I am certain my loyal readers have noticed that I’ve left many unresolved questions in my postings lately, and I have started to feel your unstated desire for resolution nagging me from across the void. The first unresolved matter, from late in October, has to do with the conundrum of naming the new car. I asked for suggestions, and never announced a winner.

The truth of it is that I received many fantastic suggestions, and I didn’t choose any of them. None of them have quite hit the mark for me, even though I liked all of them for one reason or the other. I didn’t get any feminine names, which is strangely convenient, as I’m very certain that the car is male, since it is a manual transmission. (It has a stick.)

There were suggestions with deep “Whedonesque” roots, which speak to my love for Buffy the Vampire Slayer and for Firefly. Specifically, the names suggested were Serenity and Xander. Not having fought in the Battle of Serenity Valley, I have no personal connection to the irony nor the tragic implications of that momentous occasion, and I am concerned that bestowing that name upon my car will force it to be constantly on the verge of falling apart if I don’t have a top-notch mechanic.

Xander is a good choice,  as he’s the “Zeppo” of the Scooby Gang, the one that is always there but gets little notice. He’s the metaphorical heart of the gang, and he’s the ordinary guy who simply wants to help his friends.

Following the idea of the shelter dog everyone ignored, I got several suggestions, including another vote for Spot, for some excellent classical allusions. I also got Rover, which I liked for the literal meaning of “rove” as applied to a car, and also a suggestion of Wally, in this case, for Wally Cox, the voice of the “Underdog” cartoon.

The name Wally also found support in the form of “Wall-E” the little robot left all alone to clean up our planet.  This angle has some resonance for me on the synchronicity side of things, which is a much longer story, and probably not as interesting to you all as it is to me. I don’t want to create another unanswered question while attempting to answer one, so, pretend I didn’t mention the uninteresting story.

From the Harry Potter side of things, I got three suggestions:  Snape, Sirius and Harry.  While Snape is perhaps the most interesting character of the series, I couldn’t pick him, because even his tragic back story didn’t excuse his behavior as a bully to all the students. Sirius, of course, is the dog star, and turns into a black dog, which I appreciate for the allusions, but, in the end, not quite a fit. Strangely, I agree with the Dursleys on the name of Harry, dreadfully common.Given that the name “Harry” is now inextricably linked to “Potter,” it has become far too obvious for my tastes.

The last names pointed to the classic orphans: Oliver,  Pip,  Huckleberry Finn, and the Artful Dodger.  I admit that I never liked Pip or Oliver, and of the Dickensian orphans, Dodger is the one that I find the most appealing. Dodger has the advantage, like Rover, of being literal as well as referential, which appeals to my brain’s love of wordplay, and yet, I expect Fagan would want a piece of that naming action, and I was trying to avoid monthly payments.

All of this to say, the car remains nameless. Clearly, my skills do not extend to naming an automobile.

Break out the cotton! This column represents the 104^th week that this has been mailed out to the world. For those that like to use more conventional measurements, 104 weeks makes it the second anniversary.

I should be celebrating. I have had parts of this thing written in my head for weeks. I was going to tell you all about some upcoming changes and plans for moving forward. It was going to be a hilarious masterpiece of nostalgia and exciting progress.

Things change.

Yesterday, a friend died. And while my first thoughts were about her husband and two young kids, my next thoughts were that she was only 46, and this was all too sudden and unexpected.

But the thoughts that came after, the thoughts that I dwelt on, had nothing to do with her.  All I could think about was me. And not about how much I will miss her, which I will, even though, I admit, we weren’t especially close. What I was thinking was that I will turn 40 this week, and that’s only six years difference.

This opened up the Pandora’s box of horrible thoughts. I kept imagining dying alone in my house, likely on a day when my underwear were not so fresh, and all the threats of mothers everywhere coming true.

And that was enough to make me review the disaster area which is my house, and worse than the potential humiliation of un-fresh underwear, if I hadn’t already expired, I’d have died of embarrassment.

