Chick Wit

• Column Classic: Just Desserts July 13, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  It can be a problem when your kid comes home to visit.  You’re not used to living together, and even the littlest thing can cause a fuss.

  For Daughter Francesca and me, it was dessert.

  We’re finally on the same page, food-wise, which is a nice way of saying that we’re both trying to lose weight, so we’re eating healthy foods.  She’s home this weekend, so for dinner I made politically-correct pasta.  By which I mean, I sautéed a few tomatoes in olive oil with whole cloves of garlic, and when the mixture got soft, I took it out of the pan and dumped it on top of whole wheat spaghetti.

  By the way, the best thing about this recipe, which I invented, is that it uses garlic without having to chop it up.  I hate it when my fingers smell like garlic, and I don’t buy garlic already chopped, because that’s cheating.  But this way, if you toss whole cloves in the pan, they get mushy, and you can mash them with a fork.  Mashing is more fun than chopping, and doesn’t involve your fingers.

  You pay nothing extra for these culinary tips.

  Go with God.

  And before I tell you about the fight, let me mention also that I’m working on portion control.  I know that’s my main problem.  This should have been a reasonable-calorie dinner, even though it’s pasta, but I always up the ante by getting a second and a third helping.  You might ask, why do you make so much food in the first place, Lisa?  The answer is simple.

  I’m Italian.

  Actually the truth is, I like to make extra of everything, like scrambled eggs, so I can give some to the dogs.  Every morning, I make six eggs, knowing that I’ll eat two and give them the rest.  They wait patiently during my breakfast, knowing that their eggs will come.  It’s all very easy. 

  But I was doing the same thing with whole wheat pasta, making extra for the dogs, until I realized I was using them as my portion control beard.

  I busted myself and stopped.

  To stay on point, I made a delightful spaghetti meal, and Francesca made a side salad.  We had a fun dinner, yapping away and trying not to eat more helpings of pasta, even though it was calling to us from the colander.  When we finished our meal, I wanted dessert.

  This, I can’t help.

  I love to eat dessert right after dinner.  And when I say right, I mean immediately.  Timing is everything.  It doesn’t have to be a lot of something, just a taste.  It’s not my fault, and I figured out why this is so: 

  It’s because dessert sounds so much like deserve.  Also, we say that people get their just desserts, which means they get what they deserve.  So, ipso fatso, I feel as if I deserve dessert.

  Right now.

  But Francesca doesn’t like dessert right after dinner.  She can wait, which I consider a four-letter word. 

  This is a long-standing battle we have, because I like us to eat together, and the conversation usually goes like this:  I ask her, “Want some dessert?”

  She answers, “No, thanks.  We just ate.”

  “But don’t you want something sweet?  I’m having mine now.”

  “No, I’m not hungry for dessert yet.”

  I get cranky.  “When do you think you’ll want dessert?”

  “I don’t know.  Later.”

  “Sooner later or later later?”

  Okay, so usually I don’t eat my dessert then, and we retire to the family room, where we watch TV and work, and I spend the rest of the night asking her, “Is it later yet?”

  Just like she used to ask me, “Are we there yet?”

  Payback, no?

  So last night, I figured I’d solve this problem.  All I wanted was a small helping of vanilla ice cream, with a banana.  And because I wanted it right after dinner, I decided to have it then.  If I had to eat alone, so be it.  Plus, this way I’d have more time to burn off the calories, by reaching for the remote throughout the evening.

  So I had my ice cream and banana. 

  Delicious.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Dressy July 6, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  I’m getting ready to launch THE UNRAVELING OF JULIA on book tour, so I’ll be running Classic Columns for a month.

  Details about my signings are on my website, and I hope you’ll come see me on the road! Thanks so much for the love and support! I’m grateful for each and every one of you!

  

  Guess what I got for my birthday?

  A dress with a bra already sown into it.

  You didn’t know that was a thing?

  Or rather, two things?

  I didn’t either.

  But my bestie Franca did, and not only do I thank her for the dress, but I got this column out of it, which is awesome.

