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.

We need a king of the road to recovery

Mar 17, 2010
By Gale Hammond


All this bickering back and forth in Congress is getting us nowhere. So I've been thinking about what could be done to get our government over this little "speed bump" of inter-party squabbling that has everything so mired down in Washington. And I've figured out the solution: we need a king.

Now before you rush off to your laptops to send me scathing letters about freedom and Democracy, let me assure you that I'm not suggesting we do away with Democracy. Oh, no. We just need somebody to oversee it a bit. Somebody like, you know, a king. We can still have Congress and the President and the "Supremes" in their black robes - not to mention our right to keep and bear arms and possibly even legs - and U.S. citizens will maintain their constitutional right to spill hot coffee on themselves in order to obtain high-priced attorneys to sue everybody that said scalded citizen can think of.

But first there is the matter of selecting a king, and it should be somebody with a household name such as "Tide." But that is ridiculous. Anyone with half a brain knows that a laundry detergent can hold no higher office than member of the House of Representatives. So in order to pick a recognizable, and therefore "good" king we will have to select this person from the world of "entertainment."

At this point you've probably decided to pick Oprah as our king, but since Oprah would technically come under the category of "queen," we will have to let Oprah slide on this one - although she would retain her constitutional right to randomly haul the proclaimed king off his throne and harshly interview him on her show except she is going to retire soon, and I don't know what we're going to do about that.

Therefore, we could have no finer king of the United States than Jay Leno. Or possibly David Letterman. I mean, come on. One of them (I've forgotten which) is already "King of Late Night." Or possibly that was Johnny Carson. And since Johnny is, unfortunately, still deceased, we'll have to go with Jay or Dave. Maybe they could be co-kings. Whatever.

So the king of the United States will keep an eye on government and apply stern punishment for severe infractions such as "not getting along with your neighbor." If fighting across the aisle holds up important legislation such as the move to allow states to only elect representatives with the last name of "McGillicuddy," King Jay-Dave will immediately remove the troublemakers from the premises and give them a mandatory "time out" in the stocks. Yes, the stocks, and don't get me started on the guillotine.

And what about all of this unseemly behavior on the part of our elected officials? I mean, excuse me for being picky, but "groping?" The king would command any groper guilty of "groping" an individual to mud wrestle a few rounds with Borat of Kazakhstan. Wouldn't it be thrilling to see Mark "I'm Hiking the Appalachian Trail" Sanford in one of those trendy neon-colored slingshot-like thongs in the ring with the randy hero of Kazakhstan? And if that's not a deterrent to those philandering politicos, I don't know what is.

As long as we're thinking outside the box, we could solve some of our global issues, too. For example, upon taking office, er ... kingship, King Jay-Dave would end fighting in the Middle East by removing all of the "good" people in Iraq or Iran or wherever. All the citizens of those countries would be required to fill out a form indicating whether or not they are "good" people that promise not to fight over things such as whose country produces the most colorful rugs. At this point, all of the "good" people from those countries would be transported to parts of the U.S. that we aren't using at the moment such as wide stretches of Utah and North Dakota.

Then all of our troops would come home, and instead of fighting the "bad" guys in Afghanistan and wherever, the troops would build roads and houses for the "good" people who would now live in those parts of the U.S. that we aren't currently using. This leaves the "bad" guys way back over in the desert to fend for themselves while King Jay-Dave rounds up numerous local "bad" guys such as gang members and tax cheats. And definitely "spam" senders. All those reprobates and lowlifes would then be given a one-way ticket to go fight the "bad" guys in the Middle East.

Now I have a ton of other good ideas that will fix up government but I can see you're having a little trouble breathing. So I'll just, you know, leave you to do some deep inhalation for awhile.

