Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Let Them Eat Whatever

October 18, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Everyone is talking about the exorbitant price of gas, as well as groceries like eggs, bread, and produce.

You know what I’m worried about?

The price of cake.

I can’t even believe it.

Last week, my best friend Franca was nice enough to send me an entire chocolate cake, because I was talking about how much I love it and she’s such an amazingly generous person who would do something that wonderful.

As soon as I got the cake, which came delivered in a cardboard box, I opened it up to find the most delicious-looking cake ever, with glistening chocolate icing topped with orange and black jimmies for Halloween.

To me, every holiday should be about saturated fats.

Why should kids get all the sugar?

But the receipt for the cake was taped to the back of the box, and I caught a glimpse of the price.

Thirty-five dollars.

What?

That’s a lot of money for cake.

You shouldn’t get sticker-shock over baked goods.

Gas is one thing, but carbs?

They’re all I want to eat, all day long.

To be fair, I’d already noticed the price of cakes going up, but thirty-five bucks has to be an all-time high.

I remember when cake was under ten dollars, then it went to twelve, then it zoomed sky-high, like my cholesterol.

I mean, what gives?

It made me think of Marie Antoinette’s quote, “Let them eat cake!”

Would she say that if she knew how expensive cake was?

At this rate, we’re going to have to eat vegetables.

And that’s going to start a revolution.

By the way, I went online to learn about Marie Antoinette and found out that she did not say, “Let them eat cake.”

More accurately, what she said was, “Let them eat brioche!”

I bet brioche is up to fifty bucks a dozen, because it just sounds expensive.

To return to point, I cut a big piece of the chocolate cake Franca gave me, which probably cost five bucks right there, and it was delicious.

I put the rest in the freezer.

Maybe I should put it in the safe.

I might be able to pawn it even.

And if you hadn’t noticed, pie prices are crazy, too.

Pies used to be cheap, and I always get pumpkin pies around this time of year. They used to be eight bucks, but now a pumpkin pie will run you six dollars a gallon.

My favorite pie isn’t pumpkin anyway.

It’s pizza.

Remember, pizza is a pie.

As in, pizza pie.

Pizza is just its first name.

Pizza prices have gone up, too, but in the end, I will pay anything.

Cake, pie, and pizza are necessities.

And I always freeze my saturated fats, because otherwise I will eat them in one entire sitting.

Even so, they call to me from the freezer, and I think about them all the time.

Nowadays people call this food noise.

I call it food music.

It’s the soundtrack to my life.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Mysteries of Fruit

October 11, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Is it me or is it fruit?

Here’s what I mean.

I don’t know when anything ripens anymore.

Except for me.

Believe me, I’m plenty ripe.

In fact, I’m overripe.

I’m practically dying on the vine.

But to return to topic, I didn’t have a decent peach all summer, and this is why:

I couldn’t figure out when it ripens.

I would buy the peaches and bring them home and they were hard. I let them ripen in a bowl on the counter, but in one day, they were not only ripe, but spoiled.

They had brown spots everywhere and weird fuzz.

This also describes my face, but nevermind.

I figured that a fly got them and I remembered you’re supposed to

put them in a brown paper bag to ripen. So I did and then I checked on them the next day.

Spoiled again, even fly-free.

Meanwhile the peaches cost a fortune because I was buying organic.

So I thought maybe that was the problem, so I got the nonorganic kind. They looked normal enough and they were hard, so I assumed they were unripe. But just to check, I took a bite into one when I got home, and it was brown inside.

Wait, what?

And the other three non-organic peaches started to implode, getting soft spots all over, like cellulite.

Not that I would know what that looks like.

So I gave up and finally bought pears. They were hard when I brought them home, and guess what happened.

Week One, they stayed hard.

Week Two, they stayed hard

Week Three, and guess what. If these pears were men, I’d marry them.

If you follow.

So bottom line, I’m a person who used to eat a lot of fruit but can’t anymore because I can’t figure out when anything ripens.

And don’t get me started on watermelons.

The problem with watermelons begins at the very store.

