Column: Quirky Snow Friends a Fast Track to Fun

This is the space where I would ordinarily post my column. Unfortunately, the "copy/paste" function of this blog seems to have gone down the tubes. And two days before Christmas means there is no time to re-copy 800 words...

Hopefully this is a temporary glitch. However, if you would like to keep up with the latest, just click here: http://www.morganhilltimes.com/lifestyles/261534-quirky-snow-friends-a-fast-track-to-fun.

Column: Waffling at Breakfast is no laughing matter

If you managed to survive Thanksgiving dinner with your elastic waistband intact, congratulations. And just because you stuffed yourself silly with turkey and all those trimmings doesn't mean that you aren't popping out of bed these chilly mornings ready for a hearty breakfast - which brings me to some tragic news.

This just in: perhaps you were hoping those rumors you heard were all a cruel hoax, but alas. Today I am here on a mission of humanitarianism, putting your worst fears to rest. Yes, friends, there is an Eggo Waffle shortage.
Now I hate being the bearer of bad news so soon after Thanksgiving when we, a grateful nation, were appreciating our good fortunes, our abundant blessings, our toaster waffles. And what, exactly, are we supposed to do about breakfast now? Break out our actual waffle irons and - egad - mix up our own batter? I hardly think so. But there they are: our toasters, lying cold and empty on our counter tops, cruel reminders that a day without an Eggo is just another, well ... day.

Kellogg's, the makers of Eggo Waffles, is taking drastic action. With two of their plants closed down they are threatening to - yes - ration our waffles. Do you hear that, South County shoppers? I mean, what's next? Black Market Eggos? Greedy Eggo hoarders positioning their frozen stockpiles of Eggos on eBay?

But rest assured that Kellogg's is making this appalling shortage a "top priority." What's more, the "Eggo team" (Eggo has a "team?") is "working around the clock to bring everyone's favorite waffles back to store shelves as quickly as possible." Well. I don't know about you, but I feel A LOT better now.

So what brought about this alarming shortage, you are probably wondering. Because there's nothing like a stoppage of waffle making to bring a country down. If you, like myself, thought nothing short of a terrorist attack could crush a Kellogg's waffle manufacturing plant, think again. It was all a matter of a little flood damage. I mean, really, people. What kind of country of wimps are we becoming here? Good thing our forefathers didn't mind a little water damage. They'd never have made it across the Atlantic with such feeble moral fiber.

So, friends, it looks like we will have to "leggo" of our Eggos for a few months, which means there are going to be an awful lot of broken-hearted waffle eaters out there. But for heaven's sake, let's not panic, people. There are still, of course, many ways to combat this Eggo Waffle shortage and find "comfort food" when we need it.

Take for example, movie popcorn. Now there's some real comfort in a tub if there ever was any. With the approaching holiday season comes the latest blockbuster movies at your local theater, and what better way to enjoy a new release than by bellying-up to the snack bar for your favorite mega barrel of buttered popcorn? Except, um ... no.

That's right; a recent food police buzz kill concludes that you might just as well shoot yourself as consume that staple of the movie theater, popcorn. The madcap funsters at The Center for Science in the Public Interest released a study saying that consuming movie popcorn assures you an imminent engagement with the triple bypass professionals. Even before adorning your popcorn with "butter" - that runny, orange-ish, not-found-in-nature stuff that comes out of the little spigot at the snack counter - your medium-sized movie popcorn at some theaters comes accessorized with more than 1,600 calories and 60 grams of saturated fat.

Now that's fine providing you intend to share your popcorn with all the moviegoers in your row, which would be a little, well ... weird. But this is a major bummer because I don't know about you, but movies just aren't the same without a stop at the snack bar for a bit of heart-attack-in-a-tub. Yet you might as well make it easier on yourself and simply consume a couple of sticks of butter. I'm just saying.

So if all this dire news about the foods you love makes you want to curl up in a fetal position, we might just as well throw in the towel and haul out the old Häagen-Dazs, right? Well, no, I don't think so. Listed as "Extreme Ice Cream" by the CSPI, half a cup of strawberry cheesecake, for example, slams half a day's saturated fat and a third of a day's cholesterol into your arteries with nary a look back.

Well. I don't know about you, but all this food talk has left me with a hunger for something "simply delicioso" for breakfast. Let's see, what's it going to be ... Aha! I'm going to pull out all the stops and gorge myself on this mouthwatering ... celery. See? Tastes just like crunchy green roof shingles. Yum.

Column: Give me just a few more days in Fantasyland

We've come to that time of year that is my personal favorite. After leaving the screams and howls of Halloween behind but before making the Thanksgiving commitment of baking the dressing outside of the turkey or stuffed inside, we can kick back, put up our feet and catch some reruns of "Dancing with the Stars."Hahaha - just kidding about the reruns. That's because there are, seriously, gazillions of first-run episodes left of this season's reality show featuring "Stars" you haven't heard of in approximately 50 years. But I digress.

The reason I love this time of year is because it allows me to shine. At least inside my own head. Christmas preparation is in its infancy, and the freight train of holiday derailment hasn't yet entered my consciousness. Because as surely as I know my own name, I know that THIS VERY YEAR my holiday celebration will be perfect. That's right, Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

First I will grab up and pore over the obligatory holiday magazines, all promising that this very issue guarantees "Your Best Holiday Season Ever" and "Christmas in Connecticut is OK but Wait 'til the Folks Back Home Take a Gander at your Goose."

But I won't stop there. I'll make gingerbread likenesses of the White House; whip up a fabulously towering croque-en-bouche for open house on Christmas Eve; perhaps I will even order snow-making equipment to sprinkle the outside of our home with flurries of frozen flakes, ensuring a perfect White Christmas. ANYTHING is possible.

It is only mid-November and right now I can go shopping and park in the same zip code as the mall. This is vital because next month parking becomes life threatening. One year was so hazardous that if they suspected you were going to beat them out of a parking place, drivers employed the use of harpoons. I know because it happened to me. That's right; I was harpooned. Or possibly I drove my vehicle too near a bicycle rack thoughtlessly placed there by people who should be designing parking lots in Siberia.

If you're lucky enough to find a parking space in December, wannabe Christmas shoppers stalk you as you exit the store, their large SUVs nipping your heels. But I have a fail-proof payback to those rude drivers. Carrying my mountain of shopping bags, I purposely walk right past my car. Don't be fooled, people; I will carry 50 pounds of bags for miles. I don't care if those bags weigh me down to the point of needing reconstructive surgery. If I don't like the attitude of the driver following me, I might just walk all the way home.

Another great thing about this time of year is that you know you'll find the perfect gift for everyone on your list because you have scads of time to shop selectively. You'll leisurely wrap your offerings in beautiful paper while featuring perfectly folded corners on every box. And you'll tie your gifts in the most fetching manner with yards of lovely ribbon artfully draped around each one.Of course reality hits Christmas Eve when you realize every gift you purchased is so bulky that wrapping it requires assistance from the tent and awning people. I mean, let's see YOU wrap a large tricycle. And speaking of tricycles ...

