Tag Archives: inappropriate

Search Terms

9 Jun

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

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To the holier than thou. Love, Daisy.

24 May

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.

 

Celebrity Parents

30 Mar

Celebrity culture has always been somewhat of a twatwaffle to me. I don’t get into the drama; I don’t understand the hysteria. I don’t follow Perez Hilton’s blog. For all intents and purposes, I think celebrities are a bunch of middle class morons who happened to fall upon fame and wealth because they were either a) favored with big tits or b) can make themselves cry on cue. (Daisy and I are blessed with both of these attributes. Where are our millions?) At some point in their journey from mediocrity to internationally irrelevant, someone issued them all (collectively) a license for weirdness.

I didn’t used to mind the weirdness. Tom Cruise wants to put his money in a tax shelter and call it religion? Fine. Follow that up with a critique of psychology as a legitimate medicine practice? He’s an asshole, but I didn’t give him enough credit to care. Fergie wants to pee-pee in her pants without a Huggies, then shower in champagne to cover it up? Have fun! But then these weird-ass movie stars decided to tell the world how to parent. That’s when I became annoyed.

First, we had Mayim Bialik telling us that we need to breastfeed our kids until they’re five. (Anyone else think of the movie Grown Ups when you hear that?!)  January Jones, of Mad Men fame, wants you to eat your own placenta after you deliver your afterbirth. (And I know that in some less civilized cultures, that’s acceptable, but I’m a middle class American. We don’t cannibalize our extraneous organs.) Now, Alicia Silverstone wants us to feed our children like we’re pigeons by chewing our food and spitting it into the waiting infant’s mouth. Oh, hell no.

Here’s my problem: for one, parenting is a completely individualistic practice. No two mothers are alike, and no two children are alike. Prescribing any parenting practice is risky business (haha, Tom Cruise joke!) because methods that worked in one family may fail in another, and who will the failing family blame? The person who offered the advice in the first place. Not a wise idea if your income is based on your likability. My other problem with this celeb-mommy-culture is that too many people put these assholes on a pedestal. For these people, anything a favorite celebrity spews from her mouth is scripture. Cameron Diaz wants me to exfoliate with llama fetus eyeballs? Sounds great! Jack Black suggests I huff Dorito Cheese dust to make my hair grow longer? Yum! So when the Hollywood-types tell you that you should cover your kid in olive juice every day to prevent AIDS, some ignorant imbecile will take that to heart and buy a Costco-sized jar of olives.

Weirdo celebrity parents: keep your strange-as-shit thoughts to yourself. If you want to name your kid Pilot Inspektor or Jermajesty, be my fucking guest. No skin off my back. But to promote your strange (and possibly harmful) parenting tactics to your unassuming, impressionable fan base is wrong. You’re fucking with a child’s well-being when you tell his parent to eat a lock of his hair every year on his birthday, or whatever unusual shit you do with your children. Just like with politics, Hollywood Freaks, keep your nose out of shit you don’t understand, and stick to acting/singing/slutting.

A picture isn’t worth a thousand words. Sometimes.

29 Mar

Before Violet and I began this blog, we spent many hours discussing it and what it would consist of. We discussed having a cute “getting to know us” page, (About Daisy & Violet) as well as a “Mission Statement“. We thought those would be fun ways for ourselves to set the tone for our blog before we even wrote a post.

We also discussed privacy. We decided to not use our real names, or our spouse’s names, or our children’s names. We gleefully discussed our blog pseudonyms, which are our nicknames from high school, and concocted names for our family. Along with our name discussions, we discussed the issue of photographs of our children.

I read many, many mommy blogs. I enjoy seeing how other families work, and how other mom’s balance life. I read a pretty nice variety of blogs, from Super-Christian Mommy bloggers, to Gay Dad’s and their adventures. What can I say? I enjoy reading and learning about different people. One common denominator in all of these blogs is the pictures. Pictures of their children doing silly things. Pictures of family excursions and vacations.

Now look at our blog. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Yeah, no pictures of ourselves and families. Text messages and occasional random shit that we see, but no precious snapshots.

Why?

We decided that we wanted a sense of anonymity. Not so much for ourselves, but for our children. We think that our children are quite possibly the cutest in the world. We would love to heavily season our blog with photos of our collective brood, but alas, the internet is a fucking scary place. People search for (and find) all kinds of crazy shit. Personally, I don’t want an innocent photo of my kids turning into something naughty, and I can say with certainty that Violet doesn’t either. I’m not looking down upon anyone who posts photos of their children on their blog. I love looking at other people’s photos. Kids are cute. They do cute shit.

