Last night I weathered the storm (cliché appropriate) in what I call “The Cottage in the Sky.” I told you that I recently moved and now have outdoor space. Whew, do I.

I live on the roof in a place that I’ve coveted since moving into this building. It’s not fancy so penthouse is completely inappropriate. It is a small one-bedroom apartment that was an add-on to the building many decades ago. I don’t have the whole roof to myself as I also have a neighbor and we each have a terrace. Mine wraps around my abode and I can’t tell you the significance of an outdoor experience in NYC. In a place where there isn’t a moment of alone time while outside, being able to sit outdoors without strangers sharing a park bench is golden.

I’m from Las Vegas. Weather isn’t much of an issue. Sure, we have the occasional sandstorm and if it rains the city floods. Driving in the rain is indeed quite treacherous since the intense desert heat draws oil from the roads onto the surface so it’s rather like hydroplaning to your destination. Precipitation is rare (handful of days a year) so I avoided the streets and the newbies (it was once the fastest growing city in the nation, you know) who were clueless to the unique conditions and liked to skate into light poles, their neighbor’s front windows, or the entrance to businesses. Dipshits.

SO, extreme weather of any variety freaks me out.

Hurricanes?

Shut the hell up.

You might as well hook me up to an IV drip and pump gallons of anti-anxiety drugs into my system. Since moving here, there have been TWO.

With Irene I decided to evacuate. I was then on the fifteenth floor and had both of my dogs (Kate and Nigel) and was also babysitting Firstborn’s rotten pug, Lola. The building management sent out a notice that they would be shutting down the elevators during Irene. That meant I would be taking the dogs up and down fifteen flights to do their business—during a hurricane, mind you. Then the meteorologists began talking about an evil hurricane/tornado combo. Lola likes to torture me by refusing to go to the bathroom when it is barely sprinkling.

I imagined she’d need a kidney transplant (that I would be paying for) with the sort of weather that was headed our way. Before one might say, “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” I was in the Prius and headed to higher ground—The Poconos. We spent three lovely days in a Hampton Inn and returned once that bitch Irene blew out of town.

However, this time, I was facing my fears and hunkering down.

YOU.

WILL.

NOT.

BREAK.

ME.

SANDY.

Alright, I guess I need to be honest. It wasn’t just a solitary middle-aged woman versus a hurricane. My younger daughter (Baby) and my friend (and neighbor) Karen were there, too. Karen’s husband Mark was out of town, which was probably a good thing.

Mark is a wee bit crisis phobic. He has a Disaster App on his phone—nuff said. Firstborn and Demon Pug were tucked away safely in her Midtown apartment.

So I prepared. I stocked up on food and filled containers with water. Baby secured the two storage units and patio furniture I have on the terrace.

Yep, we were ready.

Um, I thought we were and then the winds and rain hit. I have two skylights and it was just as I was feeling quite in control that they both began leaking.

I immediately called the doorman and he sent the facilities guy upstairs. He shared that he was “just a porter” and didn’t know how to fix leaky skylights.

OK, maybe I might’ve been slightly delusional but somehow I figured he’d be on roof with silicone or some other sealant plugging the leak. I mean, come on, dude. Rig some sort of Cirque du Solei-like hurricane harness and do your job!

Large black garbage bags on the floor had to suffice and I began questioning my executive decision to forgo plywood I had considered hammering to the windows. It was the subway transport from Midtown Home Depot to the apartment that had me questioning the necessity. The windows were actually bending inward. Did you know glass could bend?

It is probably about time that I share my plan. I know what you’re thinking. I located a safe window-free zone within the building for Baby, Karen, doggies and me, right?

Oh no, this crisis called for something far more superlative. It was time for Inspirational Quote, Fried Chicken and Wine disaster relief.

I’m an inspirational quote hater—until I’m not. Spare me the bullshit such as “it is better to have loved and lost” or “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’” sort of crap. On occasion, though, I like to throw one around—even share and I had ordered one such quote for the wall in my kitchen. No better time than in the midst of a hurricane to stand on my counter and rub the decal onto my wall—precisely measuring the distance between letters, by the way.

Karen busied herself talking or texting with friends and family, but especially her hubby Mark who was in L.A. The Disaster App was unnecessary since the networks were providing plenty of drama for him to see.

Newscasters—live on the scene—had the perfect amount of frenzy in their voices and Mark was whipped up right along with them. Our cable was out. Karen, although she stated she didn’t want to worry him further, kept mentioning the glass-bending wind, the emergency announcements (quite scary texts filled with words like: SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY) as an alarm blared from our cell phones, AND the fact that the building was shutting down the elevator at 8pm to prevent anyone from being stuck inside if the power went out.

The sound of the wind coming through the skylight coupled with something metal clanging on the roof was deafening. Once I had finished and properly admired my words to live by I began the next logical task.

It was time to make fried chicken. What? Isn’t the sort of food one prepares during a natural disaster?

