Chick Wit

• Classic Column: Tryhard November 9, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Mother Mary knew the secret to great parenting.

  Don’t try too hard.

  And I mean that in the best way.

  The thing that both of my parents gave us in abundance was love.

  That came naturally to them. 

  They didn’t have to try very hard at all.

  My brother Frank and I were adored, unconditionally.

  They thought everything we did was great.

  It was the only thing they agreed on, until they divorced.

  Their love for us was all out of proportion with any reality.  For example, I remember getting ready with my brother to go with my father to the World’s Fair in New York City.

  Yes, that would be in 1964.

  Welcome to The History Channel, or in other words, my life.

  I was born in 1955, so I was nine years old at the time.

  Believe it or not, I just had get a pencil and paper to do the math, including carrying-the-one, which shows my great affection for you.

  I remember telling my mother that I was excited about seeing New York.

  And I remember distinctly what she said to me, which was, “Honey, New York is excited to be seeing you.”

  Wow.

  That’s love.

  Or maybe delusional behavior.

  But either way, I grew up feeling pretty great about myself.  

  And not because I got good grades in school or for any other reason, except the fact that I breathed in and out.

  My father was the same way.

  I remember that after I had become an author he would come to my signings, and someone said to him, “you must be very proud of your daughter” and he said, “Lady, I was proud of her the day she came out of the egg.”

  I’ve told that story before, I tell it all the time, because I think I have the same attitude, and think it’s one of the reasons that Francesca and I are so close.

  I just adored her, the moment she came out of the egg.

  I still do.

  And I said all the dumb things to her that my mother said to me, like “don’t study so much” and “it doesn’t matter whether you get A’s, just so you’re happy” and “stop reading so much, it will ruin your eyes.”

  And paradoxically, Francesca turned out to be a wonderful student and accomplish great things, despite me telling her that she didn’t need to bother.

  And I can’t say I caused that, or even that it planned it, only that when I think back to my childhood, I realize that there was absolutely no trying going on in my household, at all.

  We just were.

  And that applied to little things as well, like Halloween costumes.

  Nowadays, Halloween costumes have been raised to an art form and there are parades in my town, where they give out a variety of prizes for the most original costume and such.  All of the costumes are homemade, and I can see how hard the parents and kids tried to make a wonderful costume.

  But we Scottolines never tried that hard.

  For Halloween’s when I was growing up, my mother went to Woolworth’s and bought a costume in a box.  It had a plastic mask that was stiff and attached to your face with a cheap piece of elastic that would undoubtedly break by the end of the evening.

  Which was fine because the mask was too hot to wear anyway.

  You could’ve welded in my Halloween mask.

  I remember being Cleopatra five years in a row, and thinking back on it now, I realize I wore the same costume.  

  I mean the same exact costume, which my mother must have re-boxed after Halloween and put away, only to present to me the next October.

  “Cleopatra!” I would say with delight, each time.  

  Because for me, Halloween was when you got to be Cleopatra.

  No one ever suggested you could actually change costumes, and I couldn’t imagine why you would want to.

  If you could be Cleopatra, why would you be anybody else?

  I had diva tendencies even then.

  Which Mother Mary evidently encouraged, being something of a diva herself, even though she was only 4 foot 11 inches.

  Size really does not matter, people.

  The costume was a sheath of turquoise polyester with pseudo-Egyptian hieroglyphics on the front, and the mask was authentically Cleopatran because it had triangle hair on either side of the face, a snake for a headband, and really bad eyeliner.

  And I remember loving Halloween, with my father taking us from house to house, me swanning around in my Cleopatra dress and my brother in his pirate headscarf with a fake-silky blouse.

  He was a pirate for five years in a row, too.

  That was before we knew he was gay.

  But he did look damn good in that blouse.

  We’d carry paper bags to collect the candy and orange cartons to collect pennies for UNICEF, though we had no idea what that meant, only that it was a good thing to do and made a lot of noise when you shook the container.

  All my memories of Halloween, like most of my childhood, are happy, filled with polyester, preservatives, and sugar.

  We were happy because we loved each other and it showed.

  My parents told us so, and hugged us, and kissed us.

  When we fell and skinned a knee, it was a tragedy.

  No injuries were ever walked off in the Scottoline household.

  They were fussed over, worried about, and cured with food.

  No failures or setbacks were ever shrugged off and anytime we were rejected by anybody or anything, fists were shaken.

  “It’s their loss,” my father would always say.

  And my mother would curse. 

  One time, in my lawyer days, she wanted to go to my law firm to yell at one of the partners for working me too hard.

  I stopped her, saving the day.

  For them.

  Because an entire law firm was no match for my mother.

  Now, that’s love.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Homey for the Holidays November 2, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  The holidays are coming.