The Year of Getting in Shape

Mar 2, 2010
By Gale Hammond



Are you as sad as I am that the Winter Olympics are over? And yes, the closing ceremonies were stunning, but what I will miss most are those athletes: human perfections of mind and body working in spectacular harmonization. It was a moment to witness the perfect concert of athletic excellence. A moment to be uplifted by such dedication of purpose. A moment to ponder the pure commitment of an Olympian. A moment to movingly reflect, "Good grief! I am a physical wreck!"

And so it was that I, in my (ahem) advancing maturity, declared it time to pummel my physique back into shape. The attempt would be Olympian.

Now don't think I haven't tried diets - lots of them. And most of them work, except they work better on other people. Because I have a stubborn streak in me that says, "What? Not eat that piece of pie? Well, I don't THINK so!"

Even those diets that don't parade about as diets failed. Let's not call it a "diet," the theory goes; let's call it a "healthy lifestyle." By all means, fool my brain into thinking I love carrots and cardboard cereal. Sure. A "healthy lifestyle" sounds really great and outdoorsy, right? I mean, who wouldn't want to be healthy and natural and outdoorsy? Well, that would be me after a week of bulgur and sprouts when to avoid the Ben & Jerry's I must do everything humanly possible short of tying myself to a fencepost.

So this year I'm taking a different approach. Instead of a diet or, um ... "healthy lifestyle," I'm "cutting back a tad." Building in some whole grains, fresh veggies, lean proteins. That sort of stuff. Learning to love fruit as dessert. With maybe just the teeniest smidgeon of something yummy on top.

Now if you live on Planet Earth (or if you've seen even one episode of "The Biggest Loser"), you know that physical activity is the key to weight loss, right? So the next step is choosing the style of physical activity that's best for you (and by "you," of course I mean "me"). Something doable. Enjoyable, even. Tragically, pedicures probably don't qualify as physical activity, so investing in a gym membership is the smarter option. And you'd think with the number of gym memberships I've invested in, I'd be a mere wisp. Well, you'd think.

The problem with gym memberships is that you actually have to GO to the gym and once you're there, you must then "work out." Unfortunately, the physical activity known as "Paying your Membership Fee" doesn't by magical osmosis turn you into Body Beautiful. That's right, friends; working out involves, well ... sweat. And I just don't do sweat anymore. That "advancing maturity" thing, you know.

Finally I discovered a better alternative: water. I love water. I revel in the weightlessness of gliding through water chlorinated enough to take a natural redhead to strawberry blonde. And whatever chlorine does (and it's not something I want to think too much about), it is tolerable. What isn't tolerable is the thought of a (gulp) swimsuit. As in wearing one. In public.

The fact that I'm beyond wearing a bikini doesn't mean I shouldn't venture into a swimming pool again though, does it? And crossing state lines before appearing in anything less than a full-body wetsuit is tempting but, you know, there's the price of gas and all.

So I bit the bullet and signed up for a water aerobics class that requires, yes, a swimsuit. And ya know? This might just work seeing as how water doesn't involve sweating or lacing up my tennis shoes, which these days is a workout in itself.

Upon joining my fellow swimmer-exercisers in the pool, I soon realize all that flexing of muscles underwater is a good thing. "Feel it in your core!" calls our aerobics teacher energetically. Ah, yes, my "core," wondering where that might have strayed to, um ... let's see ...

"What if you can't find your core?" shouts a male voice from the rear. Exactly.

And float? Oh, boy, do I float! I am definitely gold medal material in floating. "If you can, let your feet come up off the bottom for this one," instructs our teacher encouragingly. If I can? You bet I can! I can float like this all day. See? I'm floating now, no problem, since ... oh, dear Lord, my rear end is its own floatation device.

Finally it's time for the water aerobics barbells. These barbells are light as a feather. Wow! This is so easy. Except ... whoa! Pushing Styrofoam barbells under water takes muscle. "Olympian" muscle, perhaps. And should those babies ever get loose underwater, let's just say you'd hear an unsafe "SPROING" that could launch me straight up into the rafters. Well. I'll bet that's something you don't see every day at the Olympics.

Columns-Cooking in the Nude to Lemonade and a Time Machine!