This year I found a pink tricycle. Not just any pink tricycle, mind you. The ad says this tricycle will make my little princess feel like royalty and is a "true classic!" Designed after a 1930s model trike, the "Sky Princess Tricycle in Pink" is the ultimate in style replete with handlebar tassels and fenders - that's right: fenders - on all three wheels.

Now the Martha in me thinks this is the perfect Christmas gift for Granddaughter #1, Gracie Elizabeth. I can visualize her now, hair flying in the wind as she pedals down the sidewalk on her adjustable coil spring seat, her functional headlight dazzling in the gathering twilight. The smooth ride from the solid rubber tires and sealed ball bearings will make her feel like a princess for sure. Not to mention the long-lasting lead-free powder coat paint that will bring out the apple pink of her cheeks. The Sky Princess Tricycle will look stunning beneath the Christmas tree!

And OK, her mother thinks the tricycle is atrocious. Plus Gracie is only 2; her feet wouldn't reach the pedals. And unless it comes standard with a detailing person, a few mornings of lawn sprinklers drowning the "long-lasting lead-free powder coat paint" with gallons of hard water, that trike will be thrashed before you can say "Holy-cow-what-was-I-thinking-this-thing-cost-more-than-my-first car!!!"

So yeah, no. I'll dream on. Today I'll believe that this Christmas will be a wondrous marvel of miracles and joy. Seriously. Denial is a beautiful thing.

Halloween custom reveals a mixed bag of treats

Call me crazy but there is a definite flair for Halloween trick-or-treating that comes to us straight out of the gene pool. Nope, our mamas didn't raise no dummies.

Back when I was a little trick-or-treater, we knew which homes on our block insured a good haul, and we beat feet to those houses straight out of the chute. And then there were the homes we stayed away from at all costs regardless of how great the candy might be. These were the homes of the neighborhood legends.

Yes, every neighborhood had a legend or two. In my day this included the old spinster at the end of the block, Edna Greebhauser. Even in the middle of summer she dressed in crinkly black dresses and black lace-up-old-maid-school-teacher shoes. It was rumored that she ate her cats. Poor old Edna was the neighborhood's resident witch and WAY too scary to approach on Halloween.

Then there was crazy Mr. Calhoun. Rumor had it that one year he flung open the door to trick-or-treaters wearing only his wife's Sunday-Going-to-Church hat secured in a, um ... strategic location. It was reported that everybody bolted when he hollered, "Say, kids, what do you think of that?!!!" It was also rumored that it was his wife's good hat. The opulent one with lots of feathers and beading.

But the Holy Grail of Halloween night is the candy. So when I bought this year's stash of Halloween "fun-size" treats and found a small tear in the bottom of the bag, I decided to do some research. Pulling out three or four candy bars I noted that, yes indeed, these bars resembled in miniature their full-sized counterparts. Research over, I proceeded to document ... oh, all right. I ate the research.

Now this was not a bad thing because I had purchased Gobbledygook Bars - the "healthy" alternative candy bar. A little less fat and calories. But will the kids that come to the door know I am helping their health needs, and if they do, will they hold that against me? Which brings me to the actual size of these "fun" bars.

Who said anything about "fun?" These bars are TEENY. In my day we'd have thrown them back because they are clearly too small to have been considered a proper catch because we carried mega bags such as pillowcases. These came with our mothers' admonishment that we dare not "drag it in the mud and get it dirty." Or perhaps we scored an actual paper bag from the grocery store. And that left us with lots of empty real estate to fill with candy, my friend.

So if we were savvy trick-or-treaters back in those days of yore, imagine the mindset of the kids you encounter nowadays. Halloween night brings trick-or-treaters to your door these days with their critical thinking skills on full major alert. And as you deliver precisely one healthy "fun" bar to their waiting containers, they may just counter back with a searing critique of your contribution. So make sure you're doling out the good stuff - and lots of it - because the older the kid, the more risk of a run-in due to the candy quality control factor.

Now the first kids to appear on your porch are easy because they are the babies. Charming little cuties, whose mom or dad bring them around the second it gets dark because with any luck parents can be through with the doorbell ringing and back home where little Fifi or Dweezil are hustled out of their costumes and into their footy p.j.'s by 7 p.m. That's right; the first round of little ones are so caught up with the novelty of trick-or-treating, you can pretty much throw an old gym sock into their containers and they'll go away happy.

But the hypercritical thinkers come late, and you'll recognize them immediately. No good ever comes from the late arrival trick-or-treaters:

8:27 p.m.: Doorbell rings. You open the door. Standing before you are two 37-year-old males who could stand a shave wearing "costumes" that can only be described as Dog the Bounty Hunter and Borat at the Beach.

Trick-or-Treaters: "Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!!"

Me: "What? What kind of thing is that to say? And aren't you a little OLD to be trick-or-treating? Oh, well, here you go," (plunking a requisite fun-size bar into their, um ... backpacks??). "This is your lucky day, boys, because I'm giving you a Gobbledygook Bar - do you realize they are the HEALTHIEST candy bar out there?"

Trick-or-Treaters: "Who are you, the Surgeon General?"

Me: "You'd better show some respect, young man, or I'll call my friend the Attorney General and sue your smelly socks off!"

So you see what we're up against these days. And yes, folks, it can get ugly.

Column: Warnng: Breakfast may be risky business

Oct 13, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Breakfast: It's the most important meal of the day according to some experts. So if you are reading this column while enjoying your morning meal, let me apologize in advance for any sudden urges to heave your breakfast burrito.

That's because an alarming food announcement was issued recently by a group in charge of scaring the bejabbers out of anyone who believes food consumption is pretty important in the Staying Alive Department. And you know who I mean; those food authority types who point out to us on a regular basis that the food we are about to consume is a festering, moldering mass of deadly microbes.

That's right, just when you thought it was safe to consume a leafy green, we're told - again - that serving up a big old dinner salad is about as dicey as taking a spin on the Indy 500.

"The Center for Science in the Public Interest" compiled the study, and if that doesn't sound like a suspicious outfit, I don't know what does. Heed the warnings and you will find yourself tiptoeing around the Public Interest folks' list of top 10 risky foods (in descending order): leafy greens, eggs, tuna, oysters, potatoes, cheese, ice cream (ICE CREAM??? Risky to WHAT? Our thighs?), tomatoes, sprouts and berries.

So what are we home cooks to do? Stop serving up staples like eggs, cheese or tomatoes since they are apparently teeming with bacteria? Well, it seems that we should, so my crack research department went to work finding a solution to this crisis. And in case you're wondering, my crack research department consists of me lying on our sofa the other night.