Because I have no idea of how to tell if a watermelon is ripe or not.

You can smell it, pump it up and down, and try to mush it between your hands like a basketball, but it remains a mystery.

I just take my chances.

All summer long, I lost out.

I’d bring home a watermelon one week and open it to find it was soggy inside.

I bring home another watermelon the next week and it would be a weird light pink.

Nobody wants to open a watermelon and see pale pink.

It’s like a ball of veal.

Horrifying and disgusting.

I tried small round watermelons, but they were just as bad.

I tried seedless watermelons, but they were just as bad.

I had a similar problem with oranges, in that I could never get a good one, but I don’t think it was about ripeness. At first I thought I was mistakenly buying juicing oranges because every orange I got was juicy, but flavorless. There was no sweetness to anything.

And the color wasn’t a true orange, but shade more like my lowlights, which need to be redone.

And now that it’s autumn, apples are no better.

I read somewhere that any apple you buy in a grocery store is a year old before you even get it, and maybe that’s true. I bought some the other day, which were allegedly Red Delicious, but they were neither Red nor Delicious.

I took a bite, and the inside was mealy.

Not a good meal.

Same with the Yellow Delicious, but they were at least yellow.

So I don’t know what to tell you.

I’ve lost my mojo with fruit.

Instead, I’m turning to chocolate.

Parasocial Life

October 4, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I try to confine my crushes to emotionally available men.

Bradley Cooper, for example.

I’m pretty sure he would be very emotionally available, as a man.

I know this for sure, from the movies he’s been in. Like he plumbed the depths of drama when he played a reserved sniper in American Sniper, and right after that, he played an alcoholic musician in A Star is Born.

Like, that’s emotional range.

And talent.

Also biceps.

And these are the factors I consider in selecting my crushes.

But lately it occurred to me that I should try to pick a crush less embarrassing than a global superstar.

Who’s even too young for me.

So I started getting a crush on this hot silver-haired guy with horn-rimmed glasses on Instagram, who had a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, like me.

I have horn-rimmed glasses, too!

We have so much in common!

Like that’s very relatable emotional availability.

If you like dogs, I probably like you.

And if you’re Cavalier-crazy, you might be my next ex-husband.

Thing Three!

Lucky fella.

So I started following this man on Instagram and noticing how great he is with his Cavalier and loving the various tips he gives in his posts, like special ways to pet Cavaliers that they’ll love. For example, in one post he’s sitting behind his little Cavalier who looks just like my Eve, and he said that Cavaliers like it when you massage them under the ears in a circular motion, and his dog looked completely adorable, happy, and relaxed.

By the way, his circular-massage technique looked excellent.

I couldn’t help but think how many circles of mine need massaging.

I became a fan of his dog, too, because why not? I follow a lot of dog accounts online and even follow accounts of people interviewing people about their dogs. I also follow lots of other animal accounts, like otters, ferrets, groundhogs, hippos, donkeys, and capybaras. I’ve watched videos of beavers building a dam in a hallway and pet rats driving toy trucks.

Evidently I have a lot of free time.

But this man and his Cavalier really captivated me, so I tried this circular-massage technique on my dogs.

It didn’t work at all.

Eve was annoyed, and New Puppy George kept trying to bite my hand.

I figured I was doing it wrong, so I kept following in the guy, and in other posts he recommended other massage techniques, all of which I tried and none of which worked.

Meanwhile I kept telling Francesca to follow his account because he has great tips for dogs, none of which worked for me but might work for you.

Finally she followed him, then texted me:

Mom, that Instagram account with the ear massage you sent me is an AI generated account! Not a real person and not a real dog!

Wait, what? I called her immediately. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Francesca answered gently. “Did you read the bio?”

“No.” I didn’t, I was too busy thinking about the circular massage.

“It says it’s AI-generated content, right there.”

I reeled. “So this guy doesn’t even exist?”

“Correct.”

I know this is repetitive but I needed it repeated. I generally can tell when an image is AI slop, but I had absolutely no idea. So I had to ask, “And the dog?”