Then I became afraid that not only was I repugnant enough to have scared away all potential spouses, probably no one would even notice or miss me.  I wondered if there would be anyone to deal with the mundane parts. Then
I wondered if they were someone who had ever thought kindly of me, and whether having to deal with the vastness of the mess I had left them, would they still have kind thoughts about me?

As my worry grew, I frantically started cleaning.  Not even the fact that I’m more than 20, 000 words behind on my novel could distract me from my new priority of not being remembered for my poor housekeeping. Or at least, not being a burden to whomever was left behind.

I spent most of my weekend in a funk, which, if I’m being honest, described more than my underwear.

Reaching the end of the second year has not been easy, and I know that I would not have gotten to this point without all of you, who take the time to read the silly things I send out, and who often take a moment to send me a note of encouragement. Our time is far too short, and before I forget, I wanted you to know I’m thinking of you all, and I’m grateful for you.  My wish is that you get to spend the holiday with those you love, and that you have the opportunity to let them know how important they are to you.

After last year’s critique of Halloween decorations, I decided I would no longer simply be a critic, I would show others the error in their ways by providing a superior example.

For the last 10 months, I’ve been preparing my house to be the scariest house on the block.

My commitment to this project is absolute. First, I have been actively cultivating spiders by refusing to clear the rotting leaf material out of the flower beds and corners of the house. Not only do these areas encourage the kinds of creepy crawlies that consume the decaying vegetative matter to thrive, it attracts spiders to eat those creepy crawlies, and *BOOM* authentic spider webs all over the place.

The general air of decay does actively contribute to the general sense of disrepair on the property, which has been simmering for months. Peeling paint and shutters missing slats gives it just enough a sense of abandonment to make all the neighborhood kids give the place a wide berth.

To give the place a further “air of despair,” I’ve started to keep the lights turned out, even when I’m home, so that people think there is no one living here. To help the illusion, I use the back door to come and go.

Just to make sure that everyone in the neighborhood knows that my house is the scary house of the neighborhood, I’ve started a few juicy rumors about discovering a Native American burial ground in the unfinished crawl space under the house, and a scrapbook of old newspaper clippings with tales of multiple murders and mysterious deaths on the premises. Adding in a few well-placed stories of doors closing by themselves, bleeding walls, and strange noises in the middle of the night, and we’re a shoo-in to be the place all neighborhood kids fear above all others. If I work it right, I might be able to convince them that there’s a monstrous shut-in chained up in a closet or non-existent attic.

I am committed to taking this the whole way forward. There are no short cuts in modeling Halloween houses that are actually frightening. The backyard  is now completely taken over by weeds and bits of old, rotten furniture, and I’ve hidden a few ominous trinkets in the yard for people to stumble upon and draw their own horrifying conclusions.

Naturally, I hope that the weeks of dedicated neglect necessary to achieve a true house of horror keeps kids away, or, at the very least, causes a few sleepless nights for would-be trick-or-treaters. Perhaps I can successfully traumatize the next Stephen King, or become the stuff of neighborhood legends for decades to come.

Cultivating the mystique of a derelict building is starting to conflict with my desire to be a conscientious homeowner, but I can say that the realization of how much work there is to “undecorate” is enough to re-affirm my devotion toward making a model spooky house in our neighborhood.

So, the next time someone complains that your weeds are too high or your hedges are out of control, just tell them you are making an important contribution to the character of your community. You are providing the neighborhood with its very own haunted house.

I have been driving the new car for a month, and am happy to report that I have finally mastered the controls for the windshield wipers. No longer am I confusing the instrument for a gear shift, nor blinded by the panic of a windshield unexpectedly sprayed with liquid and obscured by large, rapidly waving sticks.

The controls on the radio, on the other hand, are still defeating me.

