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 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 whole

watermelon 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 %$#*@*#!* hubby and doctor square in the

nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10 pound 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 his18th 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 pillow cases 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. You think women are the "weaker sex?"

Yeah right. Bite me!!!

Author Unknown

Many thanks to Paul Wood and his Deadwood Entertainment Weekly newsletter  for this 'gem'