Can You Love a Know-it-all?

 

Can you love a smarty-pants? It can be hard sometimes. Especially with those people who will fight rather than admit to a mistake.

It helps, though, if you know why they might choose to get bloodied and battered before conceding a point or admitting they're wrong. The reason might be legion.

Maybe they grew up in a household of brainiacs who loved a good debate.

Maybe they struggled in school with a reading disability and are hyper-sensitive to others doubting their intelligence.

Maybe they had a controlling mother who never let them make their own decisions and questioned their every move.

Maybe as children, their intelligence and input into the family dynamics were discredited and they now have a need to let people know how smart they are.

Maybe their background included all of those things. And more. It's hard to say. But when in engaging with a know-it-all, it's really important to keep a sense of humor.

My husband is a smarty-pants. Two of my favorite characters are based on him. In fact, one of his observations became the basis of my novel, Witch Choices, originally published as Witch Ways, my Kindle Scout winning novel, published by Kindle Press.

One evening, we were discussing teenager girls and their sometimes baffling behavior. My husband said, "Well, you know teenage girls are biologically designed to fight for the attention of males." It was such a funny thing to say and pronounced it with such conviction, I knew I had to use it in a book.

READ HERE

Here's an excerpt from Chapter One of Witch Choices.

“Teenage girls are genetically wired to be unkind to each other.” Uncle Mitch adjusted his glasses and met the hostile gaze of Dr. Roberts, making me proud. Uncle Mitch rarely met anyone’s gaze head-on, not even his students at Yale. “It’s in their DNA. They have to compete for mates.”

“But they do not have to burn down the science room.” Dr. Roberts tapped his pencil on the pile of papers on the desk in front of him and fixed me with his cold stare. He had an uncanny resemblance to mannequins: plastic-looking hair, too-perfect teeth, and flawless skin.

I've had several people tell me how much they love Uncle Mitch.

Ron, in my novella, The Christmas Swindle, is another character patterned after my husband. Also, I've had reader tell me they fell in love with Ron. One reader told me, "Everyone should have a Ron in their  life." 

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I agree. Here's a snippet of Ron, in all his glory.

Mom strode across the room and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, darling, but I have to go.”

The last word registered. “Go?” Ron removed his earbuds to stare at Mom. She wore a pink pantsuit and carried a white leather bag. She’d parked a pair of suitcases in the entry. “This is sudden.” She hadn’t mentioned travel plans since his arrival last week.

“Yes,” she said. “You don’t mind taking care of Princess, do you?”

Ron and Princess exchanged glances. The standard poodle curled her lip. Ron stared at the dog with distaste. “What? You mean feed her?” Princess lived on a diet of smelly canned food. Just looking at it made his stomach churn. Listening to the dog wolf down her food was the worst thing about staying at his mom’s house.

Mom ruffled Princess’s ears. “And walk her and make sure you’re here when the groomer comes.”

He’d have to pick up her poop? Not going to happen. “How long are you going to be gone?” If it was more than a day or two, Princess was definitely going to a pet hotel.

Mom shot Lois a glance. “I can’t say.”

“Where are you going?” Ron asked.

“Belize.”

“Belize? This time of year?” It would be sweltering in mid-August, and Mom hated breaking a sweat. That was why she played golf and not tennis.

“London,” Lois chirped.

Thanks to an ample number of yoga sessions and plastic surgeries, both Lois and Mom looked closer to his age than their own. Their Botox cheeks and fat bee-stung lips made him twitchy and uncomfortable.

“Which is it? Belize or London?” Ron pulled away from his computer to study the trio before him. Two of them were lying. “Why can’t you take Princess with you?”

Lois tapped her size-six shoe on the floor and glared at Ron.

Mom dropped a kiss on his cheek and patted his shoulder. “You two will be just fine.” She breezed for the door and picked up her bags, leaving a waft of nose-tickling perfume in her wake. “Don’t try to call, I may be out of service for a while.”

The front door opened and slammed. Moments later, someone started a car engine.

“That was unusual,” Ron told Princess.

The poodle stalked across the room and flopped onto her bed without looking at him. If he were to get a dog of his own, he’d choose an easygoing Golden Retriever or a well-trained Labrador. Poodles, especially ones trimmed in what Mom called the Lion Cut, were too fussy. Mom spent much more on grooming Princess than Ron did on himself. Which wasn’t too surprising. In Boston, Ron had been going to Marv at the barbershop specializing in military cuts for years. With a pang, he realized that since he was relocating to Southern California, he’d have to find another barber.

He hated change.

So, can you love a smarty-pants? Those annoying people who think they know everything and are right about 98% of the time?

I can and do.