Barking. Biting. Crotches Hanging Low.

I am driving home from my pilates class. I am waving (too) energetically at the Liberty Mutual statues on the corner. The statues are raising their eyebrows at me. As if.

Note: I am not the one standing on a street corner in a Statue of Liberty costume, so simmer down, pal(s).

Clearly, I am bored. And thirsty. I am willing a good song to play on the radio. To get me out of my bored-thirsty-driving misery.

Sadly, a good song does not come on the radio. Instead, Family Man, a 1983 "classic" from Hall & Oates comes on the radio.

Note: The 80's were not exactly an era of "classic" anything. Take the stirrup pant, for example. On women like me, with long legs and after a wash and shrink, the crotch of the stupid thing hung halfway down to my knees. Nice. Now that's a classy look.

So, in this snappy little tune, the "Family Man" is confronted by a, well, lady of the evening who is pleased to offer herself and her sulky smile and her sultry eyes "for a price." To which the Family Man responds:

"Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man,

And My Bark Is Much Worse Than My Bite!"

He Said, "Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man.

If You Push Me Too Far, I Just Might...."

Might what? Bark? Bite? Break into song?

Apparently, the, um, hooker then fixes her makeup and gives him a toss of the head and whatnot. Hooker moves, yes.

And the Family Man responds:

"Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man,

And My Bark Is Much Worse Than My Bite!"

He Said, "Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man.

If You Push Me Too Far, I Just Might...."

Note: That dot-dot-dot-dot is a dead giveaway! Dude, grow some!

I think I have a headache. Would someone please pass me the diet Coke and get me out of my misery?

Family Men.

Oh yeah,

definitely.

Seniors are Hoppin'. At the IHOP.

So, wow.

Senior Night at IHOP has new hours, apparently. After 2:00 p.m. Yes, 2:00 p.m.

Huh. Senior Night? Isn't it more like Senior Afternoon? Or Senior Extremely-Early-Evening?

I do not know about all this stuff. I am hoping that my (far distant) Golden Years will be filled with more excitement than heading over to the IHOP at 2:00 p.m. for Senior Night.

On the other hand, a Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity stack of pancakes sounds pretty good about now ...

Heck, yes!

So, the Prius.

I am in the Salt Lake City Airport. I am rolling my pink suitcase behind me. Yes, pink. I am with the Hub and we are heading to the Hertz Rent-a-Car counter. I am imagining the good old days when Hertz aired commercials of O.J. Simpson running wildly through the terminal to get to the rental car counter. I think that's what he was doing. Maybe he was running from the law.

Note: I don't really know.

However, Hub and O.J. are both Premier cardholders (or in O.J.'s case, perhaps a CLUB member) and we are invited to proceed directly to the icy cold garage to retrieve our vehicle. Once in the icy cold garage, we are invited to proceed directly to the vehicle and simply drive away. At our will and pleasure.

It is always exciting to walk down the row of rental cars. Wondering. Ahead we see Hub's name flashing in lights. Is this what it would be like to be famous? I am thinking. Our name in lights? Hopping into sparkling clean cars that aren't even ours and driving blissfully away?

Hub is ahead of me. Hub has reached his name in flashing lights. Hub has stopped. Hub is staring.

Note: Hub needs lessons in chivalry, I suppose. He is regularly ahead of me.

Hub is laughing. At our car for the weekend. Honey, he is saying, look!

And I look. It is a Prius. A Toyota Prius. A very shiny burgundy Prius.

It is not one of the mid-size cars promised to us on the internet. We are giggling. We are imagining the Hertz people in Utah. The Hertz people are analyzing the rentals for the day. The Hertz people are assigning cars based on their analysis. The Hertz people notice that a baby-booming couple from California--Sonoma County, no less--is arriving for the weekend.

They are from California, the Hertz people say, nodding knowingly. Let's give them the Prius.

Note: At least it wasn't a White Bronco ...

More on the Prius later.

Heck, yes!

Putting My Finger. On. It.

Disclaimer: The following post may contain graphic language or images that will disgust many adults but delight most children. Especially boys between the ages of 3 and 10. Reader discretion is advised.

I am in Utah. Something is not right. My lips are dry, yes. My hair is still straight after three days, yes. But it's more than that. I cannot quite put my finger on it.

Oh, wait. Yes I can! It's a booger.

Note: I have not had one of those in ages!

