As Gustav winds down and Hanna heats up, I’m left wondering something about the news coverage of major storm events. What, exactly, is the purpose of having weather and anchor people slap on a slicker and head out into the thick of it? Does the viewing public get a better idea of what’s happening by watching Harry Smith from The Early Show dispense up-to-the-minute storm information while he’s addressing the camera through one partly opened, sideways eye? Seriously. I watched the man wait for Gustav recently, and he only had one eye open. I don’t think he was even able to locate the camera.

Used to be it was just the wild men of The Weather Channel who braved the dangerous elements and stood on water-logged coastlines getting pummeled by angry waves. Poor Jim Cantore has been slogging in that stuff for years in his network-issued blue rain gear. I guess the execs decided (from the comfort of their dry desks, no doubt) that morning show weather people (and even some hosts) should grab their galoshes and get in on the fun.

Poor Sam Champion from Good Morning America seems to get the brunt of it a lot. They not only send this poor guy out to report from the center of every major storm, but they actually have made him stand in front of a hurricane simulator! "Well, there aren't any storms this week, so we're sending you to stand in front of a machine that mimics one. I smell ratings, gang!" I guess all those details get covered during contract negotiations, but I think it’s nuts. I hope they’re getting paid some serious cash for putting themselves in those situations. I also hope they’re working some sweet trips to Europe to cover lots of fab festivals to balance it out. Octoberfest, anyone?

Looks like the real thing. Best part? You can create your own ending. Let's give Alicia Sacramone that bronze medal.

Check out this pool: you can re-enact Michael Phelps' great moments and hand him a teeny box of Frosted Flakes when he's finished.

By now, you’ve probably read about the woman who had her pit bull successfully cloned by Korean scientists. My husband used to say he was going to have our yellow lab, Annabelle, stuffed when she passed. Thankfully, he never followed through. We adored her, but it just would have been a little... well, creepy. I’ll admit I’ve had thoughts about cloning my beloved black dog, and I’ve even joked with my vet about whether they offer the service (nope). She’s just the best—loves everyone, always happy to grab food off the floor so you don’t have to go for the vacuum cleaner, and rarely barks.

Some of her cuter habits that I’d happily duplicate include scrounging for odd socks each morning and daring you to chase her around the house with them. If no one joins in the game, there is much pouting. She also has this big, indestructable red ball she chases around the yard (Happy Fun Ball) with the same fervor a rat terrier might go after, say, a rat. Must… get… happy… fun… ball… and chew it to bits! She's never really done much harm to HFB, but she's managed to make big teeth marks in it and wear down her canines to nubs. This is pretty much the only time she barks. Putting the ball in its proper pecking place.

I don’t know if you can selectively clone, though, where some of the bad habits get wiped out. One thing I might not want to see in a Sophie clone would be the eating of the dung. Yes, on occasion, she has been known to do some dirty dining. Winter is particularly enticing when frigid temps produce poopsickles. I hope you aren’t eating while reading this. Yeah. Not something I’d want to duplicate in any animal.

Then there’s the issue of what to name the clone. We used to live next door to a 74-year-old woman who had recently lost her poodle, Puddy (pronounced like puddy tat). Well, she came home with a bouncing black ball of poodle pup one day and declared her Puddy II, in honor of her previous pooch. Nice sentiment, though not particularly inventive. After about a week of this, she decided that a more befitting name would be Mademoiselle Mimi. So we would then hear her yelling at the top of her lungs, “Puddy! Mimi! Puddy!” That poor dog didn’t know if she was coming or going.

I can’t imagine calling a dog Sophie II, because there is only one Sophie for us. I guess we’ll just love the heck out of her as long as she decides to stay. On the sad occasion when she does depart, we’ll remember her the good old-fashioned way with pictures, videos, favorite toys, and wonderful memories.

A few years ago, we bought a composter and began filling it in earnest. You’d be amazed at how much less you put in your garbage can each week when you’re putting all your fruit and veggie scraps in the compost. Even coffee filters and grounds are good for the mix. Round it off with some grass clippings and dry leaves, and in no time you’ll have yourself some nutrient-rich soil to mix in your garden, planters, or wherever.

My hubby tilled the compost into the garden this spring to give our plants a head start on a productive growing season. Before we even had the chance to plant anything, there were perfect little plants sprouting up all over the garden. Hmm. That compost really is powerful stuff! Or… were those from the pumpkins we put in the compost last fall? We plucked most of those little buggers but decided to keep them in just one end of the garden to see what they’d turn into. When I bought some zucchini plants at the farmer’s market, they looked just like what was already growing in the garden. When I mentioned that fact, the family of farmers selling the sprouts informed me that all kinds of squash and pumpkins look identical at the beginning. It was going to be a mystery crop. We thought that sounded like fun.

Sure enough, as they got bigger, they still resembled my squash plants. Only difference was we eventually saw teeny little pumpkins growing. All the while, new pumpkin sprouts continued to appear throughout the garden. Made for interesting weeding after we had planted other squash plants, but we think we got it all straightened out. No one wants a squmpkin, after all.