I appreciate that with any new car there is a familiarization process. Usually it’s preceded by a “honeymoon” period where the car is all exciting new smells and new love with shiny parts. There’s also anxiety over protecting it from getting dirty or blemished.  I have the anxiety parts, but, I’m still holding my breath for the exciting part of the honeymoon. Which probably explains my purpling face.

While I am pleased with the pep in the engine, and I’ve found the hatchback pretty handy, and the CD player has some nifty new accessories, I admit, I have not been completely beguiled by this unknown Korean.

In part, I’m having trouble moving on. Like when any long-term relationship ends, there are the poignant reminders of the good times and the things you loved. I liked being a member of the Saturn Secret Society, and now, when I see my fellow club members on the road, they no longer know me, or offer me the secret handshake. When I see a Saturn of my year or color, and I feel that pang of longing and the shame of my betrayal all over again. You never really forget your first.

I miss the key fob that locked the doors. My new car has fully manual everything, and I’m in the painful period of developing new habits. As my button mashing muscles start to atrophy, I’ve had to re-discover my lock switching skills. Plus, there’s now no light which stays on in the garage for a few minutes after I lock the car.

These are small complaints in the general scheme of things, and I remind myself every second that I am very fortunate to have a long term solution lined up instead of a simple rebound relationship.

However, things are looking up.

Just this week, I got the title paperwork from the car dealer. From those documents, I learned that my new friend sat on the lot, unloved and forgotten, for seven years. This feisty car, which is eager to run and play, and just wanted to run free on the highways and byways of the world had gone unnoticed and unwanted while all the flashier cars got adopted and taken home to new families. My sister pointed out that we had picked the really good, well-behaved, but overlooked doggie at the shelter who only wants a forever home, and has watched everyone pick the puppies or the prettier animals. My sister proclaimed that now we know the true story, the car needs a name. She suggested we christen it “Spot.”

I’m not taken with the name Spot. But, casting the car in the role of long-suffering underdog, who just needed a friend? That was all it took to win my heart. Truly, the best way to a writer’s heart is a good story. I think the honeymoon has finally begun.

We’ve had the accident, and “The Lindsey Show,” and the next part is about the rest of it.

But, where to start? Do I tell you about the accident involving my mom, who also was rear-ended? Do I mention the incompetence of the body shop that was to do the estimate for the insurance company? Maybe I mention the generous gifts from kind family members, or the unexpected, beyond expectations assistance from a towing company, or the mysterious appearance of a pack of raccoons wearing tiny birthday hats?

Following the path of strongest emotion, I share with you the part where I said goodbye to my faithful friend. There it was, sitting in the parking lot of the body shop, where its heart still beating strongly, and its head still intact. It looked strong and vital in the parts that mattered, it still drove, and here I was, abandoning my good and trusty friend on field of battle, bleeding and wounded, still ready to continue the fight. Its headlights were clear and they stared at me, full of hope ready to go home with me. Those eye-lights were trusting me, expecting me to take care of everything, to make things better. They did not even consider that I might be sending it to a terrible fate in a junk yard or a heap of scrap. It was giving me its auto-puppy eyes, and how could I say no to those? How could I betray it so thoroughly?

I reconsidered the whole plan to let the insurance take the car. Maybe it wasn’t too late, I could get the major bits all fixed, and keep it.

But, the reality was that fixing the bits was like giving Methuselah a face lift. Spending finite resources on fixing it up would not solve the problem long-term. It was time to let it go, and face the horrors of car shopping.

The insurance money was a pittance, not nearly as profitable as 30 pieces of silver. Hardly worth the betrayal. When added to the generous contributions of family members, however, it amounted to enough to find a replacement, hopefully one with an engine and everything.

Finding myself with a day off work due to the flooding in Colorado, I went to a big dealer’s sale downtown. I kept being shown cars 1000-1500 above my maximum price, and I despaired that my expectations were too high.  “You mean you want a vehicle with a steering wheel? Are you out of your mind? I’m afraid a steering wheel is out of your budget.”

