Recently, my husband and I were audited by the IRS. We survived. However, the IRS, in its infinite wisdom, decided that we owed back taxes. (Earlier the IRS had sent us a refund which we hadn't expected. Upon further consideration, it decided it wanted its money back, plus interest--never mind that the refund had been the mistake of the IRS.)
The whole thing so de-pissed me that I was ready to move to Montana and become a survivalist. As long as I was changing my location, I decided I'd change my vehicle and look as well. I would exchange my Buick for a big-ass pickup, with a shotgun attached to the rear window. On the bumper I'd have a sticker with some tough saying like "We ain't payin' no stinkin' taxes." In the bed of the pickup, I'd have a case of beer. (Well, really it would be a case of Propel--flavored water---but the effect would be the same.)
I'd trade my "mom clothes" for a lumberjack plaid shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots. Over my chest, I'd wear a bandolero with bullets at the ready. Maybe I'd tuck a chaw in the back of my mouth to complete the look. (As I don't think I could bear the taste of tobacco, I'd probably substitute a Tootsie roll pop.)
Gem for the day: if you're going to get a big-ass pickup that sits high from the ground, make sure your hip will allow you to climb into it.