“Isn’t real, either.”

“What about the glasses?”

“Not even.”

I hung up, disillusioned.

Until I realized it didn’t matter at all.

By definition, a crush is a product of the imagination.

So it can be based on someone real or someone imaginary.

There’s no crush rules.

And I mean, let’s be real.

I’ve fallen for men who weren’t what they appeared to be.

So I’ve been fooled by slop before.

Why stop now?

Or more positively, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Deliver Us from Eve/Evil

October 2, 2026September 27, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Another day, another doggy drama.

Thank God, this one ends happily, too.

I tell you that up front because I don’t want you to stress.

These weekly columns of mine exist to make you smile.

I want them to go down easy, like a cup of decaf, with occasional profanity.

I reassure you upfront because, like anybody with a heart, I can’t bear it if something bad is going to happen to an animal.

I’m so crazy that I actually consult a website called does-the-dog-die.com before I watch a TV show with a dog. If you didn’t know that website exists, you do now.

I want everybody happy and decaffeinated.

Plus what happened this week will seem like a rerun, if you read a column I write less than month ago, when my spicy little cavalier Eve ate thirty cherry pits from a bowl that I carelessly left poolside.

I’m not blaming the dog.

I’m blaming myself.

Like I’m the problem, it’s me.

So what happened is that it’s tax time, and I have a wonderful accountant who will come to my house and meet with me and explain my taxes to me. I think I dread this meeting, because who loves paying taxes, but I know it’s necessary because I really want to try to understand more about my finances.

I have math anxiety, which is a medical excuse for freezing up whenever I hear numbers.

But I’ve been trying to fight my way through it and I haven’t succeeded at this point, but I’m going to keep trying.

So please understand in my own defense that I was sitting at my kitchen table with my accountant, and he was taking me through my tax return and explaining stuff about business deductions and I was really trying to pay attention, when I started to hear some noise under the table right at our feet.

Eve was under the table with my new puppy George, also a Cavalier, and they’ve been getting along great which is a miracle. George was an older puppy when I got him, so his transition has been miraculously amazingly easy, and Eve has not tried to kill him, which is its own sort of happy ending.

On the other hand, George does everything she does, and she has led him into temptation.

I never should have named her Eve.

I actually thought about naming the new puppy Adam, but that would be stupid.

But it might have been true.

To return to the story, I heard some noise under the table, and I assumed the dogs were playing with their frisbee. I was trying to focus on what the accountant was telling me, and there were so many numbers I was trying to keep my face looking like a normal person and not a confused person.

But finally I looked down and the dogs weren’t playing with a frisbee.

They were playing with an empty box of yogurt-covered raisins.

I did a double-take. I didn’t know where they came from because I don’t buy yogurt-covered raisins.

I like raisins covered in chocolate.

Obviously.

In fact I like anything covered in chocolate. You could cover cardboard in chocolate and you-know-who would eat it.

Unfortunately, it turns out the accountant had a box of raisins in his backpack, and Eve had dug them out for her and her partner-in-crime, and they had eaten them.

Uh-oh.

Raisins are poisonous to dogs.

So I called the vet right away and they said bring them both in, right away.

You may recall that it was only a month ago that I brought Eve in for the cherry pits, also toxic to dogs.

Luckily my vet did not say, “Again?”

Or, “Will you have the usual?”

Or, “Why don’t you watch your dogs for a change?”

Bottom line, I brought them both in, and they both were made to throw up. The box held between twenty-five and thirty raisins.

All told, Eve threw up twenty-eight and George threw up three.

So she doesn’t even share.

And we live to tell the tale.

From now on, I promise to watch the dogs better.

It’s more fun than watching the taxes.

Live Yo Life

September 25, 2026September 20, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Last week was a great reminder of my new life philosophy.

Namely, YOLO.

To be honest, the truth is I’ve never been a great planner.

But YOLO makes me sound fun rather than lazy.

YOLO leads to LOL.

At least it did this week, which was momentous in my household.

