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.