Firstborn called to check in. She was watching the storm on TV. Seems her Time Warner cable was working fine. In between peeling potatoes, battering chicken and sipping a lovely Pinot Grigio, I decided that a dose of American capitalism was what my cable provider needed.

“Tweet those bastards at RCN and ask why our cable’s out when Time Warner’s is working just fine.” I said to Baby.

A logical move during a hurricane.

They tweeted back. Yep, they really did and asked for our account information. A call needed to be made (I really don’t hate RCN, btw).

Karen had begun pacing kind of like the polar bears in the zoo. The crashing sound from the roof had her jumpy and she kept repeating, “I’m not sure we’re safe.” She asked if she could peel the potatoes. Nope, never gonna happen. I simply wasn’t comfortable with my friend in her current state, wielding a potato peeler.

I suggested she sit down and drink a glass of wine as the dogs had started pacing alongside her.

I flipped the chicken and had a few minutes to make a call to RCN. I was placed on hold by the automated system and instead of music or a recording I heard this weird whispery devil voice on the line and did what any good mother would do. I told Baby to talk to Satan.

A RCN rep finally answered and talked us through the fix. Poof, we had cable! Baby thanked the woman, hung up and told me she was glad to be off the phone. She swore while she was on hold, Lucifer was telling her to drown a bag of kittens.

That Baby can be soooo inappropriate during a crisis.

Finally dinner was ready and it was just as the hurricane was about to hit Manhattan. Another text emergency message sounded on our cells, Karen hit the ceiling, came back down just in time for me to place a plate of chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes and gravy in front of her.

Bring it on, Sandy. We’re kickin’ the cane Southern Style.

Then Sandra responded.

The noise was otherworldly but the three of us calmly ate the meal–our backs to the storm.

Nigel had been on strike all day. He refused to go to the bathroom on the roof and earlier I’d taken him downstairs and stood in the rain for twenty minutes while he went all terrier-stubborn on me and did nothing.

While I did the dishes he began showing signs that he needed to go—of course he did. It was still blowing like crazy outside but Baby said she’d take him just beyond the door. While there with Wonder Boy, she noticed pieces of my neighbor’s fence strewn on the roof and went to inspect further.

Part of the fence was in tatters and another large portion was just about to be uprooted.

With the direction of the wind it would be headed straight into one of my living room windows. My neighbor had a wicked cold and was holed up in the bathroom of her apartment since the noise was unbearable in any other area. How did I know that? Because Karen took her a plate of comfort food before we sat down to dinner.

Um, a broken window during a hurricane might pose a tiny little problem but Baby was on it. She grabbed a length of rope, her Leatherman and North Face jacket then ran outside—in her flannel PJs.

I stumbled into my Hunter rain boots and coat and ran after her.

What a sight it was when I finally got to her. It took me a while as the wind was blowing me around the roof.

Baby held one side of the fence that was swinging back and forth as she knotted the rope with the other hand. All she needed to complete the Hollywood heroine scene was the Leatherman between her teeth. It was in her pocket. I grabbed the fence and pushed as hard as I could as the gusts knocked the structure back into me.

“MOM, SAVE YOURSELF,” Baby screamed.

OK, she really didn’t scream that but it sounded good, right?

Here’s what she really yelled.

“MOM, THIS FENCE’LL TAKE YOU OUT. I’VE GOT IT. GET YOUR SKINNY ASS INSIDE.”

Had it been any other time I would’ve insisted she repeat those words. At least the “skinny ass” portion, but I took her advice. She followed a few minutes later, drenched to the bone, hair like Medusa and triumphant.

In the door she came, fists in the air and with mad laughter she proclaimed, “I was made for situations like this.”

Baby has a tender heart but she’s still a badass.

We settled in the living room and watched the storm coverage. An hour or so later Mayor Bloomberg announced that the worst of the hurricane was over. I didn’t hear what our nasally little dictator said at first because the woman standing next to Bloomie (go on, click that link) and signing for the hearing impaired was giving the performance of a lifetime. Only in New York City would you see such flair-filled nonverbal communication. This lady was Broadway bound and surely there’s a Tony in her future. Firstborn sent a text asking if I’d heard the good mayor speaking Spanish. That always cracks her up.

We were exhausted and it was time to hit the hay, but we needed just one more bite of comfort, something sweet. I quickly made a batch of peanut butter cookies—with the carbs we’d already consumed there was no need to count anymore.

Karen, Baby and I ate the warm cookies and talked about how fortunate we were to have come through the storm unscathed. Watching the television and those who weren’t as blessed was sobering and I pointed to my new inspirational quote and said, “Yeah, no kidding.”

UPDATE: November 3rd. Today I’ll be removing the quote from the wall. It gave me something to do during the hurricane, but after a couple of days it felt a little “folksy” for my taste. The yellow paint is going as well and will be replaced with a gray color that looks like this:

This is nothing new for me. I paint and repaint  with impunity. You should’ve seen what I did in a previous place with a stencil. Frightening and my friends had to do an intervention.