  Do you feel happiness?  Or pressure?

  If the latter, you’ve come to the right place.

  Because Mother Mary has the cure.

  Let me explain.

  The horror begins at Halloween.

  And not the fun kind of horror, which involves kids in costumes and fun-size Snickers bars, but the kind that tells you you have to go apple-picking, then come home and make an apple pie, but you’re not allowed to eat it because it’s too fattening.

  Or the kind that tells you you have to visit a pumpkin patch, pick a pumpkin, then come home and carve it, then bake the seeds into snack that nobody wants.

  Mind you, I’m not putting any of these things down.

  I go by the motto, Don’t Yuck My Yum.

  The Internet definition of the term is, don’t hate on things that people love.

  And I totally agree with that.

  So if you want to go crazy on Halloween, decorate your house, wear funny costumes, and even throw a party, go for it.

  But I was in the mall yesterday, and everywhere I turned were signs for the holidays, and all of the signs were pushing one thing, but it wasn’t love, peace, or understanding.

  It was perfection.

  One sign said, MAKE YOUR HOME PERFECT FOR HOLIDAY ENTERTAINING!

  And another one promoted gifts that were “absolutely perfect for the holidays.”

  I even saw a display for candles that smelled “holiday-perfect.”

  That’s not even good grammar.

  Evidently, your house not only has to be perfect, it has to smell perfect.

  My house smells perfectly like dogs.

  Is that perfect enough?

  I want to talk to the people who feel the pressure for holiday perfection, beginning about now.

  Because you don’t have to be perfect.

  Instead, you can enjoy the holidays in a manner that doesn’t involve a glue gun.

  Again, I know lots of people who like to decorate their house for the holidays, and they should enjoy themselves.  But if you don’t enjoy that, you shouldn’t feel pressure to decorate.  And the last thing you need to worry about at the holidays is perfection.

  I’m here to tell you it’s okay to be lazy.

  Put your feet up.

  Make eggnog and drink it all yourself.

  Or better yet, buy eggnog and drink it all yourself.

  Because it comes down to the question of what you think is perfect in a home, and Mother Mary taught me that your home is already perfect.

  That is, if you’re in it, and so are the people you love.

  If there are people you hate in your home, you should divorce them.

  To return to point, Mother Mary did not do anything for the holidays except start cooking.  She loved to cook, and we loved to eat, so it worked out perfectly.

  She didn’t decorate for the holidays in any way.

  We got a Christmas tree only the night before, and you would have liked our tree, if you really like tinsel.

  Our tree was covered with tinsel.

  You would think Reynolds Wrap came over and threw up.

  And I remember the tinsel was super heavy, probably because it contained lead.

  And maybe even asbestos.

  I saw an ad for holiday candles, and it said: “Nothing is quite as cozy as a candle-lit abode, and the decadent aromas of the winter season should be embraced in your favorite spaces.”

  I’m so confused by this, I don’t know where to start.

  I love candles as much is the next girl, but who has a candle-lit abode?

  And what if your “favorite space” isn’t your candle-lit abode, but the crook of Bradley Cooper’s neck?

  It could happen, people.

  And as for decadent smells, don’t get me started.

  I remember with great nostalgia, the decadent smells of the holidays in our house, when I was growing up.

  The aroma of ravioli was in the air, and also the smoke of More 100 cigarettes, courtesy of Mother Mary.

  Bottom line, Christmas at the Flying Scottolines may have been carcinogenic.

  But there was love, and carbohydrates.

  And that was enough, and everything.

  Happy Holidays!

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2019

• Report Card October 26, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I used to get good grades.

  Until now.

  Because I just got a notice from my electric company, which, in the Philadelphia area, is PECO.

  I’m pretty sure PECO stands for Pricey Electric Company.

  I say this because PECO just sent me a notice that says, How You Compare to Your Neighbors.

  First off, stop there.

  I try not to compare myself to my neighbors.

  Keeping up with the Joneses is never a good idea.

  Somebody smart once said, Comparison is the thief of joy.

  So I try not to notice when my neighbors throw big parties that I’m not invited to, or their front lawns look greener, or their husbands are very handsome and also they have one.

  But here comes PECO, giving me bad news.

  I’m doing terrible compared with my neighbors.

  Specifically, with regard to electrical use.

  Let me explain.

  According to PECO, I have so-called “efficient neighbors” are using 276 kWh.

  Let’s pretend we know what kWh is.

  Kilowatt Hours?

  Pulled that right out of my ass.

  Didn’t even have to Google it.

  Because that would use electricity.

  Pretty good for somebody who sucks, according to their Efficient Neighbors.

  And it turns out that my “average neighbors” are using 574 kWh.

  Okay, so far, so good. I’m anything but average.