  To explain, I’ve seen tank tops that are for yoga, which have a bra sewn in, and that I understand.  But I’m talking about a flowery cotton shift that was otherwise normal except for two massive foamy cups, sewn into the front of the dress.

  I packed the dress for book tour, not realizing there was a bra inside until I tried it on in the hotel room, then looked at myself in the mirror.

  D’oh.

  The dress fit great except that the foam cups were way bigger than my breasts, which are your basic B.

  For Boobs.

  The cups were like a C or maybe even a D, which is a terrible grade in anything but mammaries.

  I don’t know who wears these bra dresses.

  Strippers who love florals.

  So you get the idea. 

  My cups were half-empty.

  Or half-full, for you optimists.

  Either way, they gave my chest a pair of dimples far lower than they’re supposed to be.

  Plus the pads were higher than my breasts, so I had double-decker nipples, which is not a good look even on dogs.

  Evidently, the world thinks our breasts should be earrings.

  I didn’t get it.  Then I realized that maybe the dress wasn’t for my age group.  It was a size eight, not size sixty-two.

  But I hadn’t packed another dress for the book signing.

  What’s an author to do?

  I took off the dress and examined the seams to see if I could take the pads out, but I couldn’t.  I put the dress back on and tried to figure out what to do with my breasts.  I pushed them up into the cups, but they wouldn’t stay there because there was nothing to hold them up, like elastic or an underwire.

  Or a suspension cable.

  Or a crane.

  Gravity is real, people.

  I took the dress off again, put on a bra, and put the dress back on.  Of course the only bra I had with me was my good bra, since that’s what I save for book tour. 

  Every woman has a good bra.

  You know it’s the good bra because it’s new and cost too much.

  “New” means bought less than five years ago.  If you have mustard older than your bra, your bra is new.

  Also a good bra has lace, because women think men care about lace. 

  When they have boobs in front of their face.

  Guess again.

  Or the good bra is a sexy color, like red.

  For harlots.

  Or black.

  For harlots with class.

  I go with black.

  I have aspirations.

  And my good bra is padded because my breasts want to sell a lot of books. 

  They want to be breast-sellers.

  Sorry. 

  So back to the story, I put my bra and the dress on, which meant I was wearing a padded bra with a padded bra dress. 

  You’re thinking I looked bad?

  On the contrary.

  I looked great!  

  Okay, I had a bad case of boob sweat, but you have to look for the silver lining.

  In the dress lining.

  I would sell tons of books if my audience were composed mostly of men or the blind.

  Because you could be blind and still see my chest, which had turned into The Continental Shelf. 

  I mean, you could use my chest as a bookcase.

  Or a bar, if you want to rest a beer and a bowl of chips.

  I turned to look at myself, and my breasts were so sticking out so far they bumped into the wall.

  Luckily I felt nothing.

  I bounced back.

  It was like wearing a trampoline.

  I feel pretty sure I would be flotation device.

  Or a bulletproof vest.

  In any event, I wore the dress and I sold plenty of books, so my grades improved from D to A+.

  And here is my question:

  Why stop at bras?

  If we’re going to start sewing underwear into dresses, why not sew in a pair of panties, too?

  Then you could just jump in from above and be ready for the day.

  Like Supergirl, with implants. 

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Love Boat June 29, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  I’m getting ready to launch THE UNRAVELING OF JULIA on book tour, so I’ll be running Classic Columns for a month.

  Details about my signings are on my website, and I hope you’ll come see me on the road! Thanks so much for the love and support! I’m grateful for each and every one of you!

  

  It’s everybody’s favorite time of year again.

  My birthday!

  That’s how I feel about my birthday, and that’s how I feel about yours, too.

  I celebrate your birthday in my head, so I hope you’re celebrating mine your head.

  It’s cheaper that way.

  Also we don’t get drunk.

  Well, maybe I do.

  But this birthday felt different to me, in a good way.

  I feel super happy just to be alive.

  Let’s pause a moment.

  I know that sounds kind of Splenda, but it’s really true.  And the fact is, absolutely nothing has changed from last year. 

  In fact that’s exactly what is making me happy.

  It really is a good thing to be grateful sometimes that you’re still living.

