Life got so much more “fetch” ten years ago today. I have loved all the anniversary articles this week. “Mean Girls” is one of my favorite movies, ever. I think people misunderstand this. They think that means I like other teen movies that are dumb and not nearly as clever. I don’t think any of us realized Tina Fey’s incredibly smart movie would be such a cult classic.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said, “Do you wanna do something fun? Do you wanna go to Taco Bell?!” If you’re someone awesome you respond with “I can’t go to Taco Bell. I’m on an all-carb diet. GOD, Karen! You’re so stupid!” If you’ve ever yelled out, “She doesn’t even go here!” We can be friends.

When my husband and I watch “Superbad” I laugh and shake my head. I say “There is no way boys are that stupid!” He says, “Oh yes they are! Guys that age think that if they supply the booze at a party, they might get laid.” It’s funny because it’s true. When we watch “Mean Girls” he says “There is no way girls are that mean.” I say, “Oh yes they are! Girls compliment you to your face and then turn around and talk about you behind your back.” It’s funny because it’s true.

I find myself watching the 3-year-old class and wondering which among them will be the impressionable follower that is a Gretchen Weiners. I don’t think her father, the inventor of the Toaster Strudel, or some future breakfast pastry, would be too pleased to have me speculate about his daughter. I wonder which child is so ditzy she will ask questions like, “If you’re from Africa, why are you white?!” That would be a future Karen Smith, breast meteorologist. It may become apparent in a few years who the little Damiens will be. You know, almost too gay to function. Of course we all wonder how often our child will be personally victimized by a Regina George.

What will I do when I notice my daughter being hurt by the queen bee? What if my kid sadly decides it’s better to be with the Plastics hating life, then outside? As Cady Heron will tell you, being with the Plastics is like being famous. What will I do when my darling daughter leaves the real world and enters girl world? What if my child is the queen bee and is making other kids feel bad? Now kids have the Internet instead of Burn Books. Everyone can read what the mean girls say. What do I do when kids get mean?

Maybe I’ll show her Mean Girls. I teared up the first time I watched it. I know what you’re thinking, “Cried?! At Mean Girls?!” Yeah. When Tina Fey’s character Ms. Norbury says to all the girls in the Junior class, “You all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it okay for guys to call you sluts and whores.” It struck a chord with me. I remember hating that in high school and middle school. I hated saying “bitches” too. It bugged me. It’s like the girls were saying it because the guys were. Girls disparaged their own gender. It was wrong then, it’s wrong now. I don’t want that for my child. Since “Mean Girls” I have never called another woman a slut or a whore. I mean, unless it’s to say “Boo! You whore!” but, that’s so fetch.

You know how when you get with old friends to celebrate something and weird stuff happens? Like, oh, I dunno, a wedding of a friend and your other drunk friend comes home and drinks your breast milk?

From the bottle! Come on people!

This picture shows one of my BFF’s who’s  been my friend since before “BFF” was a thing. Yeah, Sara is drinking the milk I expressed for my baby. She begged me to put this picture on Facebook. I told her drunk ass this picture would need blog explanation before hitting the judgmental eyes of everyone we’ve ever known. So of course I put it on Instagram and Twitter because that’s so much better and less judgy. ::snort::

Her reaction was, “It doesn’t really taste like anything!” You must read that quote in Sara’s voice. She has an Ellie Mae southern twang in the voice of a 4-year-old. Remember, she was hammered so be sure to read it not just high-pitched and childish, but also drunkish. I’ll write it again, “It doesn’t really taste like anything!” There, did you hear Sara say it?

I disagree with her. I think it tastes sweet and mild, exactly what a baby would want. I heard breast milk might help a hangover. She gulped it down. People’s comments were awesome! Some of them know Sara.

This led me to think of all the other times I have tasted my own breast milk. All the other times? It’s pretty much an everyday occurrence. I don’t think it’s that weird. I have to make sure it’s not spoiled or make sure something I ate doesn’t make it taste weird. Even though I’m with him all the time  now that I am staying home, I still pump at least once a day. I make a lot of milk. I freeze a lot of it. If it’s thawed, I need to make sure it tastes okay. I will admit it got a little weird one time when I was out of regular milk and I had to put breast milk in our mac and cheese. No one in my family was the wiser. It should make them wonder what other recipes my milk may end up in. Bwa ha ha ha!

So, is it weird that she tasted it? Yeah, a little. But, if there is anything that lactating made me realize, it’s that a female cow had to have a baby to produce hormones that would cause her to lactate. That’s when a farmer somewhere hooked up a pump to her to express her milk and we drink it everyday. That cow is a total stranger. Sara and I are best friends. The moral of the story? Share some of the best from your breastie with your bestie.

You know those moments when you can’t believe something so ridiculous is happening to you at that time? You know the ones. They make your face look like this:

I’ve gotten better at controlling my face in recent years. I think it was all the crazy I interviewed as a TV news reporter going on only a few hours of sleep. The crazy trained me to control my face.

Three things lately made me make this face.

1. I was rushing to get both children out of the car and into the double stroller for my workout class. If you recall, I’m really trying to properly utilize the SAHM time by making sure I’m exercising. Plus, I’m paying for it, so let’s get this booty poppin’. Anyway, I was unloading the copious amount of crap that I haul around on a daily basis when I opened the passenger side door. That’s when I heard it fall.

One of Henry’s fancy $9 bottles rolled out of the car and hit the pavement. I knew it would roll. It was like slow motion. It rolled and spun like the basketball at the end of an after school special where a young teen overcame adversity to make the winning shot for the team. It spun right into the damn sewer! Of course it had a personalized bottle band wrapped around it too. Lord forbid my kids have anything without their names on it. Charlotte was very concerned that bugs would get on his bottle, not knowing it was gone forever. I was just glad I still had milk in the pump bottles and not in the sewer bottle. I made the face.

