My husband is an intelligent man. He once put together a set of 8 different sized washing baskets in such a way that the result was a perfect rectangle.
He is a successful farmer and knows stuff like when to put the rams with the ewes and how to cut the balls off lambs so that they don’t reproduce.( not so sure about my facts here. ) Also how to classify wool with his fingers so that it sells at the market and our family can eat. And wear clothes.
He even has quite impressive insight and knowledge of PMS. Which is why I married him. (that , and the gorgeous wooden deck attached to the stoep with the most glorious view of the valley where I regularly sit and sip my wine while contemplating life. )
He can not spell.
He denies this of course, but it drives me up the wall. And makes me think of the time his mother had a car accident when he was 6 months old and he flew through the window and ended up hanging from the fence by his scalp. ( you know the story) And his parents did nothing about it. No brain scans. No remedial testing. Nothing.
This is the note he made after getting the info on the preschool we want to send farmerboy to this year :
The teacher’s name is JILL. And the school is called LITTLE STEPS.
See what I mean?
No wonder I sometimes get NO BLOODY WHERE with arguments with this man.
THIS. IS .WHY.