha stewart: Martha Stewart’s nipples. *Shudder*
• should i let my ex hussnd in for my c section: Is it his kid? If not, nope.
• fuck off i want an elective c section: Have fun with that!
• are playtex drop ins safe for baby: No. They are covered in rat poison. Playtex is trying to control the population. (sarcasm, don’t sue me, Playtex!)
• daisy shit in the kitchen: I assure you, I didn’t.
• does military get wedding anniversary off: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH Yeah, sure. They also throw you an anniversary party.
• poop stained shirt.: We’ve all been there.
• what the fuck is a trimester: I hope you aren’t breeding.

Keep on searchin’. Makes us laugh.

-Daisy

Who said you could grow up so fast?

So sometime in the next few days, we will be celebrating some birthdays around here. Diva & Intuitive will be turning 7 years old.

 

Seven.

 

If I had broken a mirror on the day they were born, I’d be free of the bad luck.

 

Looking back, 7 years doesn’t seem like such a long time. Some days felt long, sure, but all thrown together, it’s just a clusterfuck of days and moments and minutes and seconds and memories. There were highs, there were lows. There were diapers. Oh, were there diapers. Sorry, landfills. I contributed quite a bit to the world being full of trash.

 

When I think back to the early days, it kind of feels like it was someone else in a whole different life. Are these two KIDS the same premature babies that couldn’t breathe or eat when they were born? Seriously? They were two mini little baby type things, and now they are, like, human-pseudo-grownups.

 

For real, who let that happen? Who said it was ok for them to sit up, crawl, walk, talk, THINK? I don’t recall giving them the ok to do all this shit. They are self sufficient, free thinkers.. With likes and dislikes, ideas and theories, strengths and weaknesses. I don’t know when these things happened. They are honor roll students, their teachers love them, they have oodles and oodles of friends.. It’s a crazy trip to see them interacting like miniature grown up humans.

 

I find something new to be proud of every single day, and I know I always will.

 

Diva, my brainy little princess, you came into the world squealing, making your presence known. I’m proud to be your mommy, and I can’t wait to see you grow up. Keep writing and reading and imagining things. Keep thinking up crazy “scenes” that you think would make great movies or tv shows. You can do it all.

Intuitive, my sweet little giggling princess, your laugh is impossible to ignore, and one of my favorite sounds. You do things your way, and you are one of the most stubborn people I know – don’t ever lose that. You are amazing and strong-willed, and I can’t wait to see where that takes you in life. I’m always here.

 

With that, I’m gonna go cry in my coffee. Happy tears, because my babies are growing and becoming amazing people… but there will be some sad tears, too.. I’ll never get those days back, and sometimes, I just wish I could.

 

 

Daisy cooks, too.

Now, I know Violet has been the resident recipe poster, but I can get down with some cooking too. Violet asked me to share a few little tips and tricks that I’ve shared with her, so here you go..

I have great eaters. I really can’t complain, they will eat just about anything. Why? Not sure. Is it luck? Did I expose them to different foods when they were young, via my eating habits & breastmilk? Who knows. Maybe a good combo of both. Even with my great eaters, one of which (Diva) lists raw broccoli as one of her favorite foods, I still like to sneak in even MORE vegetables than they would normally eat.

Funny story, when Diva & Intuitive were about 2 or so, we were grocery shopping, strolling through the produce section, in fact. Diva begins a full on tantrum because she thought I didn’t put broccoli in the cart. Can you imagine this little pig-tailed girl, screaming her little brains out because she thought that mean old mommy DIDN’T get broccoli? The laughter coming from the other shoppers was pretty excellent when they realized that she was yelling for broccoli.

Anyways, “hiding” veggies in meals isn’t a new concept. There are cookbooks written on the subject. These are just some of the things that I’ve done.

Making spaghetti? Using jar sauce? Good shit, go for it. Whenever I make it, I will use a large grater and grate a few carrots, some squash, zucchini, finely cut spinach. Dump the jar of sauce in a big saucepan and dump the veggies in, simmer it all while your pasta is cooking. The veggies will cook down, and be completely unnoticed by even the pickiest eaters. My kids KNOW I do this, and couldn’t care less!

Tacos? Grate some of the same veggies into the meat while you’re cooking it. Same concept as the sauce, noone will notice.