  I get constant reminders of this, and I had one just this weekend, with Francesca. We were scheduled to give a speech about our collections of funny stories like these, the newest of which is out this July 11, entitled I NEED A LIFEGUARD EVERYWHERE BUT THE POOL.

  Actually I need a lifeguard at the pool, too.

  But that’s another story.

  Literally.

  Anyway we were supposed to speak at the American Library Association conference in Chicago, and we were both excited because we love librarians.  

  Hug your librarian the next time you see him or her.

  They don’t get enough hugs.

  Nobody does.

  See what I mean?

  Splenda!

  Anyway, when I go on a business trip, I fly out, do my gig, and fly right back.  I don’t do anything other than the gig, because it’s business.

  But Francesca had a different idea.  “Mom, I’ve never been to Chicago,” she said.  “Why don’t we go sightseeing and leave later that night?”

  I rolled my eyes.  Inwardly.

  Don’t roll your eyes outwardly if you’re a mother.

  You’ll get in a lot of trouble.

  But I said yes, and Francesca went online, researching the things you could do in Chicago, which I heard about with an inward eyeroll.

  Because I didn’t think you were supposed to have fun on a business trip.

  And before I knew it, we were in Chicago, we did our gig, talked about our book, and gave a lot of hugs, then we woke up the next day, ready for tourist fun in the sun.  

  What did we do?

  We saw the cool bean statue at Millennium Park.

  Cool beans!

  And we went to the gorgeous Buckingham Fountain, which is next to a body of water they say is a lake but anybody from Philly would call an ocean.

  But the best thing we did was take a boat ride with a billion other tourists down the Chicago River, with a volunteer telling us the architectural history of the skyscrapers.

  Inward eyeroll?

  Same here, but I was wrong.

  It was awesome.

  Because this amazing volunteer knew everything about architecture and gave us almost two hours of her time simply because she loves architecture and her city.

  And because we learned everything about the brilliant architects and engineers who imagined and then built a slew of incredible buildings, each of them a tribute to human ingenuity and hard work.

  And even because people on the bank waved to our boat as we floated by, and Francesca and I waved back, even though we had no idea who they were, or they us.

  In fact, we waved at people on the riverbanks the whole damn boat trip, and people on the riverbanks waved back, and that made Francesca and I tear up, unaccountably.

  Okay, accountably, since we’re Italian-American.

  We cry all the time.

  That’s how you know we’re happy.

  The boat trip was a reminder of the simple truth that we’re all just human beings, floating down some river, waving at each other as we go by.

  And when I thought of the architects, the engineers, the volunteers, and the librarians, I felt awed by all of us, just normal people, filled with so much vision and heart, following whichever endeavor we choose, our passion or our job and sometimes both.  With just ourselves, we build communities, cities, and even countries.

  Like this one.

  And by the end of the day, I remembered I was happy to be alive.  

  You probably already know this lesson, but in my life, I need to teach it to myself from time to time.

  Which is to go slower.

  Enjoy yourself.

  Feel the sun on your face.

  Wave.

  And do really touristy things, because there’s a reason so many people like to do the same things, wherever they go.  

  Because people are basically the same, everywhere you go.

  We’re all tourists in this life, aren’t we?

  None of us is from here.

  And none of us is staying.

  And so my biggest birthday present was that I got another year on my trip.

  I pray that will be your present, too.

  Happy birthday to us.

  And of course, to America.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2017

• Classic Column: Love Bites June 22, 2025

  by Francesca Serritella

  Bust out the citronella candles, it’s mosquito season! Here’s a Classic Column about feeling favored by the summer pest and what these bloodsuckers might have to teach us about attraction. Tell me, do mosquitos like you, or love you?

  

  Mosquitos love me.

  I’ve always believed I get an inordinate number of mosquito bites, but I never said it out loud.  Everyone feels this way.  Brandish a bottle of OFF! at any summer barbeque, and five people will proclaim that mosquitos love them with equal parts self-pity and pride.  It’s almost a humble-brag, as if mosquitos are real aesthetes, the blood-sucking playboys of the insect world.

  The subtext is: “There’s just something about my exposed skin that attracts all species, whatta hassle!”