I got to have experience my happiest day of the year, which is the day that I actually finish a writing a novel and type THE END.

YAY!

That’s right, I just finished my new domestic thriller, which is entitled The Fall of the LaFleurs, and it will be out next July. It takes me a full year to write, research, and edit a novel, so I celebrate typing The End by rewarding myself, usually with carbohydrates.

But this time, it was with a new puppy!

As I wrote about recently, a puppy became available that was a half-brother of Daughter Francesca’s dog Bobby, who’s mellow and affectionate, so I snapped him up.

I handed in my novel, then jumped in the car the very same day, excited to go pick up my new little guy, which involved driving to a McDonald’s in Frederick, Maryland to meet the breeder halfway. I remembered her saying that the best way to Frederick from my house was to take the Pennsylvania Turnpike west to 15 South.

Okay, off I go.

I felt like a kid again, getting a new puppy with a carful of new dog toys, a leash, a collar, and a crate pad.

But that’s when I realized YOLO wasn’t the greatest idea.

Because on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I started to plug the McDonald’s address into my car GPS, but the screen went black.

At first I thought I was doing something wrong, so I hit a bunch of keys and hoped for the best.

Still a totally black screen.

Then I realized my car had just been serviced and somehow the GPS must’ve gotten dumped.

Hmm.

It occurred to me I could get the directions on my phone, so I tried, but I couldn’t get GPS there either because I couldn’t get Wi-Fi or good-enough reception.

This is where I tell you I love GPS.

It’s the longest and best marriage I ever had.

I’m a person who used to get lost constantly, and all of my road trips were like a first draft until you reach your final destination. I’ve made more wrong turns in my life than anyone I know, not including two divorces, from Thing One and Thing Two.

Meanwhile, I had left the house too late to go back and get my other car, which has working GPS, because I didn’t want to keep the breeder waiting.

So I kept driving, at speed, nervous.

I’ve never been to Frederick MD.

I had no idea where I was going.

Bottom line, I was driving to a place I’d never been with only the barest of directions, and I didn’t have the time to make a mistake.

Then it struck me that I had just finished a novel that was about a woman who will stop at nothing to get to her son.

And I was a woman who would stop at nothing to get to her puppy.

But this wasn’t fiction, this was real life, without a net.

I was so nervous that I pulled into the first rest stop to see if I could get some reception on my phone, but I still couldn’t. I realized that while I was hitting all the buttons on my phone and dashboard, I must’ve deleted my own WiFi network, and I didn’t know the password, and somehow I couldn’t even make a phone call.

I thought, maybe YOLO isn’t such a good life philosophy?

Then I looked over and saw the kind of thing I would usually avoid.

A motorcycle gang.

They were a group of men standing around a bunch of Harley Davidsons, smoking and wearing black leather vests and pants.

But it occurred to me that they would definitely know the roads.

So I got out of the car and approached the motorcycle gang, and they all looked over, puzzled. I said, “I need to get my new puppy!”

And they all laughed, and I realized they were not felons, but fellas.

I explained the situation, then right away they all got out their phones and their maps and their GPS, and they told me exactly how to get to Frederick MD.

They could not have been more helpful.

I mean, they were angels.

For kind of Hell’s Angels.

And I honestly got a crush on one.

I asked them to take a picture with me, because I wanted to memorialize this wonderful day, on which I got to write The End, pick up a puppy, and reaffirm that you don’t always need to know where you’re going in life.

You should just go.

You don’t need a map or GPS.

You just need faith in people.

And maybe in yourself.

The Best and the Worst

October 2, 2026August 30, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

It was the best of times it was the worst of times.

But all in one day.

Let me catch you up on last Saturday.

I had been thinking about getting a new puppy for a long time because my two Cavaliers Boone and Kit were nearing 15, and I thought my little puppy Eve would love a companion and a houseful of fur.

And by Eve, I mean me.

And before I continue, let me say first that my rescue credentials are very well established. I’ve rescued dogs, cats, and even horses. I currently have a rescue horse, so I’m fully aware of the need to adopt animals.

