Tag Archives: marriage

After humans go extinct, the ants will rise up and take our place.

I’ve been seeing ants everywhere I go. I realize that this is partially because it’s summer in Texas. But still. They’re outside. They’re inside. In the bathroom at work. In my car. In my shower. I’m either Queen (or Empress) of the Ants, or I’m just hallucinating.


I’m going clothes shopping this weekend! So expect this to be the last time you hear (read) me complaining about how my pants don’t fit. Except today I’m actually wearing pants that fit. So last time was the last time.


Kasima has had a complete recovery. You know how I can tell? It’s not the fact that she’s eating and pooping again. It’s the fact that she attacked Adam when he tried to pet her. She’s back!


Kasima bit Adam on the butt once. It was awesome. And it was at my command, which was even better. She’s such a good kitty.


I predict that, for whatever reason, this is the post that makes Adam regret encouraging me to start a blog.


Let’s see…normally I link to some stuff on Fridays. I suppose I could admonish you again for not watching So You Think You Can Dance.

This one might need a little back story for you to fully appreciate it. See, the asian dude in this clip is a ballet dancer. He doesn’t do anything that’s not graceful. No one expected him to be this good at hip hop. Enjoy!


By the way, you should be reading the NPR pop-culture blog, Monkey See. I go there at least twice a day. Very entertaining. Plus, they like all the stuff I like. We should be best friends.

And it’s NPR, so you can still feel smart and socially responsible, even though you’re reading about tv and movies and stuff.


I don’t think I’m the only one who has breathed a huge sigh of relief that the new Futurama episodes are just as great as the old stuff. Don’t get me wrong. I have tremendous faith in the makers of Futurama – who I know all the names of, because I am a watcher of dvd commentaries – but I was a little nervous. Last week’s episodes got rid of most of that nervousness, and last night’s episode put it to rest permanently.

Ahhhhhh. That’s a weight off my shoulders.


Julia Roberts was in my dream last night. We were foiling some scam at a college by posing as students. I think I blended in a lot better than she did.

I don’t remember a lot about the dream. Except that there was this smarmy guy who kept hitting on me, and I kept having to re-explain to him that I’m married.

See, Adam? Even in my dreams I’m faithful to you. I am a fantastic wife.



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It’s not about religion, but you should still read it.

I got a lot of page views with my religion post. I was trying to think of controversial topics so I could reach that peak again, but instead I’m going to talk about marriage.

My husband told me last night that I have to post a blog today. It’s adorable how he thinks he gets to tell me to do things. But I’ve been a bad blogger lately, so I’m trying to get re-motivated.

I don’t wear a wedding ring and I didn’t change my last name. A casual observer would think I’m not really married. But then how do you explain how my car gets filled with gas, how my dinners get made, and how all my annoying errands are miraculously already done when I get home from work?

The reason I don’t wear a wedding ring is that I’m allergic to metal. I think specifically nickel, but I have no medical proof.

About a month after I got married, my finger started hurting. Like, aching-in-the-bone hurting. But I’m not a big jewelry-wearer, so I figured it was just me adjusting to having a metal band around my finger. Normal people have chronic finger pain when they wear rings, right?

So then my finger started itching under the ring. A lot. But again, I just figured I wasn’t used to wearing jewelry.

Then my skin turned red. I figured it was because of the scratching, so I stopped scratching.

Then my skin started to peel off and scab over. I took that as a sign I should take the ring off.

Shortly after that, I visited my parents and told my mom about my finger. She was like, “Oh, yeah, that happened to me, too. I thought I was allergic to marriage.” Thanks, mom.

So, the reason I haven’t changed my name is a little more complicated. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think I’ve figured out the reason. But it’s going to take a bit to get there.

I never thought I had any particular attachment to my last name (Scarbrough, if you don’t know). For one thing, it’s long. I always ran out of bubbles on the front page of standardized test packets. It’s at the end of the alphabet, which means I’m always near the end of roll call. And in my grade in school, it meant I was always sitting next to this girl who once picked her nose and then wiped the booger on me. Gross.

