Natural GPS vs TMI

When my beloved spouse and I first traveled together on our honeymoon, he quickly surmised that I was not a map reader. North, south, east west, I couldn’t give directions that way at that point. My directions were more like, “We turn left on Such and Such street.”

“When is such and such street?”

“It’s after this and that street and I think it’s on your left. You can’t miss it.”

“North or East?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are we on the map?”

I’d be silent for a moment, trying to ensure accuracy, but this would rattle him as he felt my lack of instant response indicated I didn’t know where we were. He’d reach over and amazingly touch the exact spot where we were on the map without taking his eyes off the road.

“If you knew where we were, why did you ask?”

“I’m verifying. You’re the navigator.” At that point, I volunteered to drive.

Since then, I have gotten better, but he’s also stopped asking me to read the maps.

For the record, he’s never been lost. I cannot say the same thing, even within the friendly confines of this county where I have lived the past 13 years. I cannot even say it is true for the past four months, but I blame pregnancy, not my innate navigational compass which seems permanently wired to “guess wrong.”

My husband’s natural GPS has been passed down to our posterity. Some of our children can always tell when I’ve made a wrong turn and will ask suspiciously, “Mom? Where are we going?” I’ve tried dodging that question, ”Don’t worry, I know where we are…” but they don’t buy it anymore. They know, if I suddenly stop at a gas station for a “Diet Coke” and fuel, that really, I’m getting directions.

Sometimes, they’ve even checked the gas gage to see if we “really” needed gasoline. Whenever they’ve seen a discrepancy between perceived need and actual stopping, Dad gets a full report. “I think Mommy got lost over near Quince Orchard when we were coming back from the Orthodontist.”

Now I believe in plausible deniability. It’s good for marriage. It’s good for the ego. It’s good for the children to not be able to entirely embarrass their mother.

My husband will give a raised eyebrow and look, but he too has mellowed over the years. Knowing that knowing too much might mean I ask him to do the scheduled errands out to softball practice and the orthodontist, he doesn't ask even when they tell. And since he doesn’t know where the practice field is, or which dentist takes care of our daughter’s braces, he’d have to put up with my directions.

“It’s on such and such street just past this and that. You can’t miss it.”

Communication and non communication, it's what makes a marriage work.

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Something So Very Y

It's that little something we girls don't have.

For such a small chromosome, it carries a lot of information. There's the usual stuff like testosterone and all the equipment that is required for maleness, and then there's the hardwiring that makes guys feel uncomfortable with pastel colors, arty films and light dinners that are salad and soup. These unspoken extras that come with the transfer of a Y chromosome from Man to conceived man, are part of a world that we as women, lacking that essential "Y"ness, can't quite grasp.

This otherness is best explained by example. The Y ensures that men eschew the mall, buy things in bulk like three 20 quart bottles of Ragu packaged together and can listen to sports other than baseball on the radio without the assistance of chemical stimulants.

Y also carries with it, the secrets of the humor of the three stooges, successful war strategies for games online, and how to watch movies about people on submarines with enthusiasm. People with Y chromosomes bought Iron Man comic books before the movie was even considered.

Lest anyone think I'm stereotyping, I have been told, by those in the Y club, that I'd make a pretty good candidate if I weren't a girl. I'm more comfortable at a football stadium than an art museum and have been apparently, though I'm not admitting anything, witnessed to accidentally nod off at a symphony but never a ball game.

Still, the Y chromosome carries with it unknown elements. Free radical personality traits that latch onto perfectly reasonable males and thus render individuals incomprehensible to those lacking this essential bit of DNA sequencing with Yness before maturation, perhaps the most confusing of all.

A young Y owning human can wear the same shirt to bed he wore for the day and then come down saying "I'm dressed." still wearing the same wardrobe. A young Y can come home with a bad grade and five minutes after snack ask, "Can I go see a movie tonight? It's the opening for the latest...insert summer blockbuster Y movie here of your choice" A young Y is puzzled that bacon is not served daily, or that women folk get irritated when the carton of orange juice is put back in the refrigerator with a measurable two teaspoons left. "I put the juice away Mom." they volunteer helpfully.

Still, we love these genetically different creatures of the same genotype. They remove mice and mow the lawns and even hall screaming toddlers off to bed. They offer to grill food and have been known to organize games of Capture the flag and sometimes the sub movies are watchable. I go upstairs to turn off the stereo of my oldest Y offspring. It is blaring James Bond instrumentals for the Trombone. Walking in, I see his sleeping form and smile. Turning off the stereo, I spot a large three gallon bottle of Deer Park in the middle of the floor.

I shouldn't be surprised. This has happened before. We have had discussions about leaving large vats of H20 in the middle of the room when he has his own private bathroom with a working sink just five feet away.

"Y son? Y?" is all I can think.