(Photo description: The human Y chromosome (the stumpy one on the left) holds the code for “maleness;” the mighty X on the right holds the code for “femaleness.”)

Basic biology has it that girls are girls because they have two X chromosomes— those thingies inside cells that carry our genes. Boys are boys because they have one X and one Y.

Y might look puny next to X, but as Mark Twain once said: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

Speaking from experience, I can’t live with Y. And I can’t live without Y.

When my husband does something stupid I always ask myself, why ? And then I answer my own question with: Blame it on the Y chromosome— the essence of masculinity.

As I have mentioned in past blog posts, pretty much everyone in my family has the same thing to say about The Teri Tome: PLEASE DON’T WRITE ABOUT ME. I feel like Taylor Swift, sans the long legs, beautiful hair, perfect teeth, wrinkleless lips, and her gazillions of dollars.

So I’m going to attempt to write this Y Chromosome blog without implicating anyone in particular. Except that me is me.

Me [Getting ready for a wedding]: Does this dress make me look fat?

Him: I like a little meat on your bones.

Me: Are you kidding me? That’s really offensive.

Him: You asked.

Me: Just say no.

Him: No.

Me: Thanks for nothing.

Him: Can I throw something else out there?

Me: Really? You haven’t said enough?

Him: I don’t like you in red.

Me: Too late now. You’re stuck with red meat on the bone.

Him: Now you’re going to be mad at me?

Me: You think I look fat. Why wouldn’t I be mad at you?

Him: You don’t look fat. You look healthy.

Me: Stop talking.

Him [Driving to the wedding]: Now you’re going to give me the silent treatment?

Me: I have nothing to say.

Him: Next time you ask me the fat question, I’m going to reframe it and throw it right back at you.  

Me: Fine. (To all you Y’s out there: When a woman says fine you need to shut up because she’s not happy.)

Him [Stopping on the steps to the wedding and staring into my face]: Listen, you look beautiful. My bad. Let’s kiss and make up.

Me: Not to worry. (What I really wanted to say was: Not to worry butt face, you’ll pay for your stupid mistake later.)

Now we are meeting and greeting people, and air kissing and hugging, and all I’m thinking about is the meat on my bones. Plus, does red accentuate my stuff?

After the ceremony, I rushed to the ladies room to check out my fat red self.  As I thoroughly inspected myself in the mirror—I GASPED!!!!!

There it was—a near dead gnat stuck in a goop of gloss on my right upper lip.

HE WAS GOING TO BE SO BUSTED.

Me [Trying to stay calm with the gnat still affixed to my lip, while pointing at it]: Did you not notice this ginormous gnat on my face while you were begging to make up?   

Him: It’s not that ginormous.

Me [Wiping said gnat off my lip with his suit pocket handkerchief while saying nothing]: (Saying nothing is something and means everything, and Y’s should worry when this happens.)

Him: So now you’re mad at me because a gnat drowned in your lipstick?

Me: Lip gloss. And I spoke to a thousand people like that.  

Him: You spoke to about twenty people.

Me: Whatever. (My way of saying screw you.)

Him: Let’s go eat.