Why Women are Crabby
We started to "bud" in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find
that anything that came in contact with those tender, blooming buds
hurt so bad it brought us to tears. So came the ridiculously
uncomfortable training bra contraption that the boys in school would snap until we had calluses on our backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner).
Along with those budding boobs, we bloated, we cramped, we got the hormone
crankies, had to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert
tubular, packed cotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) was having sex
for the first time which was about as much fun as having a ramrod push
your uterus through your nostrils (IF he did it right and didn't end up
with his little cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what all the
fuss was about.
Then it' was off to Motherhood where we learned to live on dry
crackers and water for a few months so we didn't spend the entire day leaning
over Brother John. Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learned to live with the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we were preparing to have Rosemary's Baby.
Our once flat bellies looked like we swallowed a watermelon whole
and we pee'd our pants every time we sneezed. When the big moment arrived,
the dam in our blessed Nether Regions invariably burst right in the
middle of the mall and we had to waddle, with our big cartoon feet,
moaning in pain all the way to the ER.
Then it was huff and puff and beg to die while the OB says, "Please
stop screaming, Mrs. Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one more good
push (more like 10)," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch
the ***** (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling,
mushroom-headed 10lb bowling ball through a keyhole.
After that, it was time to raise those angels only to find that when
all that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morphed into
walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little
poop machines.
Then come their teen years. Need I say more?
When the kids are almost grown, we women hit our voracious sexual
prime in our early 40's - while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th
birthday.
So we progress into the grand finale: "The Menopause," the Grandmother
of all womanhood. It's either take HRT and chance cancer in those
now seasoned "buds" or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or, sweat
like a hog in July, wash your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the
head off anything that moves.
Now, you ask WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men when men
get off so easy INCLUDING the icing on life's cake: Being able to pee in
the woods without soaking their socks! ...
So, while I love being a woman, "Womanhood" would make the Great Gandhi
a tad crabby. Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.
that anything that came in contact with those tender, blooming buds
hurt so bad it brought us to tears. So came the ridiculously
uncomfortable training bra contraption that the boys in school would snap until we had calluses on our backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner).
Along with those budding boobs, we bloated, we cramped, we got the hormone
crankies, had to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert
tubular, packed cotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) was having sex
for the first time which was about as much fun as having a ramrod push
your uterus through your nostrils (IF he did it right and didn't end up
with his little cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what all the
fuss was about.
Then it' was off to Motherhood where we learned to live on dry
crackers and water for a few months so we didn't spend the entire day leaning
over Brother John. Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learned to live with the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we were preparing to have Rosemary's Baby.
Our once flat bellies looked like we swallowed a watermelon whole
and we pee'd our pants every time we sneezed. When the big moment arrived,
the dam in our blessed Nether Regions invariably burst right in the
middle of the mall and we had to waddle, with our big cartoon feet,
moaning in pain all the way to the ER.
Then it was huff and puff and beg to die while the OB says, "Please
stop screaming, Mrs. Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one more good
push (more like 10)," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch
the ***** (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling,
mushroom-headed 10lb bowling ball through a keyhole.
After that, it was time to raise those angels only to find that when
all that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morphed into
walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little
poop machines.
Then come their teen years. Need I say more?
When the kids are almost grown, we women hit our voracious sexual
prime in our early 40's - while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th
birthday.
So we progress into the grand finale: "The Menopause," the Grandmother
of all womanhood. It's either take HRT and chance cancer in those
now seasoned "buds" or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or, sweat
like a hog in July, wash your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the
head off anything that moves.
Now, you ask WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men when men
get off so easy INCLUDING the icing on life's cake: Being able to pee in
the woods without soaking their socks! ...
So, while I love being a woman, "Womanhood" would make the Great Gandhi
a tad crabby. Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.