Has your kiddo said no to baby food? Is she ready for the real stuff? Don’t worry. I’m sure you have 8 million extra jars of baby food sitting around, so USE them for your cooking. Dump a jar of carrots into your spaghetti sauce. Any veggie, really. Have some fruit ones? Make your kiddo some PLAIN oatmeal, and put some in the oatmeal.

Sneaking good stuff in is easy. It’s easy, and no one will ever know.

You’ll probably feel kinda bad ass for pulling a fast one on your family.

Any other ways you guys sneak some good stuff in? Let us know!

-Daisy

It’s raining.

It’s raining, and that makes me sleepy.

Did you know you can have bronchitis and not have any signs of a cold? I didn’t. Until yesterday morning, anyways. After 3 or 4 weeks of wheezing and not being able to breathe, I was sent to the ER by Terry. Yeah, I know. I should take care of myself. Gotcha. In my defense, the not breathing and wheezing thing was only at night and in the morning, and I really thought it was just allergies.

It wasn’t.

I also didn’t know that if you bust through the ER doors and can’t breathe, and your wheezing sounds like you’re breathing and speaking through a broken kazoo, the nurse at the front desk won’t take your name and tell you to go sit in the waiting room. You go right on in. 45 minutes later, I was done with the chest x-rays and onto the nebulizer. Ah, sweet nebulizer. Made me feel like I had guzzled about 27 redbulls and 4 pots of coffee, but I could BREATHE again. Little while later, Doc came back in, told me my x-rays were clear, and I had bronchitis.

I said “HUH?” I’m not sick. I was then schooled in the “Bronchitis is when your bronchii are inflamed and you can’t breathe.” (Or something like that. I was equal parts sleepy and jittery. Interesting combo)

Off I went to drop off my prescriptions for steroids (there goes my Olympic career) and an inhaler. Breathing is nice. Really nice.

 

By the way, this inhaler is super cool. It has a little countdown-to-empty thingie that goes down with every puff. The little thing that covers the mouth piece is connected, so I can’t lose it.  I feel like Daisy, the Super Nerd. It’s the lttle things, eh? I’m also doing the Queen Bee (my great-grandmother, remember?) thing, and conserving my inhaler. 2 puffs 4 times a day? No, no, my friends. 2 puffs 2 times a day, max. Make it last!

 

Please send me some pocket protectors and suspenders, ok?

 

-Daisy, the Super Nerd.

To the holier than thou. Love, Daisy.

Dear Holier Than Thou Mothers…

 

I concede. I am obviously not worthy of the title of “Mother.” I fully accept this, and am moving on. (can you feel me rolling my eyes? I am.)

 

In a minute.

 

First, I shall lay out some fresh beats and bust a quick rhyme. (Or I’ll just explain myself. What-the-fuck-ever.)

 

1. Stretch Marks: If I say I have stretch marks, it doesn’t mean I hate my children, and wish I would have adopted so I could keep my svelte 18-year-old body. It means I have stretch marks. Did they appear during my pregnancy? Yes. Do I resent my children for “giving” them to me? No, I resent my genealogy, since that shit is genetic. Following up a comment (or just making a comment) about *YOUR* stretch marks by saying something along the lines of

“My stretch marks are SO worth it, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, because they show me EVERYDAY that I brought an amazing, spectacular, gorgeous, fantastic, BRILLIANT angel into the world, and saying I don’t like them would be like SACRIFICING MY PERFECT CHILD TO “The Others” on Lost. I LOVE MY STRETCH MARKS.”

Yeah. Soooooooo. I get it. The big ol’ cross on your back is super bright and shiny. I get it. You are MOTHER, hear you roar.

I still think MY stretch marks suck, but, uh, more power to you. You must be a better mother than me.

 

2. The “When I have Children…” People: Do I even NEED to address you crazy asses? I will never meet the imaginary standard you have set. In the imaginary world that you and your imaginary children live in, I’m sure that everything is rainbows and unicorns and skipping through fields of wildflowers, with the scent of fresh jasmine filling the air. There are playdates with other imaginary friends, and children that don’t wet themselves, poop themselves, talk back, refuse to eat, cry incessantly for no reason.. They sleep through the night, from 8pm to 9am. You do everything right.

