Living with Madame Red is a humbling experience.

For example, we’ll be listening to a song on the radio and she’ll be able to say after about two tenths of a second who sings it, who wrote it, who produced it, what year it was released, what she was doing the very first time she heard it and, if you insist, even add a bit of juicy info about the artist.

Or we’ll be having a quiet morning reading the paper and while I’ll be frantically trying to find out about Steven Gerrard’s hamstring injury, she’ll suddenly jump out of the couch, scandalized, outraged by the coverage of the conflict in Darfur or in Palestine.

Or we’ll make our picks on Facebook for the Champions’league and she’ll do amazingly well, like she knows from I don’t know where that Panatinaikos can never beat Besiktas at home.

Or I’ll be online playing Tactical Assassin and she’ll be online on the other laptop making a list of all the cultural events in Los Angeles that we cannot miss.

Or she’ll be taking an exam that is so hard that only a handful of people in the world will pass it. And she’ll be one of them of course.

Well, thank God I’m pretty because I was getting worried for a minute there.