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WOMANHOOD |
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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.
Send this to seven bright women you know and make their
day!!! Or at least make them laugh a little.....
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