The pumpkins are already enormous. We figure that either means, A) they’re going to be county fair material come Halloween, or B) We’re going to be carving Jack-o-lanterns in late August. Maybe we could light candles in them and toast marshmallows over them for s’mores. We don’t know nothin’ ‘bout growin’ no punkins. Here is our partner in gardening, Sophie, inspecting the contents of the compost and checking out the prize pumpkin.

"Let's see...
I detect some sweet
potato peels, a
couple rejected peaches
from the tree, one... no,
make that two bags
of baby carrots [what is
wrong with these people?!]
and a hint of arugula."







"Hmm. Interesting.
Call me when
it becomes
a pumpkin muffin
with cream
cheese frosting."

A while back I was at the library looking for a book by one of my favorite authors.  Problem was, I had lost track of which books I had read in her series. Holy short-term memory. So I approached the desk and asked the librarian if there was a way to look up which books I had taken out before. There were also books I had taken out for the kids months ago that they loved, but mom forgot the titles and authors. See a pattern here? At any rate, the nice woman informed me that when you return your books, they’re wiped off your account. Great. She went on to explain that some library patrons show up with a little black book of sorts that contains the titles of every book they’ve read.

I’m thinking a couple things here: One, I can barely keep track of weekly appointments and the dispensing of Sophie the dog’s thyroid meds; two, if these people have made the effort to keep track of all those literary conquests, they might very well date back to their youth. Yikes. In my youth, I used my brain cells for memorizing countless song lyrics and perfecting the choreography to Janet Jackson’s “Pleasure Principle” video and Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

I wonder if there’s a book club where everyone convenes to politely greet the other members and discuss books they’ve read. When it’s time to get down to business, they whip out their huge black books and size up one another’s conquests. “Ooh, yours are sorted by Dewey decimal. Impressive!” “Oh, my. Did you see Gabrielle’s pathetic little list scrawled into a Hello Kitty notebook? I think she might have made up some of those titles.”

I’m afraid my black book would lack not only in girth but also in substance. Fluffy romance or mystery novels don’t seem like they’d carry much prestige in literary circles. Guess it’s a good thing I’m not keeping track. Maybe I could find a club where everyone just gets together to re-enact mega video hits from the 80’s. Mall bangs optional. Maybe Jennifer Garner would even show up.

I’ve chatted with many of them over the years—the people whose eyes don’t connect with yours for most or all of your conversation with them. I’ve experienced the collarbone connector, who always seemed to seek permission to raise her eyes to the level of those with whom she was speaking. Made you want to duck down a little to meet her gaze. I remember a girl from college who was always examining the crease where the wall meets the ceiling when she talked to people. She was pretty spacey… she seemed to be searching for clues up there. Pretty sure she never found any.

I know some people like Busty Love from “America’s Got Talent” (see The Good The Bad and The Ugly in my column to the left if you missed her) deal with the issue of having people talking to her freakishly large breasts. I don’t think you could fault too many people for that, honestly. They have their own zip code, for heaven’s sake. Sharon Osbourne had to pick her jaw up off the table after one look.

I was talking to a service technician recently, and he was staring at my hair. He was actually sharing some important information with me, but I found I couldn’t focus on what he was saying as long as he was staring at my follicles. I was now wondering what hideous thing was going on with my hair. Did I have mousse and squirrel in there? Did I have mall bangs? Has he spotted [gasp] a grey hair?! Of course, the minute his feet hit my sidewalk I high-tailed it to a mirror to assess the situation. Not a hair out of place. He was just a hair talker. It’s like that scene from “Better Off Dead” where Lane is talking to the pretty girl, and she absent mindedly wipes her nose. He immediately wipes his, thinking it was a polite signal that he had something askew in the nostril department. This, of course, escalates to wild gestures and hilarity ensues.

My guess is many people who don’t make eye contact have no idea they’re doing it. I think next time I chat with a “no eye contact” person; I’ll just follow their lead and see what it’s all about.

The 4^th of July holiday is upon us, and that means fireworks. I’m not talking about the kind you see when you gaze into your true love’s baby blues. It’s the kind where groups of people utter “ooh” and “aah” in unison as if they’ve been practicing for weeks.

Peppered throughout the community you’ll also find some homegrown fireworks. These range anywhere from the wise guys whose specialty is jolting every neighbor on the block out of their recliners with the lighting of an M-80, to the brace-face kids down the street shooting bottle rockets in one other’s general direction. Brilliant. We have a couple neighbors who try their hand at the big stuff, and one of them was actually quite impressive last year. Scared my poor boy out of a sound sleep, but he warmed up to whole idea when he saw the cool colors exploding out his bedroom window. Sure, they shot down the neighbor kid’s kite in mid-air and some flew dangerously close to the trees, but they did look pretty cool.

I’ve always been a big fan of fireworks. Nothing like grabbing a blanket and chair and heading out to relax with friends while you watch sparkly, crackling (my fave!) fireworks light up the night sky. Wanna know where to look for some great firework displays this weekend? The Drive has that covered for you. Ever wonder how they work? Click here!