But I’m also of an age where I get to want what I want, too.

And what I wanted was a new cavalier puppy. So I called my wonderful preservation breeder, who doesn’t breed her dogs often, so I expected a six month if not a year lead time. I have waited as long as two years for a dog, that’s how responsible these breeders are.

So I sent my email, and amazingly, she wrote me back instantly saying that she had a litter of 15-week old puppies available.

My heart exploded!

It was sooner than I thought, But my life motto is don’t postpone fun.

Especially not at my age.

Francesca happened to be home, and we set up a Facetime and looked at three adorable puppies, two girls and a boy. I was leaning toward a girl and I didn’t care what she looked like as much as her temperament.

Eve is so adventurous that I didn’t need any more adventure in my life.

So we watched how the puppies behaved, not how they looked.

What a concept.

The two girls ran around like nuts, going up and down the stairs, and actually getting into a box of championship ribbons and wreaking havoc.

But the little boy only wanted to sit in the breeder’s lap.

He was interested in the world, but he wanted love.

What a coincidence, so do I!

So you know where I went.

I picked the boy!

This could be my best marriage yet.

I was overflowing with endorphins, if not estrogen.

Really there’s nothing better for your soul than watching a puppy video, and I do it all day, for random puppies online, but this time I was doing it for a puppy I got to bring home.

Francesca and I were jumping up and down all day, thinking of doggy names, picking out puppy collars, all the gloriously fun dumb stuff you do when you are expecting a new arrival.

But while we were sitting on the couch, my little dog Kit came over, walked up the little doggy steps to the couch, and sat in Francesca’s lap. He seemed kind of flat, which isn’t like him, and he smelled a little funny, so I thought he rolled in something.

We decided to give him a bath. And while we did, he was unusually calm but after we took him out, he was positively flat. He’d been having kidney and heart issues, but they were controlled with medication.

Still I couldn’t deny what I was seeing, and neither could Francesca.

We’ve loved and lived with enough animals to know when they are trying to tell you something, especially when that something is goodbye.

We called the vet and took him in immediately.

And we got the news that no pet lover wants to hear.

That he was suffering.

It turns out that his kidneys were failing more quickly than anybody realized and that weird smell we noticed was uremic acid or something like that.

I can never listen when I’m emotional.

And so we cuddled Kit and told him how much we loved him, and how much we adored even his little quirky things like guarding his water, and all of the joy he had given us and we hoped we had given him in return.

And we cried our eyes out and we said goodbye to our little guy as he breathed his last breath.

And so the day began with excitement over a new puppy and ended with sorrow over losing such a dear one.

Francesca and I cried all the way home, but we decided that we are feeling all the feels and that’s a good thing.

Life is feeling the feels.

And so is death.

Anybody knows that those two events are part of the same continuum, even if they don’t happen on the same day, like an illustration of that very lesson.

We will always love you, Kit.

Because it’s the love that continues, always.

Forbidden Fruit

August 16, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Are you smarter than your dog?

Honestly, I’m not.

I’ve met my match in Eve.

This dog has me outsmarted.

And evidently, it was easier than I thought.

We begin with me telling you that Eve loves balls.

And by loves, I mean obsesses.

It started when she was a puppy, and I played fetch with her. Cavaliers aren’t known for fetching, and I thought it was fun and playful.

Until playful turned pathological.

As much as I love throwing a ball for a dog, Eve is not satisfied unless you have thrown 3000 balls. She never gets tired out, ever since she was a puppy. She will chase a ball all day long, then refuse to give it to you when she fetches it, which is the most annoying part.

But I get it.

I understand how you become obsessed.

Because that’s me and Bradley Cooper.

I can’t even look at photos of him anymore. But then I can’t not.

I search online for the pictures, then I look away.

It hurts too good.

Unfortunately, what I also noticed about Eve is when you throw the ball to her, she doesn’t get happier, she just gets more anxious.

She gets ball anxiety.

If you hide the ball, she will search for it like a freak, running all around the house. So I took the extreme measure of throwing all the balls away to see if Eve could break the cycle of addiction.

