The Female of the Species

 

Hubby mentioned the other night that he’d told the guys at work he wanted to work on a male-only project. “A war movie, or a war series,” he said.

 

I feel for my husband, I really do. The only other male in our house is our (neutered) cat, so there’s not a whole lot of testosterone flowing. What Hubby really needs is a man-cave, a place where he can do whatever guys do to feel manly – blow things up on PlayStation, watch action movies, whatever.

 

Like all men, everywhere, throughout time, Hubby does not understand women. I told him, as gently as I could, that for at least two weeks of every month, a woman has absolutely no control over her emotions. “Hormones,” I said, “are horrible things.” Hubby didn’t think that was a real excuse, which led to the following conversation:

 

Me: Just imagine, every month, the inside of one of your organs peeling away from itself. Then your body needs to get rid of what has just been peeled away. That’s what happens to my uterus.

Hubby: I don’t have a uterus.

Me: Exactly!

 

He didn’t understand. “Your uterus isn’t, uh, peeling away from itself right now, is it?” he asked, perhaps anticipating a hormonal-induced meltdown ahead. I shook my head, but made a mental note to mark my cycle on the wall calendar so Hubby knows when to stock up on Myprodol and chocolate – and when to keep a low profile.

 

We all know how it ended when Carrie got her period.

We all know how it ended when Carrie got her period.

 

I don’t have the heart to tell him that one day, when the girls reach puberty, there is a very strong chance our cycles will be in sync – which means three times the drama. Perhaps I’ll break it to him slowly, with gentle hints over the years to prepare him. Because if there’s one thing worse than a pre-menstrual woman, it’s a pre-menstrual teenager.

 

Fun times ahead, that’s for sure.

 

Advertisements

2 Comments

  1. Hahaha! Thanks for the link. My results were:
    Your uterus is a dark storm cloud and once a month it RAINS BLOOD out of your vagina for days on end. You, my friend, are very fucking metal.

    I’m still laughing (but quietly, because I don’t want to wake the baby.)

Talk to me. Seriously. You have no idea how badly I'm craving adult conversation.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s