Maybe you’ve heard? A big storm is trundling up the East Coast and is poised to flood the shit out of New York.

Apparently this one is The Big One, folks, the storm of the century, the storm that is finally going to wipe out the den of inquity that is New York.  That sound you hear? That’s not the wind whistling through the skyscrapers. That’s Michelle Bachmann, cheering, with Rick Perry throwing in a wootwoot for good measure.

This hurricane is the wet dream of meterologists every where; it’s the Weather Channel’s new pinup; it’s the raison d’etre for every computer IT guy worth his salt to create dire “here’s what happens when the Holland Tunnel floods” computer simulations.

Okay, yeah, I’m a tad skeptical. I remember the brouhaha that was Hurricane Gloria, back when God was a boy (or 1985, whatever). There was much battening down of hatches and laying in of dry goods and then…it rained a bit. And was windy–totally ruining my huge late 80s pouf of a hairdo.

So maybe Irene will kick Gloria’s ass. She’s certainly scared the bejaysus out of every elected official in about ten states. Evacuations, closures, shutting down the subway. In New York, it doesn’t get much more serious than that.  The subway will still be running when the Rapture hits and only roaches are left riding the IRT.

True, I’m not a Rapture believer, myself, but even a devout agnostic like me raises an eyebrow at these latest manifestations of a pissed-off planet: an earthquake last week and now the mother of all hurricanes? Stay tuned. It’s gonna be frogs and locusts next week, with perhaps a plague of boils for Labor Day Weekend.

I’m watching from Abu Dhabi, via Facebook and Twitter and email, as people do (or do not) prepare for their good-night with Irene. And you know what? I’d sort of like to be there, wrestling the crowds in Food Emporium for the only batteries remaining in a twenty-block radius or hip-checking someone in Whole Foods for the last few limes, because how’s a gal supposed to watch a hurricane without a good G&T?

In part it’s simple story envy: my answer to “where were you during the Big Blow of ’11” will be…um…in the pool, nine time zones away. That’s dull, dull, dull. No high winds, no crashing trees, no flickering candles to illuminate the high-rise darkness.

Maybe I could make up something about finding Muammar Gaddafi hiding in the women’s changing room, wearing an abaya?  That might top a hurricane story.

Nah. Natural disasters always trump toppled dictators.

Good luck New York. Muammar and I are thinking about all of you and hoping you have the 3Ws of hurricane readiness: wine, water, and wellies.

map graphic from NOAA