Cupid's post-Valentine's Day rescue plan

Feb 19, 2010
By Gale Hammond


You think the economy is hurting? Oh, friends, you have no idea. The troubled financial system is nothing compared to the poor guy who forgot his wife or girlfriend on the recent Valentine's holiday. C'mon, guys, you know who you are, and if you blew it big time this year, I have a way out of that doghouse you've been occupying the last few days all by your lonesome.

Now if your name is John Edwards or Mark "I'm hiking the Appalachian Trail" Sanford, I can't help you. No, I'm afraid your love life is dead in a ditch. But for the "Average Joe," I have a sure-fire solution certain to sweep your incensed sweetheart off her feet. It's called "Cooking in the Nude," and no, I am not making this up.

It's the title of a largely unknown recipe book I found the other day at the bottom of a long-forgotten heap of cookbooks in my kitchen. It was time to discard some of the old ones, you see. I've collected cookbooks for years, and frankly I haven't carted out some of the old "go-to" 1970s recipes since approximately the Carter administration. I mean, how long has it been since YOU made Chicken Divan?

This tome would have been trashed, too, had it not been for the recent Valentine's Day holiday and what I've learned from Valentine's Day disasters in years gone by. Now don't misunderstand me here. I am not talking about my spouse. Oh, no. He learned waaaaaay long ago that girls have a thing about being remembered on Valentine's Day. And he got with the program. But some guys take longer than others to get the hang of it, so as a valuable public service I am sharing this sage advice with the poor, Valentine-afflicted sufferers who blew it big time this year.

"So what's the plan?" you're probably saying. "Let's get to the good stuff." Yes, I know, it's hard to be patient when I tease you with such a saucy subject, if you'll pardon the pun.

Major alert: The author isn't suggesting you actually broil your burgers while cavorting about completely starkers unless you don't mind a few pops of hot grease getting into all that chest hair. Not that you can't take it, of course, you big, manly ... ummm, wait. Where was I?

Oh, yes. Before you can begin getting back into your sweetie's good graces, you must formulate a plan. This, according to the author, includes preparing a "Quickie Kit." OK, this sounds a little crass, but who knows? Being prepared is possibly ... not just for Boy Scouts anymore.

I mean, you just never know when you're going to get swept away with the desire to present a fabulous, romantically-conceived dinner for that special someone, right? Yep. Happens to me all the time. And presentation is everything. For example, you can't just rip off a hunk of paper towel and call it a napkin, now can you? No, no, no. This is the kind of thing that got you into trouble in the first place. So in your "Quickie Kit" you will store lovely cloth napkins complete with napkin rings. Now, wasn't that easy? You're well on your way back into your beloved's good graces already.

So after building your Quickie Kit containing such amorous items as wine, candles, "sensuous" music, bubble bath (bubble bath?) and the like, you'll need to plan your menu. And the cookbook doesn't disappoint. Here you can take your choice of passionate menu starters like "Suggestive Salad" or "Caesar and Please Her" and honestly, how long has it been since you've dressed your salad in "Voulez-Vouz Vinaigrette?"

Since an entree is imperative and if your passion is seafood, this book has you covered. Tempt your sweetheart with "Halibut My Place" or "Promiscuous Prawns," and if you want to get wild and crazy there's sole stuffed with scallops, crab and shrimp aptly named - you got it - "Menage a Trois."

Not a seafood fan? No problem. "Chicken Porno Bleu" or "Fowl Play" should please those poultry people in your life while "It had to be Ewe" and "Tempting Tenderloins" cover the red meat crowd.

A word about table etiquette: if you're a fan of the wildly lecherous "Tom Jones" movie scene of Tom and Mrs. Waters sitting opposite each other lustfully tearing into large turkey legs, banish that thought immediately! It's just not that appealing if, at the end of the feast, your plate appears to have been torn apart by wolves.

