Living with a scientist
I'm married to a brilliant scientist. Life with a scientist has its ups and down. Up--he knows how to convert kilos to pounds and kilometres to miles, in his head. Heck, he even knows what a kilometre is! Down, that means he's smarter than me. Which makes me constantly ask, whuuuuuuuut? If my head was an oak tree, (just follow me on this one, ok?) then my husband is talking at the Empire State Building level--way over my head. Maybe an oak tree is too generous for me. Usually his scientistness is great. The only time it's a problem is when we are cooking. I'm a dash here, pinch here type of gal. Hubby requires a protocol. It's like he can't do anything unless it's specifically spelled out. When my husband asks me how much milk I put in a banana smoothie, I just make up a measurement, uh, just a cup, honey. But that's a good thing. I've had some really bad meals come out of the dash-pinch methodology. So, who's the smart one? The one who follows directions to the T or the one who makes it up? You're right, and I'm more like a dogwood, not oak.