Dear Vicky,

You’re hot. Even if you did get a little, um, dirty in the mail.

I ain’t gonna lie, I own some of your stuff. But here’s a tip: Don’t send ads like this to a pregnant woman. Ever.

Not cool, my friend. Not cool.

xoxo,

Angie

To the rest of you (*she whispers so Vicky can’t hear*), you feel me? 

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Since school has started, my typical routine is to get up around 5am. I use the first quiet hour to drink my coffee, respond to emails and maybe write a blog post. Okay, who am I kidding? The first thing I do is check Facebook. Right now, there’s an exciting comment thread happening on my page about The Wiggles and the teensy weensy (and possibly creepy) crush I have on Greg.

Anyway, my addiction to Facebook paid off this morning. That’s how I found out school was canceled, thanks to Hurricane Irene. The Charleston forecast for today is scattered showers and thunderstorms, with a chance of wind and rain this afternoon. I’ll wait to reserve judgment about whether closing school was necessary. When it comes to children’s safety and the general public’s inability to drive, I’d rather be safe than sorry.

Weather forecasters and the news media often get a bad rap for creating a lot of hype around these storms. Having worked in television news rooms, I’ve seen what goes on behind the scenes. Some storms create a genuine cause for concern and you have to watch them.

On the other hand…

Travel back in time with me, if you will, to 1998. It was my first few months at the number one station in town, I had never covered a hurricane before and I was scared to death of my news director.

So when they sent me up Highway 17 to stand at a boat landing somewhere near Myrtle Beach, I literally begged for a gust of wind to knock me down. I couldn’t imagine saying, “Well, there’s not much going on. Boss man, you’re an idiot for making me stand here.” But after working ’round the clock and spending the night in the live truck (hotels were closed and my videographer and I had no where else to stay) I got my wish.

At some point, it started to rain. And the wind started to blow. Hard. I held my hat and planted my feet. And then I got word officials had reinstated the evacuation orders. And that’s when I said, live on the air (in a tone similar to, “Don’t go into the light, Carol Ann!), “For those of you who evacuated… if you think you can come home, you can’t come home!” 

I tell you this story with a clear conscience, because eventually, I developed more credibility and the confidence to tell viewers it was simply raining. And, besides, who’s going to listen to a 23-year-old wearing a red trucker hat with a helicopter on the front?

Have a great weekend, everyone. Stay safe.

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This weekend, I relaxed by my childhood friend’s swimming pool, flipping through middle and high school yearbooks. We met in 2nd grade and quickly became best buddies during recess, bonding over baby dolls and our make-believe world. Here we are at my 13th birthday party.

Can you figure out her name? Take a wild guess. And please ignore my hair (this photo was taken before professional highlights and after a bout with Sun-In) and the Forenza shirt buttoned to the neck.

Twelve years after this photo was taken, Page was the matron of honor in my wedding. Today, we’re planning our 20 year high school reunion. And no, I’m not going to say that makes me feel old. After perusing our 6th grade annual (which shows what happens when you take a mullet, leave it in sponge rollers overnight and wear a shirt with your initials across the front) I realize I’m quite comfortable with the 2011 version of myself. Instead, this is what made me feel like I had an expiration date stamped across that terrible monogram sweater…

Page handed me her daughter’s elementary school yearbook. “Look at how they sign them,” she said.

I don’t know what your yearbooks look like, but mine are filled with notes from friends. For my best friends, I reserved whole pages to give them plenty of space to reminisce about the school year and reflect on our friendship. And all the messages signed off with well wishes like:

Have a great summer! Meg

LYLAS (love ya like a sister), Page

But modern day yearbooks — at least the one I saw — look like this:

Joe Blow: It was a great year. 

Lou Mello: Call me!

“What does that look like to you?” Page asked, as I examined several brief messages, beginning — not ending — with the signer’s name.

“It looks like a status update!” I exclaimed. “It looks like they’re posting shout-outs on each other’s walls.”

Further proof that Facebook is taking over the world, and we’re one step away from eYearbooks. Great for the trees. Terrible for my ego. Am I already becoming one of those people who says, “Back in my day…”?