  I’m adorable.

  But according to PECO, I am using the most of all, 1034 kWh.

  Wait, what, how?

  In other words, as the notice told me, Your Energy Use Was Higher Than Average Neighbors by 80%.

  Ruh-roh.

  I have no idea how this happened.

  I’m one woman and I live in a household by myself.

  I turn off the lights when I leave the room.

  I don’t turn the heat on unless I absolutely need it.

  I don’t turn on air conditioning unless somebody makes me.

  Usually I have the TV on and a single computer.

  Before I go to the movies on a Saturday night, I blow-dry my hair.

  I even unplug the blow dryer when I’m done because I know that uses something called phantom electricity.

  Bottom line, I live like a nun.

  But somehow, I am still using 80% more electricity than my high-achieving neighbors.

  Where did I go wrong?

  What are they doing that I’m not?

  Is it because they have husbands?

  None of this makes sense to me, but the notice even went on to grade Your Electricity Use at a Glance. The grades were:

  Great, Good, or Fair.

  Guess what, I got a fair.

  Even though I studied!

  To me, a Fair is a C.

  And the last C I got was in trigonometry.

  But I think they graded on a curve.

  Because if you’re doing 80% worse than everybody else, that’s not a C.

  It’s an F -.

  So I’m flunking electricity.

  I hope it doesn’t go on my Permanent Record Card.

  I won’t even get into my safety school.

  Except at my age, my safety school is a retirement home.

  But I’ve been an A student my whole life.

  I even got an A in divorce.

  I’m the best divorcer ever.

  Twice even.

  It takes practice.

  The PECO notice ended with, What could have caused your energy use to increase?

  You’re reading my mind, girl.

  It suggested “heavy appliance use.”

  Come on.

  I use my dishwasher once a day.

  And my washer once a week.

  Okay, once every two weeks.

  Okay, once every three weeks.

  But maybe what’s happening is that PECO is charging too much for electricity and they’re trying to make it seem like my fault.

  I’m susceptible to this argument.

  I carry around a lot of guilt.

  This would be the Catholic part.

  Original sin is my origin story.

  Or maybe PECO is gaslighting me.

  Unless that’s up to the gas company.

  Now that’s a report I don’t want to see.

  I bet I have more gas than my neighbors, too.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• Keeping it Real October 19, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I need to get a Real ID.

  And it’s giving me an identity crisis.

  Let me explain.

  I don’t know who made this decision or why, but we can no longer use a driver’s license to fly or do God-knows-what-else.

  By the way, I just looked it up and God-knows-what else includes entering a nuclear power plant.

  So keep that in mind, the next time you stop by your local nuclear power plant.

  Bring your real ID and your last will and testament.

  Leave your ovaries at home.

  To return to point, you can still use a passport to fly, but that worries me because I had my passport pickpocketed in Sicily and it was a pain in the neck to replace.

  On second thought, it wasn’t that bad to replace. I had to make a side trip to Naples and rewarded myself with the best pizza in the world.

  You know the old saying: Just a spoonful of carbohydrates makes the medicine go down.

  For what it’s worth, I understand why it’s not a great idea to link identity to a driver’s license, because not everybody drives or can afford a car.

  But I don’t know why we can’t have an either/or system, so you can fly with a driver’s license or Real ID.

  But lately we’re not a country that deals with nuance.

  We’re all-or-nothing now.

  And lately it looks we’re in a lot of All.

  But I digress.

  So I looked up to see what I need to get a Real ID, and one thing was my Social Security card.

  Ruh-roh.

  I have no idea where that is.

  I seem to remember it was a little piece of white paper even smaller than a credit card, which was its first problem. If it were plastic like a credit card, I would have kept it. I still have credit cards from stores that went bankrupt decades ago.

  If Wanamakers comes back to life, I’m ready.

  That was a joke for Philly people.

  Everyone else will have to insert their own defunct-but-beloved department store.

  By the way, department stores were something that existed before Amazon.

  Try to play along, young people.

  Humor us olds.

  The rules for Real ID say that you can use your tax form for your social security number but my tax form has my number redacted, evidently to protect my identity.

  Great idea, every week I get a notice that my online identity has been compromised by one website or another.

  Hackers have my Social Security card, but I don’t.

  The notices I get all ask me if I want to reset my passwords.

  Answer, no.

  I’m taking my chances.

  There are few things worse than resetting all your passwords.

  Maybe wearing a bra.

  Which resets your breasts.

  But I would rather wear a bra 24/7 than reset my passwords.

  But I did luck out in my document search because by some incredible miracle, I found my original birth certificate.

  Wow!

  I have no idea why I saved it because it’s a piece of paper and not a credit card. But it is supercute, and actually filled out in something called a fountain pen.

