Smarter than she looks

Judybat can talk all she want about the books I own and the stuff I know, but here's the truth of the matter: She's smarter than I am, and she's much better in a crisis. Maybe she doesn't know as much as I do, but the relative weight of the information stored in her head is much, much heftier than what's in mine. It's a question of practical versus impractical. For instance . . .

PRACTICAL: How to wash the diapers so they stop smelling like poop. (The trick, apparently, is hot water. Who knew? Not me.)
IMPRACTICAL: There were more than 50,000 casualties at the Battle of Gettysburg. (Wonderful dinnertime conversation. How did I ever get a woman?)

PRACTICAL: How to cook food that is actually edible. (Useful, impressive, sexy.)
IMPRACTICAL: Dean Smith was born in Emporia, Kansas. (Useful only in limited settings. Not impressive. Certainly, love him though I do, NOT sexy.)

PRACTICAL: How to drive a manual transmission. (Go anywhere. Borrow anyone's car.)
IMPRACTICAL: Centuries ago, in Ireland, women were only allowed to propose marriage to men in leap years. (Sexist bastards.)

It would be one thing if all those books in our happy little nook made me a more interesting, well-rounded person. Instead, they make me even more awkward and off-putting. Sometimes I feel like I have a form of conversational Tourette's:

Random person: "Hi Annaray, how are you?"
Annaray: "I find bugs fascinating. And let me tell you about the Battle of Vicksburg!"

I'll be back in my nook now, hiding.