Some people have perfect pitch. Some have a photographic memory, or the ability to solve complex equations in their heads. My one savant-like talent is, believe it or not, proofreading. Imagine Rain Man instantly counting errors in spelling, grammar, or punctuation, instead of matchsticks: that is I. I have not yet been able to find a way to spin this talent into gold. I once thought of a career as an editor, but then I was offered an entry-level position and discovered that, adjusted for the relative cost of living in the US vs. Tunisia, I would be better off sticking with my salary as a Peace Corps volunteer than editing medical textbooks. Thus, I retain my amateur status, but my skills are still fearsome to behold.

It’s almost like a sixth sense, a linguistic superpower that I can’t turn off. I open a menu and see, before I’ve even read the specials, that “beurre blanc” is spelled incorrectly. Husband complains that when I sing along with the radio, I amend the case of all nominative pronouns used incorrectly in the objective case, and vice versa (“till the stars fall from the sky…for you and me”). I obtain my son’s birth certificate and am compelled to start a war with the future mayor over the lack of punctuation. And it pains me, actually physically pains me, to attend a concert (as I did last night) and hear the audience applauding two female soloists with shouts of “Bravo!”

This is not to suggest that I am, myself, infallible in these areas. Even Safire nods, after all, and thanks to the speed and inattention with which I blog, plus laziness engendered by the Autocorrect feature in Word, I nod quite a bit myself. Nor do I mean to suggest that I go around correcting anyone’s spoken grammar, a practice I abhor. But spellos, typos, grammos in formal writing — I can’t not notice them.

Given that, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the unintended irony in this gift, especially when I tell you that we spell Aitch’s name in the traditional way. There it stands in my living room, a daily reproach to my literary sensibilities (or, as Husband calls them, “pretensions”):

This lovely rocking chair was given to Aitch by two of my sisters-in-law, wonderful, generous people whose giving spirit I’ve praised before. Absolutely wonderful people; a bit weak in spelling, though.

I could call Pottery Barn, I suppose, and ship it back for repainting. Or if PB won’t exchange it, I could just purchase a new one with the correct name and hide the original. The thing is, though, I really like my sisters-in-law, and when I look at that extra “E” it is a better remembrance of them than a flawless rocker would have been. So I’m keeping it.

Maybe we could name the next kid “Henery”?