You'll be delighted to know that in doing this selfless research, I've uncovered some exciting new foods to tempt your palate. Furthermore, I'd speculate that the folks over at The Center for Science have never attempted to dissect these foods in the Public Interest. Nope. They wouldn't touch these babies with a 10 foot pole. Therefore, I suggest you do what I did and take a gander at an episode of the Food Network's "Next Iron Chef" because featured there was a whole plethora of victuals you've probably never thought of. If, for example, you thought lamb kidneys were exotic, you don't know what you've been missing. Take, for example, duck's tongue.



Now I don't know what circles you run in, but chances are you haven't encountered this delicacy as you've browsed your local meat counter. But bowls brimming with ducks' tongues, chicken feet and eel were only a few of the featured treats the prospective Iron Chefs were slicing and dicing over at the Food Network. Yes, I know these, um ... foods ... sound mildly yucky, but don't forget in our neck of the woods we eat garlic ice cream.

While I consider myself a fairly fearless cook at home, I admit to shuddering at the idea of whipping up dishes with such exotic ingredients. I mean, there on national television were professional chefs each about to dissolve into tears of frustration in their missions to create dishes using their assigned ingredients. What, for example, can one do with grasshoppers? Or "stinky tofu?" Or chicken feet? Or - egads! Cock's comb?

Now I'm not up on my reading of animal rights literature as it pertains to poultry, but there were an awful lot of rooster parts being bandied about in those Food Network kitchens. It made me wonder where on earth those various poultry appendages came from. I mean, somewhere there may be serious cases of chicken-rustling going on. And are there areas where large lakes are missing their ducks? Perhaps clandestine cults are springing up showing signs of chicken genocidal inclinations. It could happen, people!

So pity the poor aspiring (and perspiring) Iron Chef who draws - and I'm not making this up - un-laid bird eggs as his secret ingredient. I don't know about you, but a plate of fallopian tube pasta just doesn't, um ... tempt me somehow.

Imagine being a judge sitting on a panel tasting and weighing in on dishes containing grasshoppers, eel, or chicken feet. "I'm finding the cock's comb in your dish a little chewy," reprimands one judge looking down her nose at the platter of jaunty little topknots that previously adorned the barnyard's alarm clock. Well, HELLO?!!! It's a COCK'S COMB for Pete's sake. If you want tender, you might try a fillet.

Even if experts agree that ducks' tongues are "the other white meat" and have never seen the likes of a risky microbe, I can hear the naysayers now. But before you vow to never eat anything that came out of a duck's mouth, you might wish to reconsider. Where do you think those scrambled eggs you're having for breakfast came from? I rest my case.

Column: Clever Canine No Match for this Dog Whisperer

Oct 2, 2009 By Gale Hammond

The other day I let our small dog, Puddin', outside to do his 'business' when he came upon an interesting aroma out on the driveway. This could have been his own calling card or perhaps another wilder critter had passed this way. In either case, my stubborn Lhasa Apso was examining this find with great gusto and taking his sweet time about it.

"Puddin'," I called - and yes, I know it's a wacky name for a dog. I tried again because he hadn't budged. "Come here, Puddin'. Puuuuudddin' - Come on now, Puddin'...." Mind you, I was using my softest, most enticing voice because - let's face it - a woman standing on the front porch in her bathrobe yelling "Puddin'" at the top of her lungs is either crazy or having one ferocious snack attack. It's just not the best way to call attention to oneself.

I pulled out the big guns. "GOOD BOY, Puddin'! Come inside and get your COOKIE now! Puddin'? Come ON, Puddin'!!!"

"You should get a job with 'The Dog Whisperer,'" my spouse noted, watching our four-legged child mosey about on the driveway. "You have such command over the dog."

Ok, so Cesar Millan is not going to lose any sleep over this. But I am not bragging when I say that Cesar would be impressed with my dog grooming skills.

For the record, grooming my longhaired dog never made it to my bucket list because it is way harder than it looks. And it isn't masochistic tendencies making me subject myself to this torment. Nope. Puddin' has issues. Lots of issues but mainly with his eyes. Therefore, the loop that goes about the neck of a dog at a grooming salon is out. Puddin' can't even tolerate a leash - too risky for the glaucoma that plagues him following a rash of eye surgeries. So I inherited the task of tidying up the dog.

Now any fool knows that simply bathing a dog is easy. I mean, once you capture the dog that races to the far corners of the earth whenever he hears water running, the rest is a snap. Right? So what if the little scrapper pancakes on the floor and digs the nails of all four paws into the carpeting when you try to pick him up? I mean, who has the bigger brain here?

But I was uneasy at the thought of trimming those flowing locks that make Lhasas resemble living dust mops. Those buzzy little clipper things are unnerving. Besides, I haven't had the best luck with dogs and automated devices. Take for example the time I attempted to clean the teeth of our former Lhasa, Freddie.

The vet suggested I purchase one of those "water pick" type gizmos to reduce the plaque build-up on Freddie's teeth. Well. This sounds good in theory. In reality, all I can say is YOU try holding a small thrashing dog exerting roughly 97,000 pounds of force with one hand and with the other a fully loaded water pick as it gushes forth with the equivalent psi of a fire hose able to extinguish blazing infernos on the top floor of the Empire State Building. Yeah. Let's see how YOU do!

Freddie was beyond furious. No way was I getting anywhere near his pearly whites with that spewing volcano of water, which was by now shooting its contents wildly over the entire bathroom. Yes, after the Yellowstone-Geyser-Monsoon-in-the-Bathroom incident, I was reluctant to get into another battle of wills with a dog. That's when our friends, Bud and Susan, offered to give me a grooming lesson.

Bud grooms all their Lhasa Apsos, and he's darned good at it. So one sunny afternoon we headed over to Bud and Susan's home down in Newport Beach for a hands-on demo.

And it would've been helpful, too, except that Susan and I rapidly retired to the patio with glasses of wine to discuss important world issues such as our granddaughters. As a result, I didn't glean too much understanding of dog grooming, although I now know that Susan's granddaughter's next birthday party theme will definitely be 'Pink Princesses.'

"That's not how Bud does it," my spouse advised approximately 673 times when I'd finally launched out on my maiden dog-grooming voyage. "Listen, buster," I warned, brandishing my clippers at the man. "If you say that one more time I'm going to take these things to YOUR hair and believe me - it won't be pretty!"

And the results of my first do-it-yourself grooming adventure? Well, a racing stripe now runs along Puddin's right flank, a gift resulting from running the close-cutting clipper head a little too high on that side. But let's just remember hair DOES grow back - and besides. It gives Puddin' that rakish, STREAMLINED look that I find quite eye-catching.

Yep. Works for me!