Perhaps I’m just a crazy lady, and I shouldn’t over think things, but “not-nice” things have happened. I’ve read that a blogger posted photos of her infant that passed away, and it was discovered that someone stole those photos and used them in.. less than admirable ways. There is a very popular mommy blogger that often posts photos of her children in various states of undress and occasionally some questionable positions and tags them with “pedophilic key words”. That is just asking for trouble. Why do that to your children? (Granted, this mommy blogger is “two pieces of bread short of a sandwich”, and I enjoy reading her “naysayer” blog more than hers. Anyone wanna guess who I’m talking about?)

Maybe we’ll post a picture of ourselves, with a little facial blurring. We did it on twitter.

Maybe one day we’ll post a photo of our kids. Maybe we won’t.

What WILL we do? Continue writing and sharing funny photos of other stuff, and hopefully, you’ll continue reading and commenting.

Do you think I’m crazy? What are your views?

 

-Daisy

Why Daisy’s life wouldn’t make a good television show.

28 Feb

My mother, the Mayor, has often said:

“We should have a fucking reality show”

Well, you know, if she used language that crass and stuff.

Which she does. Sorry you misunderstood.

I’ve often found myself agreeing with her, but I’m led to believe that just about everyone I know probably thinks that they should have a “fucking reality show.” Sure, the crap that happens to us is funny. To us.

I doubt that Diva proclaiming

“I want to be a show girl when I grow up”

would translate well to network television. (In my defense, we were watching a cake decorating show where they made a cake for a Vegas show) I’m betting that my father, the “First Husband,”  proclaiming that he wasn’t going to buy her pasties would probably go over like breaking wind in a place of worship. (Like how I made that sound SUPER-DUPER mature??)

We certainly don’t throw fisticuffs often enough, or chairs for that matter.

I’ve never sat down to dinner with Violet, had a few (15) drinks, called her a raving lunatic bitch, and thrown the table at her. Sure, during one of our numerous spats, I’ve thought all those things, but in reality television, there is no think, only DO.

So how about a scripted show based off of little old Daisy’s crazy shenanigans? Let’s see. I am pretty particular about my television viewing. My all time favorites?

  • Weeds
  • Californication
  • Mad Men
  • Breaking Bad

Let’s break down why my life just wouldn’t translate into television gold, as these shows have.

I am not a super fuck up with tremendously questionable morals. Sure, I can get a little loosey-goosey in the morality department, but, uh.. within reason.

The main character in all these shows is the head of the family. Where is he or she most of the time? Out selling/buying/making drugs; getting drunk with random ladies/gentlemen, sleeping with random folks, oftentimes on the hood of a car, or in an alley.

I’m the head of my family. Where am I most of the time? Hovering over my children helping them with homework, in the kitchen cleaning or cooking, vacuuming, or doing laundry. After 8 pm; once the kiddos are asleep, you can find me watching my stories.

Moral of the story?

My life wouldn’t make good tv, since…
someecards.com - I cook dinner, not meth. Daisy and Violet
-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Don’t Let Violet Around Your Children

27 Feb

Why was Daisy so worried about my foray into Motherhood? Here’s why: I’ve taught her kids a variety of inappropriate shit. Here are a few of my favorite examples.

    • Driving in the car one day, we passed a small, yellow school bus. With two four year olds and a two year old in the back seat, I yelled, “Look, it’s a short bus!” For the next several days, the kids would yell “short bus” at every opportunity.
    • Don’t know why, but I felt it was necessary to teach Diva, Intuitive, and Handsome the word “tacky.” Boy, did they take to that one! And as evidence of their collective genius, they understood its context, even while in diapers. Daisy reported to me that the following day, as they zoomed around Target, the children pointed to objects and people and screamed, “TACKY!!!” at the top of their lungs.
    • My favorite – absolutely, 100% favorite Twins-Plus-One moment – was actually on the day that my dog died. Depressed beyond measure, I decided to pay Daisy’s family a little visit in hopes that some kiddo time would cheer me up. A few days prior, I taught Diva to say, “I am my mother’s daughter” because, well, she is. I was changing two-year-old Handsome’s diaper, and as you all know, you gotta tuck Mr. Winkie into the diaper so it won’t spray piss all over the kid’s clothes. As I was doing this, he fussed and grabbed at his junk. I said, “You wanna tuck your own penis? Go right on ahead.” Out of nowhere, from across the house, Diva yells, “I love to touch the penis! I am my mother’s daughter!” Twenty minutes of hysterical, tear-inducing laughter ensued. And that’s how I coped with the death of my doggie.

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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