  Pens are something that existed before keyboards.

  I know, this is the old-timiest column ever.

  Because I was born seventy years ago, and my birth certificate is a seventy-year-old document.

  Which makes it the oldest document in my house.

  It’s on yellowed paper and measures 5 by 7, which may be why it survived in the bottom drawer of my jewelry box, with Daughter Francesca’s baby teeth.

   Please tell me I’m not the only mother who keeps baby teeth.

  Or has a jewelry box of biohazards.

  Look, if I’m not throwing away a Wanamaker’s card, you know I’m hanging on to those teeth.

  Plus the Tooth Fairy bought them, fair and square.

  I think Francesca got a buck a tooth.

  More for buck teeth.

  Sorry.

  I keep them wrapped in ancient Kleenex with a rubber band, like a do-it-yourself mummy.

  Or Mommy.

  And I have to tell you, when I found my daughter’s baby teeth, it reminded me of who I am.

  Francesca’s mother.

  That’s my Real ID.

  By the way, I also save two dog teeth and several cat toenails.

  So pet mothers count as mommies, too.

  That’s called nuance.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• Mileage October 12, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Well, the weather has turned cold, and I’m back to my old habits.

  I’m sleeping in my clothes.

  I don’t regard this as a bad habit.

  I actually think it’s a good habit.

  Hear me out.

  It’s fall now so that means I’m in a long sleeve T-shirt, a sweater, and sweatpants.

  Francesca calls them my teddybear clothes.

  You cannot imagine how happy I am to be a teddybear.

  I walk around feeling huggable.

  And even hugged.

  Who knew clothes could do such good?

  At night I’m nice and warm in bed, and the next morning when I wake up, I’m ready for the day.

  Obviously, no bras are involved.

  I’m not braless, I’m bra-free.

  If I have to go out for some reason, whether to walk the dogs or ride a pony, I put on a bra then take it off as soon as I get in.

  As we all know, home is where you hang your bra.

  You’re probably wondering how often I change my clothes/pajamas.

  When I feel shame.

  Shame is key to my life.

  Or when I take a shower, which is also shame-based.

  Mainly three days.

  This was a good system until last weekend, because I went to Boston for work and also saw my old friend Sandy, whom I’ve known since tenth grade.

  That makes it a 55-year friendship.

  Do you have any friends for 55 years?

  If you do, you’re very lucky.

  Sandy and I don’t see each other as much as we did in French II. She lives in Vermont and I live in Pennsylvania, so we stay in light touch through text and zooms, but when we see each other, we finish each other sentences.

  Except Sandy is a psychiatrist so she’s a better listener than I am.

  So, you know who gets to finish her sentences.

  When I first saw Sandy, she looked terrific in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans with a leopard print, and matching sneakers.

  When I told her how cute she looked, she told me something remarkable: “I made this whole outfit, even the sneakers.”

  Now, I don’t know what to tell you.

  Sandy and I are a lot alike, but 55 years has changed us.

  She makes sneakers, and I can’t be bothered to make dinner.

  I don’t know how this happened.

  It struck me that having a girlfriend is something of a miracle, especially when you’ve had one for a long time.

  Even if you don’t see them or talk to them, very often, they are a constant throughline in your life. And if you have lived long enough, you know that there are precious few throughlines in life.

  I myself have had two divorces, several different cars, and even more dogs. I’ve changed careers. As an author, I’ve even written different types of novels. My weight has gone up and down. My hair has gone from mousy brown to fictional blonde.

  That is the only thing that will never change on me.

  My fake hair color.

  But a girlfriend like Sandy is a constant, like an operating system on a computer. Like any good support system, she makes things run, but invisibly so. I just know she’s there for me, and I will always be there for her.

  We sat down over lunch and talked about our parents, because I knew her wonderful mother and father the way she knew Mother Mary and my father. We talked about our siblings, our children, and our dogs because she is as big a dog lover as I am.

  And we walked all over Boston, where I did plenty of shopping and she did none, and she taught me what upcycling is, which means making old clothes into new clothes instead of throwing them away.

  I thought that we were upcycling ourselves.

  Sandy is my own personal history on two homemade sneakers, and I am hers, in Hokas.

  And when I spend time with her, I feel it fulfilling my soul, in a way that being with someone who knows you completely and loved you even when you had braces, glasses, and hair that was still its natural color.

  Because that stuff is just superficial, like the clothes we put on and take off.

  And we shared a hotel room, in which she slept in actual pajamas while I slept in the same outfit that I had worn that day.

  She didn’t say anything.

  There’s no judgment in an old friend.

  There’s no shame with an old friend.

  There’s only love.

  And the miles you put on the relationship, no matter what shoes you wear.

  Or make.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025