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.

Sedimentary, My Dear Watson

Disclaimer: The following story is true. However, the names, dates and/or species involved in the incident may have been altered to protect the privacy of the people or species involved. In the incident. Or maybe not.

Note: Drat. I am confusing myself.

So, I am concerned when I hear that a neighbor's grandmother or child or dog--yes, the dog--has been injured in a skiing accident or by chasing cars or, perhaps, trying to ride a motorcycle.

Note: On Funniest Home Videos, many aging grandmothers are injured on out-of-control motorcycles. It is hilarious to see old people riding around on out-of-control motorcycles before careening into a fence or something. Hilarious.

So, as a good neighbor or friend or acquaintance, I decide to visit the ailing child, pet or motorcycle rider and stop by with a card and a small gift. The small gift is intended to help the injured being find a quiet way to pass the time and allow healing to occur in the injured area.

Note: The only gift bag in my garage has pastel stripes and the word "Congratulations" across the top. It will have to do.

A parent, guardian or spouse answers the door upon my arrival. I am standing on the front step with my "Congratulations" gift bag. I explain my good intentions and offer the token.

The parent, guardian or spouse appreciates my thoughtfulness. Thank you. That is very thoughtful.

Note: Here comes my favorite part.

The guardian, spouse or parent adds, As you know, Grandma/Rover/Offspring is very active. Your gift will help him/her be sedimentary.

Note: Sedimentary? Is Grandma starting to fossilize into the rocky material of the earth itself? Right before my very eyes?

Heck, yes!

Esca-quette. Revisited. With a Confession. Of Sorts.

I have a confession.

It is a possibility that perhaps, at some point in the past, I have breached one of the rules of esca-quette.

esca-quette: The conduct or procedure required by good breeding when riding a power-driven set of stairs arranged like an endless belt that ascend or descend continuously

Note: Oh no. I have never, nor will I ever, proceed to the step of a stranger and ride along with the stranger. On the same step.

No. My breach of esca-quette involves PDA or Public Displays of Affection.

Note: PDA in any confined space is discouraged. On an escalator, it can be downright dangerous. And pretty fun.

Daughter and I are riding the escalator. On separate steps. We are going down the escalator. It is quite empty. As the escalator descends, she becomes a head shorter than me. Daughter leans back to look at me and I smack a nice big kiss on her forehead.

This regrettable activity stirs unwanted interest from the early-twenty-something gentlemen riding the opposing escalator.

Oh (edit), one of the gentlemen says, did you see that? Those girls were kissing! Laughter and snortling noises ensue. From the gentlemen.

Then something comes over me. So I do the only thing really appropriate in this situation.

I smack her again. Right on the forehead.

The twenty-somethings erupt. Laughter. High-fiving. And I believe I hear a round of applause.

Happy Birthday to me! one of them cries in delight.

Note: Heck, yes!

So, Mariah Carey. Yeah. Wow.

Disclaimer: Anyone who actually knows me, in a personal manner, may find great amusement in the fact that I am posting about fashion.

But this is too good to pass up. Way too good.

So, Mariah Carey's Golden Globe dress.

Note: Yeah. Wow.

Mariah defends her dress. "“I dressed very conservatively,” she said. “My dress was long and my shoulders were covered. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

Note: Are you kidding me?

Some broadcaster on t.v. was musing that perhaps Mariah just attempted to remind everyone how beautiful she really is, as compared to the trashy, frumpy role she played in Precious.

Note: FAIL!

Escaquette. And the Breach Thereof.

et·i·quette

Pronunciation: \ˈe-ti-kət\

Function: noun

: the conduct or procedure required by good breeding or prescribed by authority to be observed in social life

es·ca·la·tor

Pronunciation: \ˈes-kə-ˌlā-tər\

Function: noun

: a power-driven set of stairs arranged like an endless belt that ascend or descend continuously

es-ca-quette

Pronunciation: \ˈes-kə-ˌket\

Function: noun

:The conduct or procedure required by good breeding when riding a power-driven set of stairs arranged like an endless belt that ascend or descend continuously

I am in JCPenney. I approach the escalator, an interesting invention for carrying customers up and down. I am heading upstairs to the third floor. To the home/gadget/furniture/whatnot section of the store.

Note: Why is that department always upstairs? Are more recliners sold to customers who are exhausted from their tortuous trek up the escalator? Just wondering.

JCPenney is not particularly busy today. Probably on account of the whole crummy economy and all. I am thinking about the whole crummy economy and all when I arrive at the second floor, which is the most amusing part of the store. The men's department is located right beside the women's lingerie section and both are immediately visible from the escalator. JCPenney is selling men's Big and Tall shirts for 70% off the already-reduced price right beside the most enormous striped pink bra I have ever seen, personally.

I am wondering about a woman who fits that bra as I turn the corner and step onto the next escalator, heading to the third floor.

I am standing on my little spot on the escalator. Which is of average size.

Note: The escalator is of average size. Not necessarily the spot. I am not a large woman, so my spot may have actually been little.

Then it happens.

The breach of esca-quette.

I hear a woman's pointy heels step onto the escalator behind me and to my shock and horror, she continues to proceed until she is on my step. Beside me. And she stops. On my step. Beside me.

Note: What the heck?

There are a dozen empty steps in front of me. There are five or six behind me. But she has chosen to stand beside me. Our shoulders are almost touching.

I am frozen. I was here first. This is my step. I cannot relinquish it. I think I can feel her breath. Kind of.

Note: Maybe I imagined that part. I certainly hope so.

We ride together to the third floor. In silence. She strides away. Her heels are clicking.

And I try to go about my business, as it nothing has happened. As if the world is the same. But it isn't. The line has been crossed.