I live in California. The sun shines a lot. The birds sing a lot. The cars drive a lot. I live in an almost-coastal region. The air is moist. And fragrant. And clean. As a daisy.

Booger-free.

Well, there you go.

Give me Liberty. Or give me something to eat. I'm Starving.

So, January.

Cold. Rain. Fog. No major holidays. Christmas tree needles in the crevices of the wood floor. Resolution breaking. Or bending, maybe.

Note: Personally, I love the resolution. But I realize that my normalcy is, occasionally, in question.

Lest it becomes too easy to wallow in the gloom of deep winter, January has a plus side. Or two.

Yes.

I am talking about the Liberty Mutual Tax dudes dressing as the Statue of Liberty and waving from the sidewalk as I drive by.

Note: I find nothing liberating about paying taxes. Talk about the ultimate oxymoron: Taxes and liberty?

Are you kidding me?

Note: In fact, I fall into the category of those annoying people who sigh and moan and, perhaps, writhe about on that same wood floor at the mere thought of taxes.

However, I find myself driving out of my way after my pilates class to witness the most jovial statues of liberty I have personally encountered. Ever. They dance. They wave. They make taxes fun.

Note: No, they don't.

And today, there were two Liberty Mutual Statues AND an Uncle Sam.

Note: Heck, yes!

Because I Can. Can-Can.

Daughter is very thoughtful. And courteous. And a problem solver. And a bit of a smarty pants.

Daughter's Hub (the SIL) is applying for jobs in Fargo, North Dakota, their new hometown.

Note: Contrary to rumor, they did not move to North Dakota due to parole violations or as participants in the Witness Protection Program. They just did. Because they wanted to.

So, SIL is applying for jobs and interviewing and I am monitoring his progress through my delightful Daughter. Via Google Chat. While she is working. Hard.

Thus:

Daughter: well, the interview went good.
Grammar Note: The interview went well. Just saying.

me: Tell me.

9:41 AM Daughter: well, pending some calls to his references, they seem to want him.

9:42 AM

However, they require a 2-year committment from the time you get certified (as a Pharmacy Technician in North Dakota) to basically ensure their time and money to train you isn't wasted

9:43 AM
me: Whatever.

Daughter: but committing him to 32 hours of work a week (at least) for two years while he's trying to do school...

me: What are they going to do? Are they going to take him to Pharm Tech Court? Or sick the Pharm Tech police on him?

9:44 AM
Daughter: that's what I said...what's the action taken if you quit early? My example: what if my parents get in a car accident and my mom is paralyzed and my dad dies and we have to move out to CA to live with my mom and care for her?)

He didn't know...but he thinks you just have to pay for your certification.

9:45 AM
me: Oh great. Thanks for the caring example. Makes me feel good.

Paralyzed.

Alone.

Suffering.
Note: AND NOW THE BIG PAYOFF:

Daughter: Don't worry. I'd come live with you and move your legs to the can-can daily.

You'd laugh because you couldn't stop me!
Note: Are you kidding me? The can-can? Daily?
Heck, yes!

So, The Bachelor.

I am imagining the application form to be one of the girls on 'The Bachelor'.

Note: This is not an actual application form. Please do not fill it out and return it to ABC. You may, however, return it to me. If you wish.

Questions for the Aspiring Bachelor Girl:

1. Are you flexible enough to wrap your arms and legs completely around the Bachelor whenever you see him (sitting or standing) and can you remain in such position while the production team zeroes in. On the wrappage?

2. Do you have an annoying accent that will get on America's nerve every time you open your mouth, and if not, are you willing to fake an accent or use poor grammar to get on America's nerve?

3. Were you a reject in High School who was teased relentlessly by the cool kids and then your Grandma passed on and left you a small inheritance so you bought big boobs and big hair and became a swimsuit model and proved that those nasty kids from high school are really the big losers after all?

4. Have you been diagnosed with some sort of narcissistic disorder or do you have some strange attachment disorder that allows you bond instantaneously with men and behave in stalker-like ways in order, of course, to entertain America?

5. Do you have a dark secret, such as but not limited to: a previously diagnosed venereal disease, triplets, three months to live, perhaps an interesting fetish or the fact that you were inadvertently raised by wolves?

And finally, can you scream like a banshee whenever you see the Bachelor or get a date card from The Bachelor or see Chris Harrison with a rose?

Excellent.

Bring it on.