For almost a year, I was the other woman.
I didn’t feel like the other woman. If you knew me, you wouldn’t think of me as the type. I had a husband, house in the suburbs, college degree, and a Dalmatian. I grew up in a home unbroken by divorce; I was never abused, sexually or otherwise, by any family members. My father and I have an excellent relationship. I have no more self-confidence issues than anyone else I know; I may actually have less. My IQ falls somewhere slightly above the “genius” level, and I’ve worked steadily in my chosen field since before I graduated from college. I have kept a small but close circle of male and female friends since high school. Before I had an affair, I could boast that I had never cheated on a boyfriend or stolen someone else’s. The thrill of an affair held...

If it’s not a phrase, it should be. Maybe not the most appropriate one, but I’ve grown to despise the tired phrase “hurricane preparedness”. My Thursday began with an early morning phone call –in my world, “early” means anything before 10 a.m. - from the Advertising Air Force. You know, the banner planes that wiggle along the beaches touting “Get Your Ass To The Pass” and “Chubby’s- World’s Best Burgers”. Seems they were worried that the planes, tied down in a field at Whitted, could blow over if either Bonnie or Charley hit. Could Tom come help move the planes into the hangars? As a member of the media, I have an almost frenetic fascination with how easily people scurry about at the direction of a talking head. Fascination wins out over fatigue, and I go along for the ride. Next Tom’s sister Cheryl calls from Mad Beach, wondering if he...