So I hope you and your sweetie are soon feeling the love, but should you decide to re-ignite those flames by "Cooking in the Nude," be careful out there. I certainly don't advise that you attempt a "moon landing" on your sizzling hot stove. Ouch!

Have some lemonade and a slice of life

Feb 3, 2010
By Gale Hammond


Recently a New Year's greeting came in the mail from my friend Susan. It was a photo card of Susan and her hubby with their four grandchildren. The message said, "A picture is worth a thousand Happy New Year greetings." Oh, you got that one right, sister!

Now I know your mind's eye is visualizing a picture-perfect family composed and beaming at the camera. Right? Ha! Your mind's eye is hallucinating because what Susan's picture conveys is a "real" slice of life, which brings an old adage to mind ... "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade."

I'm sure this platitude wasn't initially on Susan's mind when she began preparing for that fateful portrait. Because she tried. She really, really tried. Just like you or me, Susan was intent on getting the family photo picture perfect. No slacker in the planning department, Susan had ordered attractive red plaid shirts for herself and her hubby with matching hats for each of the grandkids. Now how cute is that?

Well, I'll tell you. It is cute and then some. In a snowy mountain scene, Susan, Les and their grandchildren are grouped in perfect Martha-Stewart-like-ambiance. At least THAT part went right. Les looks stoically into the distance (thinking, perhaps, about the long drive home?) as he holds Bella, 3, who apparently didn't get the memo regarding the color scheme, mysteriously electing to wear pink with her red plaid hat. Bella stares calmly at the camera, her tiny forefinger thrust into her mouth.

Next to Les and Bella, Susan holds baby Kess, but Kess wants down and seems most determined to get there. Something is askew with Kess's hat and Susan is attempting to squash the hat down into place, her outstretched arm obliterating her own face, allowing us just the teeniest glimpse of the laughter she's unable to contain.

In front of Les, Riley, nearly 9, is messing with his hat, apparently trying to get the thing on or off - it's not clear which - while younger brother Logan has rotated a quarter turn away from the camera where he does what comes naturally to 6-year-old boys: demonstrate his impressive "razzberries" technique, spewing out at no one in particular.

The photo is legendary, which is why Susan is one of those girlfriends who's a real keeper. I am blessed with several of those good kinds of girlfriends. That's right; they're the ones who let loose and laugh when life starts lobbing those lemons.

Maybe I gravitate toward folks who find humor in tough situations because I inherited this gene from my mom. Now there was a lady who took life's bitter lemons and not only make lemonade, she twisted the peel into fancy twirls and plopped them into a dry martini. Well, no, I just made that up about the martini. She was more of a whisky sour girl, but you get my drift.

So when my mother was diagnosed at the tender age of 64 with early onset Alzheimer's disease, a very unfunny illness, she sucked it up like any rational person would and concluded her doctor was nuts. "I don't like him very much," she sniffed as we exited his office. "And besides that, he doesn't know very much about medicine."

And although my mother did have Alzheimer's, she rode it out with grace and and good humor. Handed the bitterest of lemons she still found the tiniest kernel of humor in her predicament. "I don't care about getting older anymore," she told me once. "I can't remember how old I am anyway, so who cares?"

But it was when she was getting ready to attend her 50th high school class reunion that she really shined. She needed a new dress. Just in case. If her previously high-functioning brain threw her a curve at the reunion, she wanted to be looking good.

So we went shopping. Mom picked a couple of prospects off the rack, and we headed to the fitting rooms where I waited on a chair outside her cubicle. After some rustling around, she opened the door. She looked fantastic in a jazzy little black number with vibrant slashes of red and purple running throughout the fabric. And she loved it. Retreating back inside to try on the other dress, more rustling of hangers and fabric ensued. A few moments later the dressing room door popped open again, and there stood my mother - wearing the exact same dress! Huh???

"I don't think I like this dress as much as the first one," she declared, checking herself in the mirror. "Um, Mom, that IS the first one," I ventured nervously, whereupon she exploded with laughter at her mistake. Now that, my friends, is how to make some incredibly good lemonade.