Column: Driven to Distraction on "the" L.A. freeways

September 18, 2009, by Gale HammondPeople in Southern California love their freeways. Ask them how they get to work and they'll say, "Well, I hop onto the 405 but it'll likely be bogged down so I'll take the 5 'til I can grab the 101, then jump down, turn around and …" If you're confused, join the club. I mean, what's up with with our neighbors down south and all the "thes" in L.A.?

Speaking of "the" freeways, have you experienced rush hour in L.A.? And by rush hour I mean anywhere between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. - and that's just on weekends. Yep, rush hour in SoCal is approximately 27 hours long. Per day. And the abnormal occurrence when you actually find a freeway not strangled with vehicles? That's right. Traffic immediately clogs up because just ahead three lanes are now closed due to Caltrans sand-blasting graffiti from a freeway overpass at a cost of approximately $90 jillion, which has nothing to do with traffic, but still. I'm just saying.

And the term "rush hour?" What sicko thought that one up? When is the last time you "rushed" anywhere in L.A.'s rush hour traffic unless it's to a hospital to treat the lethal blood pressure you acquire as you sit trapped in a steel hotbox while a huge diesel big rig blows smoke up your tailpipe.

Something you should know about driving in L.A. is that you never arrive anywhere on the same day you left. I don't care if your destination is two exits down the road. You will encounter traffic jams the likes of which have never before occurred on Planet Earth. And carpool lanes? Forget about it. L.A. carpool lanes are scientifically designed to keep you from entering them. Ever. Unless possibly you are the driver of a hearse transporting a dead person because carpool lane signs don't technically state that all of a vehicle's occupants have to be alive.

But suppose you stumble upon one of those rare times when the planets all align in perfect order and you're maintaining the L.A. freeway required minimum speed limit of 97 miles per hour. Suddenly the road is teeming with drivers careening violently past you. This is the beloved L.A. phenomenon known as the "I'll-Drive-Like-A-Bat-Out-Of-Hell-Regardless-of-Where-I'm-Going-Just-Because-I-Can" state-of-mind. And that's just the CHP officers. Hahahaha - no, I just made that up. L.A. freeways are the last place you'll find a CHP officer. I mean, they'd be crazy to drive on those roads.

What you WILL find sharing the road with you in L.A. are fast, expensive cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. And at the other end of the spectrum? Ancient, custom-by-crash "muscle cars" that blow past you like you're standing still. But for heavens sake, DO NOT HONK at the other drivers. In L.A. honking or other signs of annoyance will get you shot. Seriously.

Occasionally you'll encounter drivers courteously using their turn signal indicating their intent to move to another lane. This is a major alert that you are following a car from another part of the country driven by an old person. That's right. It is against the law to use turn signals or to be old in L.A. Besides, L.A. drivers like to surprise you with their quick impulsive moves on the highway. Angelenos are just fun like that. So if you're following a vehicle with its turn signal engaged, it's safe to assume that said turn signal was activated by a geriatric driver somewhere around Bakersfield.



And I hate to complain but could those freeways get any more confusing with their myriad of names? Interstate 5 is called the Golden State Freeway or simply "the 5." If you're south of downtown, I-5 is the Santa Ana Freeway. Even further south, I-5 is the San Diego Freeway. As is the Big Daddy of all SoCal freeways, "the 405" - legendary as one of the country's most congested highways. But hey! It's the only place in L.A. where you can park for free!

You could call Interstate 10 plain old "Interstate 10," but where's the fun in that? It's referred to as the Santa Monica Freeway or the San Bernardino Freeway - depending on which direction you're traveling. Unfortunately I'm not making this up.

And the highway we know here simply as "101" or the Bayshore Freeway? Yep, those full-of-fun folks in L.A. have a whole bevy of names for that one. In some areas it's the Hollywood Freeway. Driving toward the southern coast? It's the Ventura Freeway. Or the Ventura Freeway could be SR-134 if you're in Burbank. Got all that? Nope, me neither.

So what do you do if you're going to L.A. and find yourself stuck on one of "the" freeways? You pray. You pray REALLY HARD that gas climbs to $20 a gallon. Now THAT would clear away some serious traffic!

Column: Don't mess with me: I can't find my can opener!

September 4, 2009, by Gale HammondToday, an important announcement: I have undertaken a risky project at Casa Hammond. Things could get ugly here, friends. I am re-organizing my kitchen cupboards. And as my friend Linda recently reminded me, "re-organizing" falsely implies that once they were organized.

This nonsense all started a few days ago when I couldn't find the orange that I swear I bought. I checked the fruit bin in the fridge. The kitchen countertops. Behind the coffee-maker. I even looked in the bowl containing the artificial fruit in case it had slipped in there unnoticed, attempting to make its getaway.

When my diligent search failed to produce the darned thing, I proceeded with Plan B. Since the orange was to be part of the evening's dinner salad, I'd go with the next best thing: canned mandarin orange sections. Yes, Julia Child would have been wringing her hands at my use of a "canned good," but hey! Somebody has to keep those packing plants in business!

Oh-oh, this wasn't good. My canned oranges were also MIA. Searching the pantry fruitlessly - and yes, that was a pretty awful pun but just roll with me here - I suddenly remembered that the canned oranges were wedged in next to the popcorn - and no, don't ask.

Canned oranges in hand, I paused to think: Where was the can opener? Now I know there are at LEAST three can openers in the utensil drawer (or rather "drawers" since every drawer in the place seems to contain multitudes of utensils of one kind or another. Where was the old, hard to hold and harder to crank "Early Marital" can opener? Or the more hand-friendly can-opening device I purchased when it appeared the marriage was going to last? I'd even settle for the ultra-technical can opener contraption that senior NASA scientists would have difficulty operating.


The last apparatus is an offering Mr. H. tried to anonymously dump under the Christmas tree a couple of years ago. I say "anonymously" because we'd had that "No Home Appliances for Christmas" talk before. You know; that's the talk on Christmas morning that follows your opening of a beautifully wrapped … toaster (or drill press or what have you). Mind you, I haven't eaten toast since approximately Woodstock. My spouse on the other hand? That's right; it's on his menu every morning, and that fancy new appliance certainly delivers a kick-start to his day. But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not me.

So the handwriting was on the kitchen wall. It was time to gut the cupboards and drawers because heaven only knows the last time this took place but I'd hazard a guess that my youngest was still in diapers.

And isn't going through the kitchen cupboards similar to an archeological dig? For example: There's the powdered milk I purchased during my Earth-Mother-Yogurt-Making era. Hopefully all the live cultures and freeze-dried bacteria made a respectable exit and aren't feeding a family of mice somewhere under the floor. And here are the Wonder Breakfast Cookies that were supposed to save me so much time when I was rushing off to work. The only "Wonder" was in how awful they tasted. Those hockey pucks were so nasty I wanted to stay in bed until lunch just to forego breakfast.