And then, they showed me a car which was in my range that had a mere 47,000 miles on it. It seemed too good to be true. It even had a steering wheel, and *four* other wheels.  It had breaks and seat belts.  It drove well.

Before I knew what was happening, and despite the fact that I had brought no money, I left with a wad of paperwork and a stomach full of anxiety. I no longer had the ability to say anything other than “What have I done now?”

It turns out, I had bought a car.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time for the Lindsey Show!

At this moment, you’re thinking that the car accident must’ve jarred my brain, and I’ve forgotten my name, and that last week we had ended on a cliff overlooking the dreadful Puddle of Pain. How could I forget these important details?!

No car accident yet invented could erase you from my mind. And yes, I still know my name is Ms. Frederica Horglesnop. That is not a name that is easily forgotten, believe me, I have tried.

At any rate, we take up the tale at the point where I have arrived home to face the challenges of having to share the terrible truth with someone else. Once I proclaim it out loud, it becomes solid, a tangible and horrible reality.

Reality is incredibly inconvenient.

The good news is that reality can be muted for a short time if it is observed through the goggles of fermented beverages. I immediately took my sister up on her sympathetic offer of a visit to the land of food and ferment, where people will bring you yummy things, and I am rescued from having to carefully pile the plates in the sink and can avoid the hazards of possibly shifting the precariously balanced tower of unwashed dishes.  Not that I have ever seen such a monument in my house.

We were seated across from a young family, mom, dad, baby, and a little girl about two years old.  They had mostly finished their meal, and were relaxing, having a night away from home, where there could not possibly be piles of laundry taller than Big Bird, and the dishes were probably all spotless. I find myself jealous of their imaginary house.

As I watched the scene, the little girl noticed me.  She cocked her head to one side, and then pivoted toward me as if asking me whether I was noticing her.  I mirrored her motion, and she grinned from ear to ear.  She straightened her head, and then put her thumbs together and her forefingers together in a triangle shape, and peered into her finger teepee, and aimed it at me. I teepee’d her right back. The teepee became a side-wave gesture, and that one, too, was followed.

Then, she was stumped. No other gestures occurred to her. So, I helped her out by raising both arms straight up in the air and making a look of surprise.  The charming toddler burst into delighted laughter.

Charismatic two-year olds proved far superior to adult beverages this day.

At this moment, her father, amused by the proceedings said, “It’s a pity she’s so shy, isn’t it?”

A few minutes later, the youngster decided it was time for animated conversation, and became incredibly chatty, asking questions pointing to things, and reciting bits of knowledge she had gleaned.  Her father turned to no one in particular, and announced “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time for ‘The Lindsey Show!”

I told him it was a pretty good show, and I hoped it would be renewed for years to come.

Having gained a touch of perspective through babies and beer, I could put reality on the shelf for the night, and pick it up again another day.  And that is where I shall put this story for now. In next week’s exciting conclusion, the tale becomes one of unexpected outcomes.

I’m pleased to announce that I’ve finally finished the final hours required to achieve a Ph.D. in procrastination.

It’s a common achievement of writers, you can see the tell-tale signs of a writer in pursuit of procrastination by the number of times they call you “out of the blue” when a deadline is impending.  Other signs a writer is avoiding work include a sudden upsurge in completed household chores, including mowed lawns and trimmed hedges. Right now, I’m thinking longingly of the mountain of unwashed dishes and the pile of laundry in need of washing.  It’s tempting to stop writing this and go work on them.

I’ve also found useful distractions in the form of the Internet and television, as well as sudden interests in checking the fridge for something that I know isn’t there.

I realize it is strange that one would actually complete such a degree. After all, someone who fully embraces the tricks of the procrastination would probably never complete anything.

