Column: Das boot: Not my favored fashion statement

Apr 14, 2010
By Gale Hammond


Things were going a little too smoothly. I'd joined a swim aerobics class. I was on my way to getting into better shape; to becoming a slightly older Jennifer Aniston. OK, maybe a slightly less militant Jane Fonda. With more padding. Whatever.

Until one Saturday morning a few weeks ago when I innocently put my two feet on the floor, and one of them screamed in protest.

Saying I'd procrastinated about this whole thing is putting it mildly. Way back in July my ankle began to hurt. And by "ankle" I mean that part where the bend is when you flex your foot. But I wasn't especially concerned because I could, you know, still walk, sort of, except now there was this burning-kinky feeling in that vicinity.

But I figured it'd go away because bodies heal themselves, right? Yep, that's what bodies do. Heal themselves.

Except my body didn't get with the whole healing itself program, and the flare-up that recent Saturday morning caused navigation to be dang near impossible. Putting one foot in front of the other made me see stars. And because I didn't have time for such nonsense that Saturday morning, I employed the fail-proof healing technique used by great medical minds for centuries: I talked to my foot.

"This is stupid," I hissed at my obstinate appendage. "I don't have time for this, you know," thinking a little tough love would improve the situation.

But, like me, my ankle has a stubborn side, and as I did my errands that morning it throbbed. It ached. It seemed like little swords were piercing my foot. Hobbling down the grocery store aisles I indulged in a pity party. My spouse was at a golf tournament; nobody to feel sorry for me in all that pain. Not to mention walking had become intolerable.

Home again with my aching foot packed in ice and elevated on the couch, I pondered whether hospitals delivered bedpans. Yes, the handwriting was on the wall: I needed to see a doctor.

On Monday I limped in to see the foot specialist, and when x-rays failed to produce a definite diagnosis, an MRI was scheduled. As a parting gift, the good doctor presented me with a contraption that looked like half a set of hip waders. Were we venturing into the Colorado River, perhaps? Perhaps not; he wasn't carrying a fishing pole.

"Don't you have any cute ones?" I whined as he strapped on, via vast amounts of Velcro, a big, ugly, black boot that ended at my knee. In response he drew a flower on a strip of adhesive and slapped it on the boot.

And how, for Pete's sake, was I supposed to get around in this contrivance? "Just walk stiff-legged," my doctor demonstrated as I watched in horror. "Remember Chester on 'Gunsmoke'? That's how you want to walk!" Oh, dear God. Chester on "Gunsmoke?" Just the look I've been aspiring to achieve.

The unfortunate news about this Frankenstein footwear, besides being beyond ugly, is that it rendered me unable to drive. Ever the opportunist, my spouse was giddy upon reasoning that shopping was also out of the question for awhile. "Don't forget there's plenty of shopping on the Internet," I sniffed.

Sadly, wearing "Das Boot" has proven my coordination is non-existent. I bash into everything. And have I mentioned it is one ugly son-of-a-gun? "Maybe you should decorate it," friends suggested. "The good news is that it's black," chirped Daughter No. 2. "Black complements everything!" Great. At the moment it was complementing my blue nightgown.

A week later the MRI identified the problem: a torn ligament in my right ankle. "Now what?" I asked my doctor, not sure what I was hoping to hear. "Well," he replied, if you were young and athletic we'd probably do surgery, but ..."

Well. That was obviously not what I was hoping to hear ... should I perhaps point out at this juncture my stellar accomplishments as a swim aerobics person? OK, perhaps one might not accurately categorize my career as "stellar" after a mere couple of months at the gym. But still.

"Hmmph," I countered. "I'm waiting to hear how you're going to diplomatically extract yourself from that obviously inaccurate observation."

But I'll concede that "Das Boot" must be working because I can now tread pain-free most of the time. And should you see someone clumping along in this fashion statement of basic black that looks less like a boot than a piece of paraphernalia from the Ski-Equipment-Shop-of-Horrors with snow tire tread on the bottom, that'd be me. Unless I magically become young and athletic somehow, but I'm not holding my breath here.