Time for a ride in the 'way-back' machine

Jan 22, 2010
By Gale Hammond


Recently scientist and inventor Dean Kamen, creator of the mind-controlled prosthetic robot arm and the more-familiar Segway Transportation System, was interviewed on a cable news program about the technologies he couldn't live without. Interestingly, his first choice was an item that hasn't even been invented yet.

Kamen wants a time machine. "Life is short," he reminds us. "... I'd like to be able to travel at near instantaneous speed to get from one place to another."

You've read that right, friends. Yes, a brilliant guy like Kamen wants an apparatus peculiar to science-fiction novels and - who knows - perhaps such a mechanism actually lurks out there somewhere on the horizon.

Now this is intriguing. If a time machine allowed us to travel at "near instantaneous speed," perhaps it would let us do other things ... such as living the past all over again. Haven't you wished that at least once? Oh, come on - of course you have! How about all those times when you've thought, "Dang! If only I'd ..." after it's too late?

This would be your chance to set right the old wrongs and injustices; those times when somebody gave you major attitude and you were too stunned to come up with a good retort. With a time machine, you'd certainly come up with something snappier than spluttering pathetically all over yourself and shooting back

with the ultra clever, "Gahhaaeuhkjp nmmmph!" Oh, yeah! That really cut your tormenters off at the knees.

Or consider this: what if you could have a "do-over" of those crappy high school years when you were such a dweeb? This would be your ticket to being cool, friends. Being "with it." I mean, guys: if you had it to do all over again, wouldn't you abort that old buzz haircut that still haunts you from the pages of your yearbook and instead sport one of those smooth hairstyles that all the girls can't wait to run their fingers through? Or, girls: do-overs would mean you'd have cute shoes to match every outfit in your closet. Am I right? Yeah. You'd be a rock star.

And how about the really rotten times such as your entire freshmen and sophomore years? Those tragic days when the world was spinning out of control. With a time machine, you could re-write history.

For example: How about when your One True Love showed up at the prom with your BFF Marsha even when everyone agreed to go "stag" to the prom and there she was dancing with YOUR guy and to make matters worse the little @**$& was wearing your best bracelet on her skinny arm and she had simply BEGGED to borrow it so she could wear it to CHURCH for Pete's sake and then they left the prom together and you never found out exactly what happened because it was WAY too mortifying to go back to school for three whole days and you were so violently ill over the whole thing and by the time you did go back to school everybody was STILL talking about it. Huh? Wouldn't you love a chance to go back and fix that? No, me neither.

And let's say you decide (wisely, no doubt) to bypass high school and continue on back to when you were a little tyke. Now those were some fun times! Playing kick-the-can with your pals, putting on plays in the park, running through the sprinklers on a hot summer day, riding your bike until the street lights came on. Could a time machine take you back to that fun-in-the-sun childhood you left behind?

Sure, that would be great, but here's my problem: I am SO not a mechanical genius. And it goes without saying that a time-traveler would have to know how to operate that machine without a flaw. No approximations when it comes to the time where you are traveling, right? For instance, when I was little, my grandpa would lift me up on his lap where he would read to me. I'd ask him meaningful questions such as why did he have skin like a turkey on his neck? Now Grandpa thought this was cute when I was three. Not so cute if I was, say, 12 or 14. So if I chose to go back in time and sit on Grandpa's lap, I would have to hit that old time-travel nail square on the head.

But the A-number-one most important thing about a time machine would be getting back to the present where you belong. Except what if you hit the wrong button and you wound up a newborn baby? Sure, back to the womb would be interesting, although then what? I don't know about you, but I don't think I would want to relive ALL those years again. Seriously. Would you?

Column: We just won't abide a rude attitude!

We just won't abide a rude attitude

Jan 6, 2010
By Gale Hammond




It was a very rude year. In fact, 2009 was so discourteous that a grassroots effort is under way to help us clean up our act.