 

How can I compete with that?

Pop out a few, and then tell me if all your imaginary plans came true. I implore you. Do it.

 

3. The Ones Who Do It All.. and Then Some: Now, these.. Sometimes (most of the time) I just don’t believe them.

No, I don’t think that you can take care of 5 children, home-school them, milk the goats out back, make homemade yogurt, clean your house, take care of the pets, manage a business, do 4 loads of laundry, (in all natural, homemade laundry soap, naturally) sprout your quinoa, read 8 stories to your children, take them to the neighborhood park, then to the YMCA for swimming lessons, then to the library…… ALL BEFORE LUNCH.

Screw you. You’re lying, this doesn’t happen. Your attempts to make us “lesser mothers” feel like shit might work for a while… but eventually, we’ll all realize that you don’t really have your shit together, and you actually throw some Gerber Puffs on the floor in the living room and turn on Spongebob, and then go watch your “stories” on your laptop.

Why lie? Fess up, homegirls.

 

 

4. The Exaggerators: You know the one. That one woman who you see at your Gymboree Music class. The one who tells you about all the advanced shit her brilliant diaper dweller does.

“Sooo.. Is your son walking yet? No? Hmm. That’s weird. Perfectly normal, I’m sure. My little prince is just really advanced for his age. His doctor has even said so. He started walking at 4 months old, canyoubelieveit?! Yeah, so now at 8 months, it’s just amazing, but, well, I don’t normally tell people this, but.. We had his IQ tested. He scored pretty well. I don’t like to brag, but his IQ is 865. Yeah. So, he’s SMART. He started reciting Shakespeare last night. It was amaaaaazing.”

Listen, bitch. Your kid craps his diaper, just like mine did. He isn’t a fucking genius. He didn’t start walking at 4 months old. His IQ isn’t 865. He’s a normal baby. Enjoy him as such, because one, he will wise up and not want to hang out with you, because you suck.

 

 

And with that, I will bid you farewell.

 

For now.

 

I’m going to go wallow in the fact that I’m just not as good as all of you Holier Than Thou moms out there.

Fondly, Daisy.

 

Smelly, Happy Violet

I’m officially addicted to the gym.

Every morning, before work, I head to the gym at 5:00 am. I do a bit of cardio, then some weight training, before I head to the locker room to shower and dress for the day. Last week, I slept through my alarm and woke up with just enough time to shower and dress before work, and I had to miss the gym. It ruined my whole day: I was irritable and tired because I didn’t get my morning adrenaline rush.

I love my private time at the gym. (And not just because I can shower without a toddler whining in the background.) My work outs put me in touch with my body. I feel every stretch, strain, and ache. I can feel my endurance picking up. I used to hate with a passion dislike running. I would fast-walk on an incline on the treadmill, but if I tried to run, I’d last MAYBE a minute. Maybe. Yesterday, after 30 minutes of high-intensity cardio on the elliptical machine, I headed over to the treadmill for what I thought would be my cool-down. I was bored at my medium walking pace, so I upped the ante and started running. I kept my finger on the speed button, assuming that I’d need to slow down after a minute or so. Three minutes later, I was still running strong. Two minutes after that, I felt a little tired and reduced my speed, but that only lasted a minute or two. I was in awe of myself. Never in my life could I do that before.

In my pre-baby days, I was a gym rat. I had a personal trainer for a while, and I’d go to the gym religiously after work. (Back then, I would sleep until the absolute last minute before I had to get up and go to work. Morning workouts were for early birds and dedicated people, of which I was neither.) The staff all knew me on a first-name basis. I was fit and healthy. (But I still couldn’t run.) When I learned I was pregnant, my OB put me on “pelvic rest” because Pterodactyl hadn’t implanted correctly, and at the top of the No-No List was working out. Once I received clearance to return to my exercise routine, I was so out-of-shape and under-motivated that I just quit. That’s how I managed to gain 51 pounds during my pregnancy; I was a slug. My couch cushions had a better workout than me by simply supporting my fat ass. I’ve been fighting my body all 12 months of the baby’s life to get back into my stylish pre-pregnancy clothes. I’m finally winning.