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As I sat at a tiny table, in a chair not meant for an adult-sized person, I realized why I’m so happy about the start of school. Sure, I think Dillon is ready. At least he says he’s ready. Sure, once Blake starts preschool in September, I’ll have real, human office hours a few hours each day.

But during Kindergarten orientation, as I soaked up the ambiance of Dillon’s classroom, I remembered how much I love school. Love it. In fact, to some, I may have been a bit of nerd. Or a goody-goody. Or whatever.

In first grade, my gorgeous, supermodel teacher, Mrs. Shoaf, had a system to keep kids in line. Those who misbehaved were called to the front of the class and ordered to lean over her desk. And then whack! whack! whack! Three times on the bum with a library book.

I never got whacked on the bum. I was too busy trying not to strike out.

You see, Mrs. Shoaf had a bulletin board that said, “Don’t strike out!” Each student had a paper baseball, with three paper bats sticking out the top. If you were “bad,” Mrs. Shoaf removed one of your bats. “That’s a strike!” she’d say.

I never, ever, ever got a strike. Until one day, the entire class was acting up. “All right, class!” she warned. “If you don’t stop talking, I’m striking everyone out!”

I sat up straight and zipped my lips, in an effort to maintain the integrity of my perfectly aligned bats, spreading out of my baseball like a fan. But the class kept talking, and I watched in horror as Mrs. Shoaf walked to the bulletin board and removed every single bat from every single baseball. As she reached for my bats, the scene shifted to slow motion.

The rest of the afternoon, I barely breathed. She continued to teach, and every so often, she walked to the bulletin board and restored a few bats. But by the time the bell rang, she hadn’t returned my third bat. I left school heartbroken and my good girl batting average, shattered.

By third grade, I loosened up a bit. It was during the smelly sticker craze, and my best friend and I got caught cheating. The class was grading each other’s papers, and as the teacher called out the correct answers, Meg and I made the appropriate changes. Because if you scored a 100, you got a scratch ‘n sniff sticker. And those scratch ‘n sniff stickers will make you crazy.

A kid busted us and shouted, “Mrs. King! Meg and Angie are changing each other’s answers!”

Mrs. Kind told us to stay behind and sent the rest of the class to the library. By that time, Meg and I were blubbering all over ourselves. Luckily for us, Mrs. King realized her disappointment was punishment enough, and she let us go with a scolding and a hug.

I managed to walk the straight and narrow until my senior year of high school, when I got in-school suspension for cutting class. It was the last class of the day, and we had a substitute teacher. She assigned us busy work, so a few of us got permission to go to the library. Instead, we walked passed the library, out the back door and to our cars. As I drove off, I rolled down the windows, feeling the exhilarating bliss of freedom.

The next day, I sat in the principal’s office. My defense? “I called my mom as soon as I got home,” I pleaded.

“Well, you should have called her before you left school,” the principal countered. Good point.

So there you have it, I’m a rebel in disguise. I’m surprised I’m not in jail right now. So how’s your record? Would you be the one to bail me out? Or share a cell with me?

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Today I thought I’d share some of my favorite posts from some of my favorite people. Perhaps it will lead you to an unexpected source of inspiration or a new friend.

On going our own way:

It’s been 2 months since Becca left her job. She reminds us that sometimes we don’t realize we’re in a toxic situation (or just how toxic it is) until we exit. And I bet Becca’s bravery would make Giulietta cheer. Check out G’s fun post: Take this beaten path and shove it.

But taking a leap can be scary as… you know. Just ask Laura, who left her full-time job to pursue her creative business dreams “6 months, 182 days and 4,383 hours” ago. Who’s counting, right? But as Kelly, the queen of paving her own way and telling it like it is, explains: Serendipity Rules.

On traveling:

Jan escaped to the mountains in order to be productive but did something else. And Kerstin shares how traveling without an itinerary can lead to amazing surprises. But sometimes, visiting a faraway place can stir up a nagging sense of unrest. I’m not sure what was more moving: Andra’s honesty or her readers’ comments.

