BOY, AIN'T THIS THE TRUTH!!!!!





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 to mid 40's (if we're lucky) - 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


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.