SuperDot69
BTDT
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2001
- Posts
- 338
Why Women Are Cranky!
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 between 11-13 yrs, or
sooner. Along with those budding boobs, we now bloat,
cramp, get the mighty 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
without soaking their socks.
Now I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make
the Great Gandhi a tad crabby. Women are the "weaker
sex."? Yeah right. Bite me.
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 between 11-13 yrs, or
sooner. Along with those budding boobs, we now bloat,
cramp, get the mighty 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
without soaking their socks.
Now I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make
the Great Gandhi a tad crabby. Women are the "weaker
sex."? Yeah right. Bite me.
