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So right Sister

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:crazy: 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 Hear-me-roar. Calm down and push. Just one more

good push (or 100)," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch

the doctor (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



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



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.








SW 187.5/CW 145/GW 137


Wk 2 -2.6

Wk 3 -2

Wk 4 - .2

Wk 5 -2

Wk 6 -1

Wk 7 +1.8

Wk 8 -1

Wk 9 -1

Wk 10 +.6

Week 11 -.6

Week 12 -1

Week 13 Missed Meeting

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The freaky thing, and I know I am venturing where few men have ever been, with all of that and you will still on average live longer than us.


Son of a son of a sailor

Yes, I am a Pirate-J. Buffett


"Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never-in nothing, great or small, large or petty-never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense." Winston Churchill


When wine, women and song are too much-quit singing!

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