Remember Hurricane Irene? You know -- that storm that hit a couple of natural disasters ago? Well, here in our neck of New Jersey, we weathered it just fine, thank you very much. Those news-people act like a little rain and wind is some kind of Weather Event -- but seriously! No big deal. I mean, yeah, we're out a couple grand due to the basement flooding. But we're up one Valium prescription and God knows how many mold spores! I think even Charlie Sheen would agree that we are WINNING!

Of course, not everyone escaped Irene unscathed. But then again, not everyone was ready for Irene the way we were.  And not to brag (much), but we were hell-of ready.

I know, you're dying for our gameplan. I'm besieged with requests for advice. They may not be actual, verbalized requests. But still: I sense your curiosity through the telepathic cable-ways of the Great Interweb, much in the same way as a shaman senses an aura, or that creepy midget chick from Poltergeist sensed the presence of some really foul-tempered Indians.

As such, I give you a detailed checklist for hurricane preparedness. No thanks necessary, although cash donations are always welcome.

4 Days Prior to Storm: Call elderly mother, who will fly from California to your home in New Jersey the next evening. Watch Project Runway repeat while you half-listen to her natterings, catching words like "flashlight batteries", "storm windows" and "Al Roker".   Ask her who the hell this "Irene" person is.

2 Days Prior to Storm:  Swing by grocery store for some more of those mini Dove bars.  Marvel at lines of people hording water, packaged donuts, and all manner of lunch meats, a la that movie about nuclear holocaust you were forced to watch in grade school.  Mentally predict mass uptick in post-apocalyptic cholesterol.  Get Dove bars and go on your merry way.

1 Day Prior to Storm: Chat with neighbor about what unusual weather you're having!  Experience twinge of nerves when she says she drove eight hours to a Home Depot in the Pennsylvania hinterlands to purchase the Last Generator on the Eastern Seaboard.  At the words "duct tape", proceed to full-on panic.  Rush back home to locate flashlights, candles and cell-phone charger.  Succeed in locating a penlight, the stumps of ten birthday candles, and last remaining Paxil tablet.

Day of Storm:  Pace before windows.  Make prescient, Cassandra-like comments, such as Those clouds don't look good, or Storm's a-comin'.  Cluck as wind sways tree branches, raining down hundreds of twigs (Who's gonna clean that up?  Not me!).  Survive remaining daylight hours courtesy of Paxil tablet, chased down with half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.

Evening of Storm: Grow anxious about pounding rain and shrieking wind.  Attempt to quell anxiety by watching some god-awful rom-com wherein Kate Hudson acts all slutty.  Agree with eldery mother that, while Ginnifer Godwin is adorable, "Kate Hudson is a bitch". 

11:30pm: Gasp as power goes out, as this means 1) sump pump will fail, and 2) you may never see that whore Kate Hudson get her come-uppance. When power returns, rush to basement to find sump pump in working order and dry floor.  Marvel at your luck.  Laugh at Gaia.  Give God the L-is-for-Loser sign.  Go to sleep, courtesy of remaining half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.

12:30am:  Awake to husband muttering about a little flooding.  Run downstairs to find basement submerged in three inches of murky puddle-water. Scream like Medea.  Determine that water is managing to circulate back in through windows and walls.  Accompany husband outside, in rain, in skivvies