"Y" Not Chromosome

“Mom, if you were a girl, would you think I was good-looking?” How does a woman respond to that? Does she say, 1) I AM a girl. Note the long fingernails, 2) You’re ravishing. You look like me, 3) It doesn’t matter what you look like. The only thing that matters is the size of your income, or 4) Go ask your father? This type of question accurately demonstrates the fact that I am up to my nostrils in Y Chromosomes every single stinking day of my life.

Living in an all-male house, my femininity gets lost in the shuffle. It is me vs. them, one against three. So my chances of getting the remote control to the biggest and best TV in the house are slim to none. As a result, I routinely watch programs like World Wrestling Federation matches, MLS games, MLB games, NBA games, NFL games, and ESPN twenty-four hours, seven days a week. I would kill for the opportunity to watch Lifetime Television for Women or actually anything that does not include a ball, a field or court, sweaty men, and an announcer who sounds like he is on crack. I want to pop in my “Steel Magnolias” DVD or choose “The Notebook” on On-Demand without my men making gagging sounds and muttering “Chick Flick” under their breath.

My men don’t have the same housekeeping philosophies that I do, either. I ask them to dust the living room and they flick a pair of dirty sweat socks across the tables. To them, vacuuming the rugs means scuffing their feet across highly-traveled areas to raise the nap. Wiping down the bathroom vanity is done with a clean washcloth, which is then hung in the shower so that I may use it to wash my face later that same day. Cleaning bedrooms consist of shoving all clothes, clean or dirty, in the closet, nudging under the TV cabinet with one’s foot the video games and DVDs that are strewn across the carpet, and tossing the bedspread over the bed, which is covered with clothes that didn’t make the closet. For a year I thought that Donnie slept with two pillows until I changed his sheets and discovered buried under his one pillow a college sweatshirt, several pairs of clean boxers and socks, and a Fat Tuesdays tee shirt from Cancun.

Some of my best, most meaningful chats with my family have been through the closed bathroom door. I like to relax in a hot tub at night before I go to bed. It is my quiet time to unwind and read and relax. Lately, the second I lie back in the water and open my book, IT begins. They’re knocking on the door, asking me where their “Viva La Bam Season One” DVD is. Or where their black soccer socks are. Or what there is to eat. (I’m good, I grant you that, but I do not have X-Ray vision which would enable me to see through walls into the fridge.) I am being asked advice on everything from how much money they should bring to Canada for a four-day trip with their friends, to how to iron a tee shirt that has a big silk-screened mountain on the front. My husband asks me what we are doing three weeks from this Friday because his aunt would like to meet us for dinner. So much for the spa-like relaxation I so desperately need.

There are rare occasions that all four of us go out together, to the same place, in the same car. On these occasions, I try to allow myself ample time to get ready so that the guys are not pacing up and down the hall waiting for me. If we need to leave the house by, say, 6:30, I begin getting ready at 5:00. It takes me 30 minutes tops to shower, do my hair, get dressed, put on makeup, so I figure I have a good cushion of time. For some reason, regardless of when I begin preparations, I am always the last one ready to go! My husband will jump in the shower at 6:25 and be ready before me.

What happens as a result is that I have an audience while I try to slap makeup on quickly. They are fascinated by this process. They stare intently as if I am Michelangelo putting the finishing touches on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. My husband, watching me apply foundation with a sponge, remarks casually that it reminds him of spackling a wall. From these educated critics, I get helpful comments like, “Are eyelids supposed to be wrinkly like that?” or “Put more of that beige stuff on. You look tense.”

It’s difficult not having another woman’s opinion on clothes. Unsure of purchases at times, I bring them home and model them for the guys. The opinions range from, “Is it supposed to look like that?” (from my sons) to “My grandmother had a dress like that” (from my husband). In desperation, I ask my mother’s opinion. I get, “Oh, isn’t that darling? Now if we let down the hem, take off the sleeves, cut all that busy lace off, and dye it black, won’t it be perfect for you?” or “You know, I think your grandmother had a dress like that.”

Being the only female in a houseful of men has its rewards too. They are affectionate, doting, and sweet most days, and they can reach things on the top shelf in my cabinets.