So while it's too soon to know if "Das Boot" is the miracle cure for my bum ankle, for now it at least appears to be "Das Gute Medizin!"

Column: Ducking Deductions leads to taxing situation

Mar 30, 2010
By Gale Hammond


Today's topic brings up an important fact: our federal government is ginormous. If you think I am making this up, take a look at your own tax obligation this year. You'll quickly observe that you're personally paying the annual salaries of some 67 government employees. And you're about to give them a big fat raise.

Now if this is your dilemma, it is probably because you're not claiming all of your rightful deductions. I am no tax expert, but after careful study lasting approximately 38 seconds, I have cracked the complicated IRS code pertaining to tax deductions: "If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it must be a duck." But don't quote me on that.

Therefore, if you're a patriotic, taxpaying citizen not tremendously eager to part with your money, I advise you to get your deductible ducks in a row before April 15, which is looming smack-dab in front of us, taxpayers! Because if your ducks are still out there flopping around in You-Know-What Creek (to carry this analogy to its extreme), it is time for a roundup!

First, I assume you have carefully filed all of your hard-earned tax deduction receipts this year. My preferred method of tracking said receipts is by employing the highly respected SB/GBCS technique (Shoe Box/Grocery Bag Containment System). I mean, nobody ever loses a receipt if it's tucked safely away via the SB/GBCS method. I believe most well-established accounting firms recommend this approach but you probably shouldn't quote me on that, either.

Hauling your large SB/GBCS to your accountant's office has two benefits. No. 1: he/she will be REALLY happy to see those hundreds of bits of paper you've collected and No. 2: it affords you an enjoyable walk down memory lane because within these containers you'll find an archeological dig. Guys: remember the great beer and fish tacos you enjoyed last summer at the little drive-in near your brother-in-law's place? Yep, there is the receipt, and well, OK, it's a little greasy and has therefore stained the next 27 receipts in the box, but no matter! The IRS doesn't insist that every receipt be in pristine condition, do they? Of course they don't. Besides, your accountant is going to try to dissuade you from using that meal as a tax deduction anyway. Accountants are such buzz-kills sometimes.

Or, ladies, how much did you love all those pedicures you got in Mexico? Granted, the receipt is in Spanish and you have no idea how much eleventy million pesos are, but still. Nobody expects you to go to work in open-toed sandals with your toenails looking like talons, do they? Seriously, you could snag carp with those things! Therefore, the logical conclusion is that all pedicures are tax deductible because if you can't work due to Long-Toenail Condition, well, just imagine all of the government employees who will be out of a job. Major alert: your mind-numbing, no-fun accountant will tell you those yummy peddies are not tax deductible. Ha! A lot HE knows!

But here is what really frosts me about taxes. Why, for the love of God, is a brand new baby a tax deduction when a dog is not? Not even an old dog for Pete's sake. I mean, if Uncle Sam knew what we taxpayers spend on luxuries, er ... necessities of life for our pets, there would be no question about deducting those trips to the beauty parlor or doggie day care or for purchasing those cute faux leopard-skin tights so little FiFi won't freeze her teeny little legs off during her evening constitutional. Sure, you have to pay for your kids' college education and all, but that is, like, YEARS from now, and who can argue that a dog doesn't truly need doggie day care? All I can figure is Uncle Sam can't be much of an animal lover.

It's not all bad news about tax deductions and our four-legged friends, though. Or even our zero-legged friends. Say you're an exotic dancer. I know, but bear with me here because even in the worst of economic times it is a well-known fact that, umm ... smut sells, for lack of a more delicate way of putting it. Therefore, if your profession requires you to slither exotically about with a seven-foot boa constrictor writhing round your neck, that snake may very well be your new best deductible friend come tax time.

So the bottom line, people, is that your deductions had better pass the IRS smell test because if our friends, the tax auditors, determine that your ducks are looking more like turkeys, you may find palming off a doubtful deduction not quite as easy as duck soup. You might even find yourself up You-Know-What Creek without, um ... webbed feet. And you can quote me on that.