  Then I recently came across an article explaining mosquitos actually do have a “type:” they’re most attracted to humans with the blood type O.

  My blood type.

  I wasn’t imagining it, it wasn’t some messed up version of vanity, it was science!

  Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

  Copyright © Francesca Serritella | www.francescaserritella.com | @FrancescaSerritellaauthor | @fserritella

• Column Classic: Greased Lightning June 15, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I’m a big fan of combinations, like soup-and-sandwich.  Peanut butter-and-jelly.  Spaghetti-and-meatballs.

  You may detect a pattern.

  Carbohydrates are the leitmotif.

  Or maybe the heavy-motif.

  One combination I never thought of is jeans-and-moisturizer.  Lucky for women, marketing has thought of that for us!

  You may have read the news story which reported that Wrangler is selling a line of jeans that embeds microcapsules of moisturizer in the fabric, which evidently explode on impact with your thighs and moisturize them.

  I think this is an awesome idea.  I often fantasize about things that would explode on impact with my thighs, such as Bradley Cooper.

  It gives new meaning to the term thunder thighs.

  The line of jeans is called Denim Spa, which is quite a combination, right there.  Denim and Spa are two words I have never experienced together. 

  Like love-and-marriage.

  But to stay on point, Wrangler markets three types of moisturizer jeans.  One comes embedded with Aloe Vera and another with Olive Oil, but choosing between the two is a no-brainer for me.  I wouldn’t pick Aloe Vera, because she sounds like someone I went to high school with and I don’t share jeans.

  I’d leave the aloe alone.

  Instead I’d pick the olive oil.  If I added balsamic, those jeans would be delicious.

  But only extra virgins can wear them.

  Count me out.

  Come to think of it, if I were going to infuse jeans with food, I would go with Cinnabons. 

  Extra frosting is more fun than extra virgin.

  The moisturizer in the jeans lasts up to fifteen days, but Wrangler also offers a “reload spray” that you can squirt your pants with.  I’m not sure I’d buy the spray.  It would be cheaper to pour olive oil on my pants, like a salad.  I’d dress them properly, before I got dressed.

  But the third type of moisturizer jeans is my favorite, and it’s called Smooth Legs.

  I need Smooth Legs.  I have only Scaly Legs and Hairy Legs, or a combination of the two, which is Scary Legs. 

  The amazing thing about the Smooth Legs jeans is that they not only moisturize your legs, they fight cellulite.

  Wow!

  According to the website, the way they do this is by a “special formula” embedded in the jeans, which contains “caffeine, retinol, and algae extract.”

  Which contains mayonnaise.

  Why fight jeans that fight cellulite?

  I wouldn’t.  I’d be scared.  They can “reload.”  I wouldn’t buy them without a background check.

  If you ask me, fighting cellulite is a lot to ask from a pair of pants, much less clothing in general, and you’ve got to hand it to Wrangler, which charges a mere $150 for a pair of these hard-working jeans.  That’s only $75 per leg or approximately $.03 per cellulite dimple, if you have 2,928,474,747 million dimples, like me.

  In fact, I just got another 4,928,749, in the time you took to read that last sentence.

  In my experience, cellulite comes only in packs of 4,928,749.

  I wouldn’t mind having a pair of pants that fought cellulite for me, which would be like having a lawyer for my butt.

  This is because I don’t spend any time fighting my cellulite.  On the contrary, my cellulite and I have an arrangement.  My cellulite agrees to stay on the back of my legs, thighs, and tushie, and I agree not to look at myself from behind. 

  This turns out to be easy.  Because I always move forward and never look back.

  Metaphor not included.

  In truth, I’ve come to accept and enjoy my cellulite.  I can amuse myself by playing connect the dots on my thighs or finding constellations on my butt.  For example, my left rump sports not only the Big and Little Dippers, but also The Serving Spoon, The Soup Ladle, and The Cake Knife.

  The best thing about the moisturizer jeans is that all that grease must make them easier to get on.  But being menopausal, I might need more lubrication.

  Like motor oil.

  Come to think of it, I won’t be buying the moisturizer dungarees.

  They’re not worth dung.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline