Why Women are Crabby
We start to "bud" in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find
anything
that comes in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurts so bad
it
brings us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable training bra
contraption the boys in school will snap until we have calluses on
our
backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner).
Along
with
> >those budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone
crankies,
have 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) is having sex
for
the
first time which is 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's off to Motherhood where we learn to live on dry crackers
and
water
for a few months so we don't spend the entire day leaning over
Brother
John.
Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learn to
live
with
the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking our innards
night
and
day making us wonder if we're having Rosemary's Baby. Our once flat
bellies
now look like we swallowed a watermelon whole and we pee our pants
every
time we sneeze.
When the big moment arrives, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions
will
invariably burst right in the middle of the mall and we'll waddle
with
our
big cartoon feet moaning in pain all the way to the ER.
Then it's huff and puff and beg to die while the OB says, "Please
stop
screaming, Mrs. HearMeRoar. Calm down and push. Just one more (or
10)
good
push," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the
bastard
(and
hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling,
mushroom-headed
10lb bowling ball through a keyhole.
After that, it's time to raise those angels only to find that when
all
that
"cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into walking,
jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop
machines.
The teen years. Need I say more? The kids are almost grown now and
we
women
hit our voracious sexual prime in our mid-30's to early 40's while
hubby
had
his somewhere around his 18th birthday (which just happens to be the
reason
all that early hot man sex got you pregnant in the first place).
Now we hit the grand finale: "The Menopause," the grandmother of all
womanhood. It's either take the 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
ithout soaking their socks...
Now I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make the Great Ghandi
a
tad
crabby. Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.
_________________
I am the Spam Queen...
OOO Pleeease... Like you were the first person in this place to have him... we've passed him around like a Joint at a frat party! - Dr. EvilCheeze |
*starts humming Cry Me a River*
