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.