It's called the Civility Project - an endeavor put together by two gentlemen with dissimilar backgrounds who came together and yelled, "We're as mad as hell and we're not going to take this anymore." Well, no, I don't think they actually did that since doing so would be, well ... rude.

These gentlemen, Mark DeMoss and Lanny Davis are friends who, with others, founded the Civility Project. DeMoss describes himself as a conservative, evangelical Southern Baptist while Davis is of the Jewish faith. Politically and religiously they are poles apart; DeMoss supported Mitt Romney (who is Mormon) for president and Davis has been affiliated with Bill and Hillary Clinton. Other project originators are more aligned with Barack Obama and still others worked to elect a fellow Republican to follow George Bush.

You would think folks with such diverse points of view would get along about as well as a barn full of feral cats, right? Well, you would think. But get along they do - so much so that they launched an effort to return civility not only to politics but also to everyday life and discourse.

And why not? I mean, in a year when we saw so many impolite acts in one little 12-month span, I think these fellows might be on to something. For example:

The political arena was rudeness run amok in 2009. The ink on the Obamas' change-of-address form was hardly dry before Republicans and Democrats were again going at it full tilt. So much for change. The stinky stuff really hit the fan last fall when South Carolina Representative Joe Wilson hollered, "You lie!" during the commander-in-chief's health care address to Congress. Rude? Hmm ... do ya think?

Such a mess! Town hall meetings where elected representatives faced rude and angry mobs over health care reform. Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich removed from office for audaciously peddling President Obama's vacated Senate seat. Brazen gatecrashers breaking into a White House state dinner. Gov. Sarah Palin brashly bailing on Alaska.

And how bad-mannered was it that Palin's new grandson's father, what's-his-name, dropped his drawers for Playgirl magazine? C'mon, dude. We prefer those denims remain firmly buttoned about your backside.

But my personal Rudeness-Loser-of-the-Year award goes to "religion and family values" endorser, Gov. Mark "I'm hiking the Appalachian Trail" Sanford who not only wasn't trekking the trail to clear his head after a "tough economic session," but was tumbling in the hay with his paramour in Argentina - disappearing from even his staff's radar for a very inappropriate - and rudely - long time. I don't know about you, but I hope Mrs. S. dumped that snake's belongings on the front lawn and started one heck of a bonfire. At least she didn't show up for his pathetically self-serving press conferences with the infamous stand-by-your-man attitude.

Uncouth behavior wasn't limited to political figures. A few Hollywood celebs simply soared on the rudeness meter. Remember when Taylor Swift won her Video Music Award and Kanye West went all Joe Wilson on her by jumping on stage and launching off on his tangent? Or when Carrie Prejean, the dumped Miss USA beauty queen, appeared on CNN's Larry King show to hawk her new book and called HIM inappropriate? Hey, honey, unless Larry made one more sex tape than you reportedly did, I'd be careful about who I called inappropriate.

And wasn't the Christmas Day arrest of Charlie Sheen a festive addition to the holiday season? Call me old fashioned but a little domestic violence on Christmas isn't my first choice of family holiday traditions. The good news about Charlie's arrest was that it - temporarily - removed the media circus from the front doorstep of Tiger Woods, who so impolitely forgot his marriage vows like, maybe ... a few hundred times.

So what do you say, friends? Are you up for the Civility Pledge? With all of this rude and unbecoming behavior, perhaps it's time to come together, agreeing to disagree, but hopefully without the boorishness. We can all do with less screaming and cheating and throwing stuff at one another, right?

Here, then, is the oath: "I will be civil in my public discourse and behavior. I will be respectful of others whether or not I agree with them. I will stand against incivility when I see it."

Now I could get all hardnosed and say if you know what's good for you, you'll take this oath. Right now. Because I'm as mad as hell about incivility and I'm not going to take this anymore. But I hate to go all Joe Wilson on you. It just wouldn't be right. And I wouldn't want you to see me as being, well ... rude.

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?