The gym is my place, during my time. I’m nobody’s mother, wife, teacher, or friend. I’m just me. I can read my Kindle while doing my cardio without interruption. I can focus on my needs entirely, even if it’s just for an hour a day. I sweat, I stink, and I smile.

What do you do when you need “Me Time?” Do you exercise like me? Do you scrapbook/knit/paint? Shop?

An Ode to the Women Who Tolerate Us

Daisy and I were chatting today about friendship.

Well, not ours. We’re not friends; we’re heterosexual life partners.

We were talking about adult relationships with our childhood friends.

You see, Daisy and I each have one  friend who’s survived the murky waters of childhood, adolescence, those nasty teenage years, the rebellious post-high school mess, and adulthood. (Or, as Daisy puts it, “…friends since before I had hair on my twat.”) We call these two women, respectively, our best friends. And they are. But they almost weren’t.

Daisy’s Pre-Pube-Hair buddy surfaced in early elementary school. They went to middle school together, although she attended a different high school from Daisy and me. Even though this woman went to college several hundred miles away from Daisy, they maintained their friendship. Daisy confesses that their friendship endured some tumultuous times when their life paths drifted apart: Daisy jumped on the Weeds-esque suburban housewife train, while this woman pursued her education and then her career. Single and childless, she has made dramatically different life choices from Daisy.

My childhood BFF and I met in fifth grade. We played dolls together, took dance lessons together, and attended middle and high school together, only to part for undergrad. This woman has always been my “Jimminy Cricket,” so to speak. Unlike most people, I literally have an angel and a devil living on my shoulders, whispering suggestions into my ear. If Daisy is the devil, this woman is, and always was, the angel. I would skip school with Daisy during the day, then go to this girl’s house at night to cram for an AP exam. She and I are on similar life paths: we’re both wives and mothers, we have the same levels of education, and we’re in the same profession. In spite of all our commonalities, our friendship entered a decline.

Why does this happen, Daisy and I mused. How can we share so much history with these women, and harbor so much pure love for them, but not have the same quality of friendship we once shared? In Daisy’s case, she speculates that their diverging life plans kept them too preoccupied with different priorities to make time for one another. Between me and my Six Foot Conscience, we simply became too wrapped up in the day-to-day banalities of teaching, motherhood, and social obligations to remember to pick up the phone. These are simply excuses, and it doesn’t justify allowing our friendships to lapse like a magazine subscription you swear you’re going to renew.

Recent events have thrust these women back into our lives. Daisy and her friend have reconnected over – you guessed it – babies. This woman recently became an Auntie, and Daisy guided her through “What To Expect When Someone You Love Is Expecting.” The eternal expert on everything baby-related, this woman wisely turned to Daisy for information and guidance as she welcomed a new diaper-clad person in her life. My best friend and I had a bit of a spat, at the end of which we decided the only resolution was to make a commitment to one another to talk regularly (daily, if we could hack it with our conflicting schedules.) We realized that our friendship was in deep shit if we didn’t reach out to one another, and have upheld this bargain so far.

Daisy and I are learning how much work adult friendships are. Sure, fun-loving, personable girls such as Daisy and I have no problem making “friends” at work, play groups, or among other parents of children the same age as ours. But in a phase of life when one barely has time to take out the trash and scoop the litter box, do we really have the where-with-all to dedicate to new acquaintances? We agreed that it is crucial for us to nurture these respective friendships, if not for preserving their longevity, then because these women have loved us at our worst.

Tell us about how you’ve had to work to maintain important friendships in your life. We want to know we’re not curmudgeons. =]

The Fairy of Teeth.

The tooth fairy has been pretty busy at our house for the past long while. Collectively, Diva & Intuitive have lost 11 teeth.  7 of those are Diva’s, 4 are Intuitive’s.

Some have been bloody, some have fallen out while they’re eating. Some have been yanked out by a grown up, some have been yanked out by the owner.

All 11 have been an exciting event, complete with a picture to text message to a handful of relatives. The most recent loss, (just yesterday) was Intuitive’s second top front tooth. When I went to pick the kids up from school, she held up a little plastic bag (I guess after you lose 2 teeth at school, they decide to stop giving you the cute little treasure box to take it home with) with her slightly bloody tooth. She regailed us with her tale:

“IT WAS SOOOOOOOOO BLOODY! IT WAS AWESOME!”