2. I came downstairs one morning after Greyson had already been up with Charlotte. I knew we were short on groceries, but I figured he fed her. Oh, he fed her. I glanced at the plate and thought it was peanut butter and jelly on a hamburger bun. I cringed. Not an ideal breakfast, but I had not been to the store. I only had myself to blame. Turns out, I had him to blame. I asked Charlotte what she ate. “Ketchup sandwich!”

He fed her ketchup on a hamburger bun for breakfast when I knew good and well there were some eggs in the fridge.  I made the face.

3. After one of Charlotte’s extracurricular classes recently, a visiting grandparent was chatting with the instructor. This overzealous southern woman explained to the instructor that she was from a small town. She told the teacher how wonderful it is that children in our city have opportunities like this class. The kind teacher smiled and said that she was from a small town in Michigan and understood.

Let me add here that the grandmother is white and the teacher is black. I feel I need to say that to give a frame of reference for the turn the conversation then took.

The grandmother looked at the instructor and said, “I’m originally from Mississippi. You know, my daughter was born at Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital.”

The face! The FACE! I could tell the gracious instructor was trying not to make it too. Why, oh why would this woman feel she needed to add the tidbit about the hospital named after the Confederate general?! I can only assume that is  what this woman came up with because she doesn’t see many black people. I guess that’s what she came up with instead of blurting “I’m white, you’re black!”

That face had a little more to it:

Please note that Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital has been Natchez Regional Medical Center since 1993.

To My Husband On Our 9th Anniversary:

We’ve been married nine years today. It’s not a big anniversary. We agreed to not really do anything to celebrate. We are not jumping out of a plane like we did on our first anniversary. We’re not doing Vegas like we did on our fifth. No, we’re cooking dinner and folding laundry. We’ll watch a show on the DVR. We whispered “Happy Anniversary” this morning when we heard the baby fuss and the 3-year-old demand our attention.

Today we’ll likely be passing ships as we are so many days. We’re sailing the sea of everyday life together. We talk about money, work, the house and kids like so many other couples. There are marvelous things in our ordinary life that make me love you more than I did nine years ago.

You have to know that there is not a day that passes that I don’t appreciate us as friends. Best friends. When I was away with my girlfriends a few weeks ago, I couldn’t help but text you about the score of the NCAA tournament. I wanted your opinion on the game. I wanted to hear your funny observations and witty comments. While I was enjoying myself with my friends, part of my heart was with you at home. Last night I smiled when you watched Dance Moms with me and I heard you say, “Oh! Yeah. I mean, Kristy is totally right about that one!” Yes, I just told the Internet that you watch Dance Moms. Sorry. But, I like watching it with you.

I love that we intensely discuss what houses we would be sorted into at Hogwarts. I love that we watch every ESPN 30 for 30. We plan our worldwide future vacations that are only dreams right now. I love that you get excited for our daughter when there is a new episode of Sofia The First on Disney Junior. You fetch pacifiers and bring me drinks when I’m trapped under a baby on the couch. Most of all you support my goals and honor my needs. I only hope I’m doing the same for you.

I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the life we’ve built together. You are everything I want in a best friend.  You make an ordinary life exceptionally wonderful. Thank you. Happy Anniversary.

Happy week after Easter! Or as I affectionately call it, “Ham Sandwich and Egg Salad Week.” I love Easter. I always have. I should say I love it because it’s the holiest day in the Christian calendar. It’s the day we commemorate Christ rising from the dead on the third day…blah, blah, blah. Our salvation…yadda, yadda.

I really love it for the clothes and the food. Sorry, it’s true. Ya’ll be sure to say an extra prayer for my heathen soul. Oh yeah, we also got engaged on Easter Sunday. That’s another reason I love it. My parents got engaged on Easter Sunday too, which was way more adorable before their contentious divorce. I digress.

You get to eat chocolate in the morning before church. There are dresses with sashes and seersucker bow ties. The family smiles in front of the azalea bushes for pictures. The ham is salty and sweet. Put it between a biscuit? Only if it’s hot and buttered, baby! Then there’s the chocolate eggs. Oh, sweet Cadbury, those are some scrumptious eggs!

One day I want my kids on the lawn of the White House for the egg roll. Can’t you picture Michelle Obama and I chatting about J Crew dresses and exercise for chubby kids while Malia and Sasha help Charlotte and Henry with their eggs? I can. The White House egg roll is kind of a bucket list thing for me. That, and eating a meal prepared by Chef Gordon Ramsay. Don’t judge! It’s my bucket list. I digress.

Easter this year was so wonderful! My sister and brother-in-law brought my nephew to spend three days with us. We may or may not have taken pictures of the baby boys in matching bunny ears. Remind me to bust those pictures out for their prom dates. That emasculation may delay their attempts at a prom night sexual conquest. There I go, digressing from Easter again. Sorry, Jesus!

Something that made this year extra special was Charlotte and Henry’s Easter clothes. My mom saved a dress that my Grandma hand smocked for me and I wore Easter 1985. My sister and cousins had matching outfits. We couldn’t find the bonnet, because I would have made Charlotte wear it. Not for long, though. No one likes stuff tied under their chin. I’m the tallest kid in the green.

Charlotte wore the dress on Sunday.

Greyson’s mom saved an outfit he wore as a baby, likely in 1975.

I was overwhelmed with happy, warm love this weekend. Seeing my babies in these outfits was so special. I joke around, but I really love Easter because of family, tradition, faith and renewal. I hope your Easter was happy. Let me know if you know how to get on the White House invite list.