It worked.

The first few days, she ran around to all the usual hiding places, but she seemed to forget about it.

She actually got calmer.

I patted myself on the back.

But then she began bringing me apples in from the front yard, where I have an apple tree that just gave fruit.

I know.

Eve brought me an apple.

History repeats itself.

Only I’m not tempted.

Now apples are falling all over my front yard, and Eve thinks God is sending her balls. She’s in obsessive heaven.

She picks up the apples, brings them to me in the house, then sets them down at my feet so I’ll throw them.

We’re not playing ball, we’re playing apples.

So I’m outside picking up the apples like it’s my job.

Which it isn’t.

Luckily, I live on a farm with horses, and they love apples, too. So I pick up the apples, put them in a basket, and take them to the horses.

But horses can’t have that much sugar.

Believe it or not, my horses are on a sugar-free diet, just like me.

By the way, did you know that you can buy low-sugar hay?

Now you do.

Look at all we’re learning from my crazy life!

Anyway now I throw the apples over the fence so deer can eat them.

Evidently deer are not on a diet.

They all look super thin and if you ask me, they need emergency lasagna.

That deer thing worked for a while, and peace returned to my household.

But just this morning, I took Eve on a walk, and there’s a tree on my street that’s dropping berries.

So you know where this is going.

Eve started getting the berries.

She’ll pick them up and run over to me, and if I don’t get them from her in time, she’ll eat them.

And of course they have pits.

You may remember, it was only a few weeks ago that Eve ate fifty cherry pits and had to be taken to the vet, where she threw up like a frat boy.

So you see the problem.

No matter how many round objects I hide, she will find more of them, ingest them, and cause a veterinary bill.

Where does this end?

What round objects are left?

Planets?

I cannot outsmart Eve.

Maybe that’s what God intended.

Eve Makes More Trouble

August 9, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m home from book tour for This Changes Everything, and when I got home, everything changed.

I’ll explain.

First, let me say how grateful I am to everyone who picked up a copy of the book or came out to see me on tour. Thank you to each and every one of you, because you support me, literally.

Meanwhile I love tour, which has me in a different city every day for three weeks. Most of the year I feel like a puppy in a crate, so when I finally get out and meet people who actually read me, it’s the best thing ever.

We hug!

I got home on Saturday, and the first place I went is my happy place, which is my pool. Believe me, I know how lucky I am to have a pool all to myself.

Well, not exactly to myself.

I always bring my dog Eve, who is to the manor born. She lounges on the chair under the umbrella while I read on a float, which is the best thing you could ever do. And that’s exactly what I was doing, after I’d eaten cherries, which is my second favorite thing to do.

Eating.

Anyway, I was reading on my float with a nice full tummy of cherries and I happen to fall asleep.

This is not unusual.

I do it all the time. I love reading myself to sleep, and that doesn’t mean I’m reading a bad book. It means I’m reading a good one, because it relaxes me.

So I woke up an hour later, when I noticed Eve had her face in the cherry bowl. I got out of the pool to find that all of my cherry pits were gone.

Hmm.

I googled, Is it bad for dogs to eat cherry pits?

The answer was, Yes, you idiot. They contain cyanide.

Wait, what?

In large quantities, but do you want to split hairs? How many cherries did your dog eat?

Instantly I called my vet, who said bring her in right away.

This is life with Eve.

You may remember that last month she actually found the only acorn in New York City and ate it whole, causing $12,000 worth of surgery.

Luckily, I have pet insurance.

I reminded myself of same when I was racing to the vet, although this time I was worried. There’s nothing funny about cyanide. And I wasn’t exactly sure how many cherries I had eaten. I remember thinking, wow, Lisa, you’re really pigging out on cherries.

Which is my third favorite thing.

Cherries.

In any event, I raced Eve to the vet’s and they gave her an injection to make her throw up the pits. A half an hour later, the vet came out with Eve, who had her ears tied back like she partied too hard.

The vet smiled. “You really like cherries, don’t you?”

