Thought I would share 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 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 %*#!* (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!

Oh I LOVE this one....printed off for hubby :D :D :D

Love it, always wanted to be a boy when I was around 12 as they got a better deal

:-D  I don't care, I LOVE being a female!! :-)

Wouldn't do anything about it, and definitely fancy men, but given the choice I would have preferred to be a man.

Thank you

I really liked this one

Sent it to everyone I know
Maya

Glad you like it.  Made me laugh :-)

I can definately relate to the Pee'ing on your socks and the watermelon bits!!!!
I have to say the SX bit got better after the initial nightmare....now I can sleep through anything!!!
I love it..sent to all my friends and they love it too.
Aileen.

LOL that was a good one So true so true

When I saw the word crabby I remembered a poem from work.

Crabby Old Woman .............

What do you see, nurses?
What do you see?
What are you thinking
When you're looking at me?

A crabby old woman,
Not very wise,
Uncertain of habit,
With faraway eyes?

Who dribbles her food
And makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice,
"I do wish you'd try!"

Who seems not to notice
The things that you do,
And forever is losing
A stocking or shoe?

Who, resisting or not,
Lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding,
The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse,
You're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am
As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding,
As I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten
With a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters,
Who love one another.

A young girl of sixteen
With wings on her feet
Dreaming that soon now
A lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty,
My heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows
That I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now,
I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide
And a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty,
My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other
With ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons
Have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me
To see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more,
Babies play round my knee,
Again we know children,
My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me,
My husband is dead,
I look at the future,
I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing
Young of their own,
And I think of the years
And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old woman
And nature is cruel;
'Tis jest to make old age
Look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles,
Grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone
Where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass
A young girl still dwells,
And now and again,
My battered heart swells.

I remember the joys,
I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living
Life over again.

I think of the years
All too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact
That nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people,
Open and see,
Not a crabby old woman;
Look closer . . . see ME!!

Sad really but so true, just thought I would share the poem with you.

I thought that lovely, sad, true, bought a tear to the eye. Something for anyone who lives with/looks after the elderly to read and think on.........one day it will be you.