check in

I feel like lately I have been asked some strange questions that you don’t get asked before you are 40. I’ve been asked if I’m working out more than before, because you know… Metabolism. I’ve been asked if my husband is okay with the extra pounds that forty gave me. I’ve been asked about potty habits and if I’m sad because I’m too old now… To you know… (Hushed voice) have babies.

First of all, NO, I don’t fucking work out more, I don’t work out at all because frankly, I don’t have time. I actually work. Like a job. You know, that place you go to earn money so you can have a roof over your head, and food on your plate, and blankets on your bed and all the techno gadgets that keep you connected to the people you may not even want to talk to but do anyway because… life! And if you are lucky, you have programmed the gadgets (by you I mean the smart tech peoples) not to tell you what the cheeto said this week that is slowly making you cray-town. Otherwise you may throw said gadget and cause yourself to have to work at said job more than you already do. When I find time to work out, I’ll let someone know, and they will find me on the beach where the cabana boy will be bringing me a series of tasty adult beverages and I will be doing some lifts- of those drinks to my mouth.

Second, I don’t have a fucking husband! I am happily NOT married, for ten years, to an amazing, difficult, handsome, exceedingly intelligent, ridiculously emotionally unkempt, absolutely perfectly imperfect human. He loves me in spite of myself. I love him sometimes to spite myself and other times to keep myself sane because he may be the only reason I am. And (third, if we are counting) he hasn’t pressured me to have crotch fruit. He doesn’t need a fuck trophy to mark the decade he’s put up with my crazy ass. He didn’t ask for one at the 5 year mark even though he may have thought they might be a fun adventure. If he does want a trophy- I will totally allow some breeding with a hot sars stand in. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was handsome. Chicks propo him him on the daily (look at me using current jargon) but he doesn’t even give them a second. He comes home and snuggles up… to his not wife (who doesn’t work out). The not wife who has stayed for ten years of things. The things no one else can know. And that is what matters.

Finally… don’t even fucking start with the potty habits. You have no idea what this bitch has been through. I have been sliced and diced and teased about the the cauliflower and apertures… If you haven’t had your brother and your best girl photo texting you pics of things that may look worse than your ass to make you feel better about the sate of your union, well… you can’t step to potty talk with this bitch. So go get yourself a Squatty Potty and call me when you understand how life changing that shit is (oh, yeah… I said that!).

‘Till we next…

get sars for your very own!

About Sars

I am the full time rider/conductor of the Bi-Polar Express (2.oh!) Welcome to my ride. Please keep hands and feet inside the pretty pink car at all times, for your safety of course. Rose colored glasses are not only encouraged, but required.
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