I had to laugh. “How many cherries did I like?”

She answered, “Thirty.”

Which is embarrassing. “But Eve is OK?”

“Absolutely,” the vet answered, and I almost cried with relief.

The vet told me that Eve might pass more cherry pits, but they were too few in number to do her any harm.

Later, I took her home and two hours after that, she passed sixteen more pits.

That means I ate forty-six cherries when I came home.

Look how good I am at addition!

If not willpower.

Classic Column: Itchy and Scratchy, The Sequel

July 12, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

You may remember that I used to write about Mother Mary’s love of backscratchers.

Yes, I made fun of my mother for profit.

You know what?

She approved.

She loved that I wrote about her. In fact, sometimes when I would call her, she would begin the conversation with, “I did something you should write about.”

And thanks to all of you, who gave me the chance to give her the spotlight that she deserved, and frankly that all of us deserve.

We all do things that we should write about.

So here I am, writing about them, so you don’t have to.

Don’t worry, I’m a professional.

I got this.

Today I’m remembering that Mother Mary had six backscratchers in her house. She even traveled with one when she came to see me, because I didn’t have any.

Let me tell you, a backscratcher looks strange in a suitcase.

Actually a backscratcher looks strange anywhere.

A stick with a hand on the end is the stuff of nightmares.

My mother had a backscratcher that was black enamel bamboo and at one end was a realistic hand with long fake fingernails.

Eew.

Still I wish I had that now, but I suspect my brother does. That would be a Scottoline-style family heirloom.

A backscratcher and maybe a pack of matches.

In any event, I got to thinking about my mother and her backscratchers because all of a sudden, my back is super itchy.

I have a backscratcher, but I have to buy about 300 more. My one is always upstairs, because I keep it under my pillow at night.

How sexy is that?

You know you’re in trouble when the adult toy you use the most in the bedroom is a backscratcher.

Or maybe you’re not in trouble.

Maybe you’re doing just fine.

Maybe you’re living your life exactly as God intended, in purity.

But when I’m downstairs without the backscratcher, I find myself rubbing my back on door jambs like a deer.

I improvise with serving forks, carving forks, and chef’s knives.

There isn’t a sharp object in the tri-state area that I haven’t used to scratch my back.

One time I was with Francesca, I asked her to scratch my back, and she did, but the relief was only temporary.

Asking someone to scratch your back never works out the way you hoped.

It takes too long for them to find the itch, since you can’t properly direct them.

Saying “there, not there,” and “here, not here,” isn’t very helpful.

And before long, the guilt feels worse than the itching.

And even if they find the itch, they never scratch it long enough.

They get bored, probably because it took so long to find the itch in the first place.

I, however, am just warming up.

Scratching my back all day would do just fine.

But I get it, you have a life.

My back started itching when I turned sixty, and I wondered if it was related to aging, like if my skin is getting drying up in general.

But if that’s true, why don’t my legs itch?

Or my arms?

Or my breasts?

I can’t tell you the last time I had any feelings whatsoever in my breast.

So I don’t think it’s aging.

And so here I am, in dire need of more of backscratchers, and on my last book tour, you know what I packed in my suitcase.

Yes, I did.

So it’s come full circle, Mother Mary and me, front to back, and back again.

And every time I reach for a backscratcher, I know Mother Mary is laughing her ass off, in heaven.

I’ve become my mother, but without the smoking.

Profanity included.

You remember at the end of the movie Carrie, when the hand reaches up out of the grave?

Well, in the movie Lisa, it’s Mother Mary who’s making my back itch from beyond the grave, and the thing that’s sticking up out of the soil is a backscratcher.

It’s payback, since I made fun of her all those times.

Or her saying, “I did something you should write about.”

And so I am.

Thanks, Mom.

Lisa’s new book THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING will be on sale Tuesday, July 14^th.

Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM will be out in paperback on Tuesday, July 21^st.

Sum, Sum, Summertime

July 5, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Who doesn’t love summer?

It is our reward for three seasons of going full-speed, twenty-four seven, in a world that is too complex and way too fast.