On why telling our stories gives others a voice:

Jimmy writes a poignant post about how a distant memory can be kicked back to life. And Kim witnessed a young boy being bullied at her neighborhood pool. You may be surprised at who was doing the bullying, and it raises the question, what would you do? I’m honestly not sure.

But I’m absolutely sure if I lived in Maryland, my name would be Abby. It’s ridiculous how much I relate to her stories. And she makes an excellent point: Clark Kent might be Superman, but he has nothing on a working mom.

On seizing the day:

And finally, friends, check out JD’s 25 inspirational movies. This list makes me want to jump on a desk and shout “Oh, Captain! My Captain!”

Happy Reading. You’re welcome.

Folks, we have a winner. Thanks to those who left wonderful comments on Elizabeth Horton’s guest post last week. I wanted each of you to win one of her beautiful, handmade Nostalgic Graphic Tees. But since I like to keep things fair and square, instead of pulling a name out of the “proverbial hat,” I decided to pick the winner out of an actual hat.

But I’m a stinker, and you have to watch the video to find out who it is. And I hope the video doesn’t freeze right before I announce the winner. (Like it did the first time I watched it on YouTube.)

Oh, and the part about not breaking the law. I explain that, too.

If you can’t see the video, click here.

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“How old is Miss Sandra?” my 5-year-old asked yesterday during the drive to the water park.

“It’s Andra,” I said. “Say it with me. An-dra.”

“Andra,” he said.

Notice I skipped the question altogether, because Miss Andra is, well, more than 5. Dillon was quite confused about why we were going on a play date with my friend. But he warmed up immediately when we arrived at the park, and Andra handed him a pair of goggles to play with.

I don’t know about you, but I’m a kid at heart. Is there anything better than a trip down the lazy river? Who says you have to be a child to enjoy that?

I had imagined Andra and I would take turns watching my 2-year-old so we could each go down the slide, but he decided to make like a koala bear and cling to me like a tree. So I told Andra and Dillon to go on, and Blake and I took a seat by the pool and waited.

And it was worth every second that passed to watch these happy faces as they crashed into the water. It was Dillon’s first time down the slide, but it’s hard to tell who’s having more fun.

And that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even if my son did steal my date.

When is the last time you did something that made you feel like a kid?

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Auditioning for a spot in the Blue Man Group

Over the weekend, my husband and I celebrated our 11th year of marriage. We flew to Las Vegas and spent two days at a great hotel.

We’ve traveled to Sin City several times over the years, which is interesting because we don’t gamble and we don’t go to shows. We like the “bigness” of Vegas, yet when we get there, we do a lot of the same things we like to do at home.

And no, I’m not talking about the wild thing.

We walk around, people watch, work out and hang by the pool. We never make dinner reservations, which sometimes results in a cranky search for food after all the restaurants have closed. But most of the time, we spontaneously choose a place that has the best vibe and order food at the bar.

We enjoy flying out west. We like the desert. And we really like the Sky Miles that help get us there. But taking this type of trip is a small source of anxiety for me. See, I love to fly. And I hate to fly.

Let’s break it down, shall we?

Things I dislike very much about flying:*

• Taking off. The noise, the unsettling sensation of being suspended in midair, how it feels when the plane turns, and when I freak out for a split second, thinking we are crashing. (Which turns out to be comic relief for those calm frequent flyers.)
• Landing. (But then again, it’s better than the alternative.)
• Turbulence.
• Dashing through the airport and almost missing our connection. Funny how this always seems to happen in Atlanta on the return flight.
• Performing a balancing act in the bathroom at the back of the plane.

The things I like about flying:

• Airports. They are like malls, only better. Everyone is going somewhere.
• Hudson News. Flipping through magazines and catching up on celebrity gossip before the flight.
• Walking on the moving walkway. It makes me feel like a Jetson.
• When the flight attendant comes down the aisle with a drink cart. I take this as a good sign we are not crashing.
• The child three rows up who giggles hysterically during the bumpy descent. It makes me temporarily forget I hate turbulence.

And finally, the thing I love most about flying:

• The angels and the flight crew who get me safely back home.

What about you? Flying: Love it? Hate it? Somewhere in between?

*I left off security checks because I usually manage to sail through those without getting frisked. No complaints here.