I figure that anyone that learns the intricacies of avoidance and learns the discipline to overcome them, deserves the advanced degree.  Because, it is in conquering the combined power of distractions large and small that we get to call ourselves writers.

I’m also fairly certain that all of this is a lie. I’m merely fooling myself into thinking I’ve achieved mastery over the forces trying to keep me from sitting my posterior in a chair and making words appear on a virtual sheet of paper.  I think the entire Procrasti Nation invented this Ph.D nonsense to make me think I’d done something worth celebrating.

They never give up. And they seem to get much stronger when I’ve made some progress against them. I start writing early every morning, and then a few days later, they convince me that an extra hour of sleep is a much better plan. They tell me that I’ve earned a break. They lie. And, it’s so much more pleasant to believe the lie and to get a bit of rest.

That is, until it’s the day of a deadline and all you can think to write about how much you’d rather be doing anything but writing something interesting to meet your deadline. Then they tell you how you’ve got “plenty of time,” so you might as well take a nap, and, hey, look, your favorite show is on, and you’ve not seen it in ages, and look, the weather is beautiful, and there’s a puppy and an ice cream man, and a guy with a jet pack comes and offers you a ride, and so on and further.

These distraction elementals like to also tell you that you’ve got writer’s block and that the story you’ve spent all week working on is complete crap. Then, they tell you to throw it out and start all over again, and the only idea they leave you with is to write about them.  Better than nothing, I say.

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If you’re under the mistaken belief that this word is lacking in magic, look no further than your office’s coffee station.  Hidden casually, in plain sight, is all anyone ever needs to prove the existence of magic in this world.

Powdered Non-Dairy Creamer.

All I can hope is that we don’t owe the existence of this magical substance to a dark ritual involving sacrifice of puppies or the burning of 15 million acres of rain forest or wearing polyester.  Please don’t tell me that it is harvested off of the wings of imprisoned fairies or unicorn dandruff, because we’re all better off not knowing.

I’ll grant you that the label says the first ingredient is “corn syrup solids.” That’s Muggle for “something magical we can’t explain, and you’re better off not knowing.” If you ask someone, they’ll probably just tell you it’s just sugar. That is just Death Eater talk, so, you shouldn’t listen to them.

Let’s look into the magical properties of this wondrous substance, shall we?

First, there’s not a bit of dairy in it, but, it makes coffee taste like it’s been given a touch of something that came out of the acceptable part of a female cow.  It’s even mostly white.

Then, there is its peculiar molecular structure, which mutates it into a liquid when exposed to a hot liquid, but gets harder and lumpier in cold liquid.  Even in hot liquid, it still somehow forms a protective barrier over granulated sugar, keeping it from dissolving.  I think that there should be some serious grants awarded to scientists to figure out how to harness these properties. It probably requires someone who knows everything there ever was to know about sedimentology and fluid dynamics. Can we get someone on this? There’s got to be some under-employed master of fluid dynamics in a temp job somewhere that is spending way too much time studying this. Like, what ratios of sugar to creamer result in which absorption rates? Does it matter if the sugar is added first, or if a part of the sugar is exposed to the liquid under the creamer? What happens if you homogenize the two?

You could say I’ve done some experiments. You could also say that no one should spend that much time thinking about coffee creamer.  You might even suggest that I have no idea what use could possibly be derived from a better understanding of non-dairy creamer. You would probably be right. The bad news is that I know next to nothing about fluid dynamics. But I do know that this stuff does some really weird (and that’s a technical term) stuff in liquid.

I probably shouldn’t mention this, as it’s not exactly in keeping with the product’s labeling, and while it’s not a secret, it’s certainly not something we want in front of those who would use the information for evil.  Non-dairy creamer is highly flammable. It can be used as an accelerant for improvised torches and fire-related naughtiness.  This is probably why fairies burst into flames if they get too close to a hot light source. Or maybe that’s just moths. I really hope that it’s not made of the wing scales of moths.  I just couldn’t take it.

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