At this point, I lied and said that I was very sorry I missed the momentous, and bloody, occasion. Once again, we have a child with a large hole in her mouth, and a slight lisp. If she’s anything like her sister, those two front teeth will take 5 months to come in, and we will have some time to enjoy the toothless grins. As Violet mentioned yesterday, as Pterodactyl gains teeth, we lose them.

With the 11 (and counting) teeth that have fallen from Diva & Intuitive’s mouths… The tooth fairy has been busy. The Mayor & First Husband always used to do something creative when I lost a tooth. The money would be in fun formations, there would be props, etc. I decided a long time ago to do similar things.

Then I had 3 children. Then the 2 older ones started loosing teeth… Then we got to…. oh… tooth 6? And would you believe it…

That bitch, the tooth fairy, FORGOT to come visit.

Actually, the bitch fell asleep on the sofa and just plain forgot to lay out the money on the table. Once morning came, and the kid was looking for her loot, I had to do some fancy footwork. Ran to the kitchen, grabbed some glitter and made it look like the dumbass tooth fairy got lost and came in through the kitchen, leaving a pile of glitter, and a few extra dollars.

It worked, but…

I felt like SUCH an ass.

(Oh, and did I mention that it was Intuitive’s… like.. first or second tooth?)

Since then, I have had to set reminders on my phone when teeth fall out. It’s worked so far, and last night, the fairy left an intricate chain of dollar bills and the tooth hanging from the fan pulley-thing with paperclips.

All 3 kids were thoroughly impressed at the Tooth Fairy’s innovative presentation. Now, it’s off to plan what the hell the dumass tooth fairy will have to do next time, since there are at least 3 more loose teeth in Diva & Intuitive’s mouths.

Has the Tooth Fairy ever forgotten to visit you?

 

-Daisy

What Do YOU Want?

Daisy and I are so proud that we have so many loyal followers. Many of you come from as far away as India and The Philippines to read our snark and engage in our lives.

So what we really want to know is: what do you need from us? Do you come here for advice and wisdom? (ha!) Are you looking for a good laugh? Wanna commiserate over your own parenting woes with people who are likely bigger fuckups than you are? Are you enjoying Violet’s faux gourmet recipes?

We can offer you all these things and more, Dear Readers. Why do you come here? What would you like to see more of? What can we give you to keep you coming back for more (and sharing us with your friends?)
Thanks for reading and commenting!

Vanity.

Last night, my step-mother, Dorothy, told me a thought-provoking story.

 

She was in the fitting room at a major department store, trying on a pair of Spanx. (You know, those slimming under-garments?) In a fit of rage, the belly-slimmer tried to attack her. When it couldn’t kill her by cutting off her circulation, it went straight for her face, trying to block off her oxygen and prevent her from defending herself. Don’t worry – she won. She defeated the Spanks, and save for a little trauma, is just fine.

 

I started thinking about all the awful things I do to myself in the name of beauty. I have several pairs of Spanx (and its competitors). I have the kind that look like shorts. I have the high-waisted, panty kind. I have the tank-top kind, and the kind that covers my stomach but circumvents my boobs. I wear them regularly, like a blood sausage squeezed into intestines.  (Thanks for the visual. Love, Daisy)

 

Flabby tummy aside, I do other, violent things to my body. I use a hair-straightener that has, on more than one occasion, singed my ear, neck, hand, etc. I’ve poked my eye with liquid eyeliner applicators more than I’d care to admit. I used to go to a tanning booth, although now that my days are extended to 30 hours, I don’t have the time to poison myself like I used to.

 

Why do I do this to myself? I’m happily married. Buddy’s stuck with me whether I’m 130 pounds and pretty, or 400 pounds and covered in donut powder. (And he’s admitted to finding me beautiful in the latter state AS WELL AS the former.) I’m confident enough not to base my self-worth off the opinions of other women. I work with tacky teenagers all day who think that formal wear is a pair of dark-wash jeans and a bejeweled belly shirt, so nothing I wear will impress them. I can’t think of one good reason to continue putting myself through this torture regiment.

 

Oh yeah. It’s because I’m vain.

 

What terrible things do you do to yourself to create the illusion of beauty?

 

-Violet