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.



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she's been a little cranky lately