And wait! Hold on a second! What's this? Waaaaaay back in a hard-to-reach cupboard lay my old plastic-ware Jell-O mold. Back in the day we used to burp those plastic-ware bowls more than the baby. All that harmful air trapped inside until - whoosh! Your food could stay fresh for thousands of years! It was practically a religious experience, I'm telling you. And my right-of-passage into adulthood would have been complete with my plastic-ware Jell-o mold except for one tiny hitch. I never made Jell-o. Making Jell-o reminded me of … well, chemistry. Not that I'd ever taken chemistry, mind you, but if I had, it would have been hard.

Although organizing my kitchen was the order of the day, the real predicament came in figuring out what to do when I realized I had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight spatulas and half a dozen sets of measuring spoons. And what of those more obscure kitchen gadgets? I couldn't just go disposing of them all willy-nilly, could I? Good heavens! There may be Martha-Stewart-worthy dinner parties on the horizon that could never come off without my Indian wok or my clever little Spudnik potato masher.

Meanwhile, I must stay focused on getting organized so I can find my kitchen tools in a timely manner. Maybe I'll just take a couple of these spatulas and drop them off at the donation location downtown. But which ones? Wow. This is irritating. In the meantime, can I interest you in a nearly new, 30-year-old Jell-o mold?

Column: A Fathers Day Tribute

My dad, Galen Hoover. Photo was taken by my mother, Claice Austin Hoover and won a prize in a local photo contest hosted by the Pueblo Chieftain - our daily newspaper.

Fathers Lead the Way and Teach Us to Walk on Our Own
June 13, 2006
By Gale Hammond

Although it's a bit faded now, there's an old picture that I like to look at on Father's Day. In it, a blond 5-year-old girl stands in a pale red coat, too short in the sleeves, her brown, scuffed cowboy boots planted wide apart on the sunny surface of a bridge. She's holding a fish. Still on the line, the fish is small, but the little girl's grin is so wide that a wad of bubblegum escapes from one side. The image calls to mind memories much more vivid than the photograph …

They pulled in at the old fishing bridge around daybreak. Light frost iced the wild grasses and the wide timbers of the bridge. Gaps between its wooden planks showed slices of the river rushing below. The little girl stepped carefully onto the slippery surface of the bridge, cringing at the violence of the tumbling waters far beneath them. She wanted to take her father's hand, but didn't. Five years old meant she could walk beside him without holding his hand.

Stopping near the center of the bridge, the man placed their gear and a bucket of bait on the rough timbers nearest the rail. Frigid water pounded thunderously over speckled rocks far below. The sun peeked over the crest of the mountain, its sweet light poised to flood the valley, but right then it was cold. She wished for mittens to warm her freezing fingers, but she knew she couldn't bait her hook wearing mittens. And that was the deal; she'd promised her dad she would bait the hook herself.

Leaning their poles against the railing, he stooped to uncover the bucket containing the earthworms, his pant leg stained at the knee from the wet grass where he'd knelt in their yard to dig up the worms while it was still night. Reaching into the bucket, he pulled out a fat worm that wiggled in circles at both ends. Deftly he hooked it and cast off, then glanced in his daughter's direction. Unafraid to touch worms, she nevertheless was squeamish about sticking the hook into one. A deal was a deal, though, so she grasped a large one and threaded it on, trying not to think about the worm.

The damp, earthy reek of the old canvas bag filled with salmon eggs and fishing gear grew stronger in the warmth of the rising sun. Morning birds chattered to each other from massive cottonwood trees growing in a thick row along the banks of the Colorado. Holding her pole over the edge of the bridge, the line pulled along with the current below, its red and white bobber playing in the rapids. The man had already reeled in several fish, but still she waited. One worm was lost, and she affixed another while the shadows behind them grew shorter.

Growing tired, the little girl thought she'd rather join her mother on the bank of the river when she felt an abrupt tug at her line. Astonished, she looked to her dad who nodded at her reel, and she wound it in. A sudden flash of silver appeared at the river's plane. Thrashing, the small trout rode up and over the bridge's rail. Grasping the line, the girl whirled around to find her mother already up from the old quilt on the river bank where she'd been reading, her dark hair flying as she ran to the bridge to take a picture of their little girl with her first fish.

Seeing his tired young daughter, the girl's father offered her a ride on his shoulders back to the car. "No, thank you, Daddy," she explained. "I can walk by myself over this bridge."

That's what dads do, you see, and it's on Father's Day we remember. They lead the way as we learn to stand and walk on our own.

Her dad's been gone three years now, but there's a special place in a daughter's heart for her father. On Father's Day the old, faded photograph warms that place with memories because that was the day I learned to fish like my dad.

Aug. 21, 2009: Up a Stream-of-Consciousness without a paddle

Years ago when I was in college, the professor assigned a writing exercise using the literary technique known as "stream-of-consciousness." Seemingly perfect for my loose-knit brain, this is a free-flowing stream of thoughts written down as they occur. You know - letting loose, going with the flow. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, complete sentences or even making sense. Just tap into that "stream." It is liberating. It is thought provoking. It is crazier than bat poop.

Yes, I know, great writers like Faulkner practically created entire novels in this manner, crafting stunningly brilliant prose. Personally, my stream-of-consciousness writings would make psychologists sit up and take note. They would draw little arrows to one side of my rambling hen-scratches stating, "Watch this person: may have Manson-family-type tendencies."

Although my stream-of-consciousness musings weren't a raging success, something must have taken hold because here I am, years later, accepting the startling realization that I have taken stream-of-consciousness to a whole new level. I've turned it into a way of life. Yes, friends, I am living an unstructured, hanging loose, go-with-the-flow, crazy as bat poop lifestyle.

This is not how I intended it to be, mind you. I am in total awe of folks who begin their days with a neatly compiled list of activities and end those same days with a bunch of neat little check marks noting the successful completion of said activities.

Granted, I can compose a killer to-do list. I can make it purposeful and complete. I can even fool myself into thinking I will actually follow said to-do list. But then … you know. Even the most well thought out plans are victims of happenstance. Because stuff happens, people! For example:

Wednesday: To-do list

1. Water and prune container plants.
2. Take chicken out of freezer for dinner.
3. Go to gym; come home; shower; get dressed.
4. Meet Sally for lunch.
5. Go to bank, grocery store, cleaners.
6. Make appointment for vehicle servicing.
7. Bake brownies for book club meeting.
8. Make dinner; clean kitchen.
9. Bed.