Also, I had heart surgery when I was a baby, so I have a scar down the middle of my chest. So I got a lot ofLindsay Emphasis-on-Scarbrough.”

So, though I never really hated my name, I was not particularly fond of it. But it was my name. No use fighting it.

I never really wanted to get married when I was little. In fact, I didn’t want to get married until a few months before I got engaged. But, when you’re a girl in an american public school, you often get asked about marriage and your future husband. And, when I was growing up, that meant you got asked if you’d keep your name.

Of course, my first answer was always, “I’m never getting married.” But if they kept pushing, I’d say something along the lines of, “It depends.” I always figured if I’d made a name for myself in some way before I got married, I’d keep my name. And if not, I’d change it. That was pretty much my official policy.

So, decades later, the day actually came. I got married. And I certainly had no career to speak of. My name wasn’t well-known. In fact, some of my closest friends knew my last name only as trivia, because I’d been adopted by a group of girls called the Kolter Sisters, and had been known as Lindsay Marie Kolter for many years. (Side note: Marie is not my real middle name either. Almost everything about me is made up, I’m now realizing.) I’d even told my husband that it was up to him. If he wanted me to change it (he did), I would.

But I still haven’t changed my name. What gives?

I’ve given several excuses to people. It’s so much trouble. It costs money. His name is even longer and farther back in the alphabet than mine, and they reflect the same ancestry (extremely English), so there’s barely any difference anyway. All those things are true, but those aren’t the reasons.

See, when I was younger, I wanted to be a writer. I spent every spare minute reading and writing. I stayed up all night finishing stories. And I imagined growing up and actually getting paid to write. I imagined book jackets, movie credits, Oscars and Emmys, all with my name on them. The name I pictured wasn’t Lindsay To-Be-Decided-Later-Depending-on-How-Successful-I-Am-When-I-Get-Married.

I want the name in those credits to be the one I imagined when I was a little girl. Written by Lindsay Scarbrough. Empress if you want to be formal.

So that’s the real, actual, honest reason I haven’t changed my name. It’s not the most logical one, but it makes the most sense to me.


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Friday is Random Day

Well, okay, for me every day is Random Day. But officially, on this blog, only Friday is Random Day.

Here goes:

I think we should change the phrase from “crazy like a fox” to “crazy like a velociraptor.” It’s much more apt. But maybe I’ve been reading too much xkcd.


Due to a discussion on facebook about this dress, and how it makes me want to star in a musical about shopping, now all I can think about is how somebody needs to make a musical about shopping. It can star Anne Hathaway and Hugh Jackman, with music by Joss Whedon. Choreography by whoever did Xanadu.

I’m on to something here.


I have a back-up camera in my car, but I don’t trust it. I’ll start out looking at the screen before I back up, which seems to tell me that there’s nothing behind me. But  then I’ll get paranoid and turn around really quick to see if something’s hiding just outside the camera’s line of sight. Then, since there’s nothing there,  I’ll turn back to the screen with a guilty conscience. It’s not my fault, Back-up Camera. I was raised to believe that cameras couldn’t be trusted. That they’d steal your soul and add ten pounds. I’m sorry. I’d love to say that I’ll never doubt you again, but I’m afraid that’s just a promise I can’t keep.


Sometimes, my husband reads me so well that I start to wonder if he can read my mind. Then I think, no, I have countless examples of times he said ridiculous, thoughtless things that he would never have said if he could read my mind. Then I think, what if he’s trying to throw me off the track by saying those stupid things, so he can continue reading my mind without me getting suspicious? So then I’ll think about something really outrageous that would surely get a reaction out of him, like an elaborate scene of slapstick midget porn. And he doesn’t react.

I still think he’s just trying to throw me off the scent. I’m on to you, buddy.


My (formerly) secret reason for starting this blog is so that I can meet The Bloggess and become best friends with her.


If you haven’t already heard, I’m trying to get the phrase “like a bird in a whale’s mouth” on tv. It’s a thing. It’s supposed to be sort of an experiment, like when you’d write your name on a dollar and see if it ever came back to you. But now I’m thinking of it as trying to get something I wrote on television. Anyway, help spread the word!


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