We all need a break, especially mothers.

All year around, we have to get everybody ready in the morning, while we pack lunches and find somebody’s missing sneaker.

But it’s summertime, and we get a breather and if we’re lucky, a vacation.

During which we get everybody ready in the morning, while we pack lunches and find somebody’s missing sneaker.

But we do it in a nicer place.

To me, the best part of summer is that the entire world relaxes just a bit, letting down mentally, easing off the gas emotionally.

That’s what we all truly need, a July of the mind.

A time to wear mental flip-flops.

Fewer clothes.

More laughter.

An excess of wasted time.

Life, unplugged.

To me, the best part of summer is the beach.

It’s all about the beach.

Every time I drive into a shore town, I can feel my mood lift and my spirit lighten.

I drive into town, past the saltwater taffy and fudge stores, then the swirly custard stands, fried clam joints, and the drugstores that sell suntan lotion, where the only bottles left will have an SPF of 2 or 18326.

And nothing in between.

I know I’m at the beach when I pass my favorite store, which is the one that sells inflatable toys for kids, so outside will be oversized inflatable alligators, puffy rings like multicolored Lifesavers, funky boogie boards, and foam noodles growing out of a barrel like so many Gerber daisies.

Minus the Gerber daisy part.

The salt air, the warm sun, the happy smiles; all of it is the stuff of summer.

And the great thing is, I feel that way whether I’m on vacation or not.

In fact, I’m going on tour this month for my new novel THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING and Francesca will be joining me at some stores for her new paperback of FULL BLOOM, and even that will feel like a vacation, just because it’s summer time. Hope you can join the fun! The tour schedule can be found on my website.

We’ll drive around together, switching off on the driving, blasting music, eating snacks, and sitting in traffic, just like every great family road trip.

We’re really ordinary and normal, and the more you read about us, the more you’ll see your own life and your own families reflected herein.

Except that you probably behave better.

Because although our relationship is wonderful and we are truly each other’s best friends, that doesn’t mean we don’t fight. I’m here to say that we have fought our way through beaches along the East Coast and we’ll be doing it again this month.

Yay!

Which brings me to my point.

Even in summertime, there will be problems.

You’ll get in fights with your kids.

Or you’ll get in fights with your mother or father.

Everybody knows that a family vacation is hardest on the family.

Also, things will go wrong, like the weather won’t cooperate.

You’ll find yourself with five days of vacation and four days of clouds, which means you’ll stare at your phone, laptop, or television, mentally calculating how much it’s costing you to be depressed in a new location.

Plus, you’ll find yourself spending way too much time in the local grocery store, which will gouge you on price.

Also, the drugstore, which will gouge you on price.

And any restaurant, which will gouge you on price.

Finally, you will get sand in all the wrong places.

You’ll get sand in your sneakers.

You won’t be able to shake all of it out.

You’ll get sand stuck in the elastic in your bathing suit.

You won’t be able to rinse all of it out.

You’ll even get sand in your hair, blown by the wind off the sea onto your very scalp.

You won’t be able to wash it out.

The sand will come back to the rental house with you, where it will fall on the floor, and when you drive home, it will be in the well underneath the gas pedal. You will track it inside your own house, and you will feel a grittiness under your toes in your very own bedroom, maybe even your sheets.

Don’t let the sand bother you.

And above all, don’t nag each other about it or whine about it, because that misses the point.

Flip it.

Think of the sand as fairy dust.

Because it is.

It’s a magical sprinkling of a summertime mood.

If you’re lucky, the sand will always be with you, wherever you go. A gritty little reminder under your feet.

And in your undies.

Summer is truly a state of mind.

If you keep that with you at all times – by that I mean, the mentally easing of worry, the emotional letting go, and more smiles in general – you will have a happier and healthier year.

Until summer rolls around again, and you get to go back to the beach.

To bring home more sand.

Enjoy.

Lisa’s new novel THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING will be out on July 14, 2026.

Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM will be available in paperback on July 21, 2026.

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