Wednesday: Stream-of-consciousness edition

1. Begin watering plants; notice that deer are eating flowers on new plant. Go find big fat plant book to check if plant is deer resistant. OK; where is that book? Thought I put it here on the laundry room shelf next to the … oh-oh. Still haven't removed the wine stain on the ottoman because here's the stuff I bought to clean it with and … oh, never mind; I should definitely just recover the thing; never did care for that fabric anyway ...Let's see, where is the measuring tape, I'll get the ottoman's dimensions … since I'll be downtown I'll purchase new fabric and recover it tomorrow. Now. If the upholstery fabric is 54 inches wide I could … oops, forgot to take out the chicken. Walking to the fridge and - what on earth is that dog doing? Great, he's rolling in turkey do-do again. Grab the dog, fill the laundry sink, wash this mess out of his coat - what is the matter with him for the love of - yikes! Look at the time! Now there's no time for the gym; oh, well. I'll go tomorrow FOR SURE.

Showered and running out the door. Dang! Broke my sunglasses. Well, I can't be running around in this bright summer sun without them. Make a quick stop to buy sunglasses before meeting Sally, the store is practically next door to the restaurant, and I would've been right on time for lunch except the machine to charge the sunglasses to my credit card wasn't working so here I am almost 10 minutes late, and I'll just give Sally a quick call to let her know I'm almost there and - WHAT?? My cell phone isn't working? OH!!!!!

Have a fun (albeit late) lunch with Sally, we laugh and laugh and then I'd better see what's wrong with this dang phone and the salesman says it's going to take awhile to program my new phone, not to mention download all those precious pictures, because wouldn't you know the old phone is toast so I have time to run an errand, which is fortunate because we need dog food and the dog food purchase takes longer than I thought so finally back to the phone store and now what?! They lost all the pictures stored on my old cell phone! Well, great. Salesman is calling the technician for advice. Might as well get an ice cream cone while I'm waiting. There goes the diet.Two hours later and I have to leave behind a part on my old phone that may or may not retrieve my lost pictures so back home I go and oh, swell, it's time to make dinner. Chicken is still in the freezer. Better order a pizza, already blew the diet anyway, but first I'll just finish watering the plants …

It's a One-Way Ticket to Mimi's House of Pain

Aug 7, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Today I wish to report that I have a personal trainer. Yes, I do. I'll tell anybody who asks all about David and his proficiency as a personal trainer. David is wonderful. He takes my mournfully out-of-shape physique and whips it into shape. He listens politely to my painfully sad tales of woe about my bum knee, my achy back and makes me work out anyway. The benefits of having a personal trainer are limitless. In fact, I've made it my life's purpose to stay as far away as humanly possible from my personal trainer.

Now I should explain (and I know you will find this shocking) I am no spring chicken. Nope, I am a certified, and possibly certifiable, grandmother (a.k.a. "Mimi") with two little granddaughters and a grandson on the way. So in my opinion, personal trainers should handle me gently. With respect. Reverence, perhaps. Ok, perhaps not.

Let me tell you how it is when I meet with David. He feigns happiness to see me. He professes he's glad I'm back at the gym. And then he proceeds to kill me.

Look, I'll be the first to admit I am no accomplished athlete. Sure, back in school I could kick butt in track and field. But I had my weaknesses. Remember the climbing rope torture device that was part of P.E. class? Oh, mama!! How embarrassing was that? I'd approach the thick, braided cable with my heart stuck in my throat. Because this was going to be beyond bad. Way beyond. I'd drag myself onto the rope where I'd hang swinging in sad, slow circles, my feet planted on the knot, wondering how the heck I was going to get out of this one. Maybe somebody would pull the fire alarm. Hopefully the Russians would attack. ANYTHING to get me off this thing.

As I hung there willing my feet to do something besides twist themselves ever more tightly into the knot, my toes cramping inside my sneakers, I cursed my eternal weak spot. My arms. There was no way those weaklings would pull me to the top. Sure, many of my classmates - even GIRLS, for the love of God - could shimmy up the rope, tap the ceiling smartly and shimmy back down. Not me. Nope - those sad, slow circles. That's where I stayed.And I swear those dang ropes were a source of humiliation forever. From kindergarten until I was the approximate age of dirt, it seemed there was one of those blasted ropes waiting to be climbed. Seriously. Ok, maybe it just felt that way.

So I know my limitations. But David doesn't. No-siree-bob! After my "cardio," which consists of lacing up my tennis shoes, David sends me to the stationary bike. "Go ahead and do 15 minutes of warm-up," he instructs. What? What do you mean "15 minutes?" If I could do 15 minutes, would I need to be here? This is what I say in my head. To David I smile and say, "Sure! No problem!" I just hope he can't hear me grinding my teeth.

After I'm "warmed up," i.e. exhausted to the point that a week in a lounge chair on a beach in Barbados wouldn't revive me, he escorts me to the machines. Have I mentioned torture? Yes, friends, this is legalized cruelty to old people.

David sits me on a seat the approximate width of a 3-month old baby's hand. Next he hauls down a couple of bars that he has me grip. With David helping me hold the bars, I've assumed a dangerously false sense of security. Then he lets go. And instructs me to lower and raise those bars above my head. Holy cow."Why don't we just go to the parking lot and I'll bench press my car," I say. "That can be arranged," he replies

But let's be honest here; after several months' absence, it's time for me to go back to the gym. Let David drag out the old whips and chains. … Ahem. Whips and chains?

Ok, I suppose I COULD use a little toning (black leather boots) in a few spots (blindfold). My personal trainer IS, after all, a trained professional (handcuffs) and although I don't need the bulging bicep guns (chain mail) that some of those hulky bodybuilders have (Ravish-Me-Red lipstick), a firm physique WOULD allow me to get on the floor (spiked arm bands) and play with my grandchildren because life is just WAY too short (wrist restraints), isn't it? Nope! Never let it be said I was afraid to just jump right in there and give it a whirl (leather ceiling harness).

Well! I may be a grandmother, but who knows? This Mimi's House of Pain thing might be…fun? I'm just saying.

Column: A Mother by any other Name

Apr 29, 2009 By Gale Hammond

"Don't put that into your mouth; it'll make you sick." "Wash your hands after using the restroom." "Don't let the dog lick your face; he licks his bottom with that tongue." "Are you wearing clean underwear? What if you get into an accident and somebody sees it?" "I don't care who made this mess; I want it cleaned up right now!"

If cleanliness is next to godliness, then it's a pretty good bet that moms are destined to sit at the right hand of The Man Upstairs. We're remembering mom for many different reasons as we approach Mothers Day but one of her major mainstays in raising her brood was on keeping it clean.

So mothers everywhere must be fairly panting with admiration for University of Arizona professor of environmental microbiology, Dr. Chuck Gerba. "Dr. Germ," as the good doctor is nicknamed, has performed studies of microbes found on everything from the bottom of a purse to public restrooms to your kitchen sponge. Nothing has escaped Dr. Germ's trained eye of all things geared to make us sick.

Kinda like your mom. And if you lay claim to never hearing those Mom-isms cited above, I'm here to tell you that you were probably raised by wolves. Because anybody who's lived with a mother knows that the main manifesto of all things "mom" is that germs are out to get us.

As it turns out, Dr. Germ thinks so too. Back when he was a young pup, one of Gerba's professors introduced to the future germologist the idea of microbe transmission via the simple flushing of a bathroom toilet. Thus was born the theory of "toilet splatter," and this, people, is something even my own mother never thought of.

That's right, by merely depressing the handle of your commode, the contents contained inside the bowl launch bacteria into the air where it arcs and rains down all over the place. Items three feet away may be polluted, including your toothbrush or hairbrush. Sorry about this venture into "too much information," breakfast eaters, but may I please go on record here as saying this is just so eewwww …

Now if all this has completely grossed you out, take heart. Because your toilet isn't so unclean after all. Yep! Turns out Dr. Gerba's studies show that toilets are actually cleaner than restroom faucets, kitchen sinks and (yikes) your washing machine.

That's right, Dr. Germ runs his empty washing machine with bleach after washing his clothes. That's because these days more people are using cold water and manufacturers are making machines with shorter wash cycles. The result? According to Dr. Gerba the order in which you launder your clothes makes all the difference. In other words, wash your undies before your hankies and you're pretty much blowing your nose into whatever contents may have washed out of your dainties. Let's hear it people: ICK!

If shoes and purses are your thing, it turns out some pretty nasty organisms make them their thing, too. According to Dr. Germ, 93 percent of shoes worn for 90 days have E. coli on the soles. And purses? One woman's large handbag contained bacteria numbering at about half a million. And, I know, you don't normally go around licking the bottom of your shoes or handbag, but still.

Are you wondering how Dr. Germ gathers his "material?" Armed with a hand-held germ meter, he walks door-to-door asking folks to hand over their kitchen sponges and other likely culprits. Gerba finds women are usually cooperative. Guys on the other hand? Not so much. Gerba says guys that answer the door will offer something like, "What're you, some kind of pervert?" To which he'll answer, "No, I'm a scientist."

That's why it was so shocking recently when another health expert, Jane E. Brody, "The New York Times" personal health columnist, wrote that various continuing studies are showing evidence that ingesting a little dirt can actually be good for you. Yes, that theory is vile heresy to Mom but the so-called "hygiene hypothesis" suggests that bacteria, viruses and particularly worms that enter the body via the intake of "dirt" are apt to help us develop a good immune system. Hear that, Mom?

Now if I had to choose sides on the "germs" issue, I'd probably be in the camp of Ms. Brody and her researches. It just seems so much simpler somehow. This is why it's a good thing that my own mother, a fan of clean if there ever was one, isn't alive today to have to digest such conflicting information. I knew my mom pretty well, and if there is a probable stand-in for my mom and her philosophy on all things clean, I know who it would be.

And his name is Dr. Germ.

Warning! Warning! Grandparents on duty

Apr 14, 2009 By Gale Hammond

There is something I've been meaning to tell you. We're having a baby. Well, not "we" exactly, as in Mr. H. and I. Rather, we are getting a brand new granddaughter. Not that there was anything wrong with the old one, mind you, but a new baby sister was about to arrive. This meant while Daughter No. 1 and her hubby were at the hospital "picking out" new baby Emily, someone needed to watch "old" baby Gracie, age 21 months. So Mr. H. and I headed for Southern California. Yep: It was going to be Grandparents on duty.

Now this assignment should have been a snap because Gracie and I are pretty tight. We go back a long way. I spent the better part of Gracie's first year taking care of her in Long Beach while her parents worked full time. I learned about all the latest baby accessories while discovering modern baby gear involves massive numbers of batteries, music and moving parts. It made me wonder how my parents managed to bring up my brother and me without anything fancier than an old pot and a wooden spoon to bang it with. That was big-time fun back in the day.

But I digress. Nearly two years ago, when Gracie was born, I diligently re-learned all there was to know about new babies. I recognized when a cry meant "I'm hungry/wet/cold/hot" or simply "I'm a baby and I insist on being treated like a princess." I rediscovered the joyful feeling in your heart when a 6-month-old reaches out her chubby little arms for a hug. And I understood there wasn't too much on earth that I enjoyed as much as watching little Gracie grow.

So there we were, back again after all these months, waiting for the arrival of a second little miracle. When Emily's arrival was imminent, we set up shop again, Gracie, her grampy and I. With Mommy and Daddy entrenched in the hospital, we were on our own. But you would think by now I'd have had the whole thing down cold. Well. You would have thought.

And things did start off just fine. At naptime we read a book, enjoyed some milk and negotiated a diaper change. Being a warm spring day in Southern California, I left Gracie in her diaper and a light shirt; I deposited her in her crib with a few of her books and gave her a hug. This was so easy. "Night-night," Gracie called as I exited her room. "Love you …" she called. "How cute is that?" I asked the universe in general, closing her door softly.

So I was taken off guard when I peeked at the baby monitor shortly thereafter and saw my granddaughter perusing her books beside a puffy white object in her crib. Well. That certainly hadn't been there when I left her room. I grew more puzzled as I peered at the small screen because now Gracie was putting the mystery object on her head. Hmmm … Gracie was looking at books with … oh, dear Lord … she was looking at books with her diaper on her head. Yes, the diaper was definitely missing from, well … where a diaper normally belongs. Whew. Disaster was averted with a swift trip to securely reapply the diaper to the proper location.

Finally word came from the hospital that Emily had arrived and was ready for a visit from her big sister. Since meeting a brand-new baby sister is a momentous occasion, I was on a mission to dress Gracie perfectly including combing her hair into a new big-sister "do." I wanted this vision of Gracie loveliness to assure her parents that Gracie was in competent hands during their stay at the hospital. I mean, nobody needed to know about the unfortunate diaper-on-the-head incident, right? Right!

Scurrying out the door, I glanced down at Gracie's previously perfect wispy blonde curls. Oh-oh. Clutching the hairbrush in her chubby little fist, she now bore a regrettable resemblance to Donald Trump. Doing my best to smooth out her fresh "comb-over" we hustled on out to the car.

Arriving at the hospital we exited the car excitedly. Gracie reached back to grab a red object from the floor of the vehicle and we were off. Rounding the corner to the elevator I glanced down at my granddaughter for a last inspection before she met her new baby sister. And OK, it might be April, but Gracie had concluded the proper head attire for this important occasion was, well … her Santa Claus hat.

So on that lovely spring afternoon Gracie arrived at the hospital to meet her new sister Emily while wearing a perky red Santa hat. And, in the end, it was just fine. Because everybody knows that baby sisters, like Christmas, don't come everyday.

The Horrors of Home Renovation

(Original publication date:) Tuesday, November 01, 2005

My fireplace is laying all over the back deck.

No, our home did not sustain a massive earthquake with our address at its epicenter. What we are suffering is the dreaded “Home Renovation.”

Twenty-two years in the same house bring some interesting challenges. The structure is showing its years and, like me, it is not aging gracefully. Built in 1975, our home embraces many (formerly) charming features we see in other Morgan Hill homes of the 70s such as the brownish fake rock adorning fireplaces and random exterior wall surfaces. As for the “avocado green” and “harvest gold” decorators of that era lavished all over the place…well, let’s just not go there.

In the last couple of years my adrenaline level has shot up as I noticed more and more homes in Morgan Hill undergoing some pretty heavy-duty transformations. Thanks to low interest rates and high homeowner equity, remodeling projects have become all the rage. In our neighborhood, marvelous exterior makeovers are popping up, sleek new windows gaze elegantly street ward, and even soaring add-on porticos are possible, bringing stylish curb appeal to older homes.

When I bring up the subject of “re-doing” a portion of our house, my husband typically staggers about in full Fred-Sanford-heart-attack mode, but I learned that if I leave him alone he eventually settles down and listens to reason. While a couple of rooms at our house are on their second or third incarnation, the old family room fireplace looked just a tad bit tired, and no amount of painting, re-flooring or new throw pillows was going to rectify the situation.

Hence, we jumped into the remodeling fray, and the brownish fake rock fireplace was my latest mission. Cleverly, I reminded my husband that he’d need to purchase at least a couple of absolutely indispensable new tools vital to this project to add to his growing collection in the garage. Shrewdly, I explained how I would be “happy” to help him, such as in laying out the new (and also fake) river rock fireplace design - hoping he’d forgotten about the joint wallpapering project several years ago that required serious post-papering marriage counseling. And with all the craftiness I could muster, I reminded him of the appreciation factor - how this one tiny little project will elevate our home’s value to stellar new heights.

Having finally won this particular skirmish, I was excited to see all the lovely rocks - boxes and boxes of rocks - delivered to our house. Confident that the project would soon be underway, I took a short trip to visit family and friends and returned to…nuclear winter.

Deciding to “surprise” me while I was away, my husband took sledge hammer in hand and battered and hacked away many pounds of 1970’s era rock. The result was a thick layer of powdery gray mortar dust that settled far and wide throughout the entire house.“You’ll probably want to clean that up pretty soon,” he announced brightly as I stood there, mouth agape, suitcases suspended lifelessly in each hand.

Needless to say, that clean-up project was a full three days long.Which brings me back to our fireplace and what it is doing out on the deck. Recalling my helpful offer of a few weeks ago, my husband built a tidy 12x7-foot frame in exact replica of the fireplace. He deposited said 12x7-foot frame on the rear deck - surrounded by boxes and boxes of fake river rock, and he is letting me have at it.

I don’t know, but do you think there may be a bit of an ulterior motive here?

Gale Hammond is a 22-year resident of Morgan Hill and a new columnist at the Morgan Hill Times. Reach her at galehammond@aol.com.

Is My Cat Deductible?

Today we have urgent breaking news: your taxes are due. Yes, friends, April 15 is right around the corner and if that doesn’t scare your socks off, I suggest it’s time to up your medication.

At this very moment you are undoubtedly deep in the midst of filling out those annoying tax returns, scratching your head and pondering ways to count “Kitty” as a legitimate tax deduction.

No, there is nothing existing in today’s government that is quite as challenging as the Tax Code. The Tax Code is one ginormous tome, a publication that nobody – least of all the current heads of the Treasury and other budget-focused departments – seems to know diddly-squat about. I mean, if correctly paying the total amount of taxes a person owes was a requirement to being a high-powered appointee in government, Washington D.C. would be a ghost town. But still.

This ambiguity of the Tax Code does not excuse the average tax payer – that would be you and me – from knowing all the various and intricate “ins and outs” of the Tax Code and what is currently allowed in terms of tax-deductible expenditures as in, “No, your dental adhesive is not deductible.”

Take your aforementioned cat and her deductibility-worthiness when it comes to preparing your tax return. Yes, I realize you’ve spent more on Kitty and her bi-weekly dialysis than on the college tuition of all your children combined. Kitty still does not qualify for a medical deduction on this year’s tax return. And, I know, that is so not fair.

However, perhaps there is a way around the “deduction-ality” of your cat’s health care. Or perhaps your cat doesn’t even require health care. Suppose you keep your cat around because coming home from a hard day at the office and being greeted by your standoffish cat is, well…a stress reliever of sorts. Isn’t that a good thing?

Of course it is! A happy, unstressed worker is a healthy worker. And a healthy worker, well…works! Therefore, in order to perform your job in an efficient manner and earn a good salary so you can PAY ALL THOSE TAXES, you might argue that your cat is an integral part of the compulsory accoutrements in the performance of your daily job requirements. (Did you understand that? I’m fairly certain I didn’t.) So your cat is – Bingo! Tax deductible! Right? RIGHT??

Well, you would think. Personally, I would argue that this sort of deduction ought to fly in any IRS tax audit, but I am sad to tell you that not all CPAs or IRS agents would agree. That’s right, some of those tax folks can be downright picky and ill humored when it comes to allowable expenses.

Take, for example, another mandatory item for achieving stellar work performance: shoes. Suppose you are a professional woman and you want to propel your career ride upward on the fast track. To fracture that glass ceiling, you are in need of a substantially sharp stiletto such as the 4” covered heel found on a pair of red Manolo Blahnik Patent Strappy Sandals (price: $745), freshly imported from Italy. Well. What IRS agent would be so callous as to suggest that the aforementioned sandals are not fully tax deductible?

Yes, but it happens, taxpayers! Tragically, not even the French have figured out a method of manufacturing a tax-deductible pair of shoes. Need a snappy pair of red-soled Louboutin Mary Jane platforms ($965) to impress your boss and soar ahead of the corporate melee? Sorry, ladies, even those greedy AIG executives haven’t figured out a way to deduct these Parisian beauties. Bonuses? Maybe. Stilettos? Not a chance.


Even playful Jimmy Choo shoes won’t cut it in the tax deduction department. Not that you can’t try. I mean, somewhere out there exists an IRS auditor sympathetic to the needs of sharp career-minded girls who know that all it takes to jump ahead in the world of movers and shakers is a swingin’ little pair of Jimmy Choo Peep-Toe Platform Pumps ($750) matched up with the large Jimmy Choo Leopard Zip Hobo bag ($3,150). Yes, in these pressing economic times, you have to look under every rock to unearth those valuable tax deductions – assuming you have, you know, a job and all.


So whether it’s cute shoes or your snooty kitty, as an alert and informed journalist, I’m telling you those tax deductions are out there, people! And if you claim these worthy deductions on your tax return and the IRS starts getting all, like, fanatical about it, you just tell them to come and see me. That’s right. I’ll be happy to give them a piece of my mind. Just tell them to call and ask for me: Barbara Walters. That’s right. Ask for Babs. Yep. That’s the old tax-deduction ticket.