Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Good For What Ails You

January 19, 2025

by Lisa Scottoline

These are turbulent times.

I have a cure.

A puppy.

First, let me state the obvious.

Don’t get a puppy if you’re not going to take care of it forever.

I assume I’m talking to responsible adults here.

But now, let’s be real.

I got a puppy and I am in love.

There is no illness a puppy can’t cure.

I’m having the best time ever, throwing balls for her and holding nylabones while she chews them.

I feel sure that every minute I spend is adding time to my life.

My deadline is going to hell but I’ll worry when I’m dead.

The absolute best thing to do with the puppy is sleep with one.

In your bed.

Under the covers.

I know, it sounds weird.

Maybe you have something better to sleep with.

Like a man.

Or a woman.

I used to sleep with men, and none of them was as much fun as a puppy.

That’s just the truth.

I think it begins when we’re kids and we sleep with stuffed animals. I had a pink rabbit named Pinky, and I still have her. She’s ancient but she looks good for her age.

Or maybe I’m projecting.

I don’t know who started kids sleeping with stuffed animals, but it’s an absolutely great idea. I loved Pinky, and now I have a little puppy who’s the size and shape of Pinky.

And I’m a kid again.

Our story begins with me putting Eve in a crate next to my bed at night, which is what I read you were supposed to do. But she would wake up two, three, and four times to go out. I would take her out each time, she’d pee, and I’d give her a treat.

The next day, I was tired.

Very.

Then I started to worry that she was waking up for the treat and/or the attention.

I figured this out because I used to kiss her all the way downstairs and outside.

Listen, I’m a good kisser.

Not to brag.

So last night, from the outset, I put her in my bed instead of the crate.

And instead of waking up four times a night, she slept till 7:30 in the morning.

And I got the first good night’s sleep since I got her.

Plus it was fun.

Like, so much fun.

Eve just cuddled up at my side, nestled in my flannel nightgown.

This is sex for middle-aged women.

Now we sleep together, old lady and new puppy.

I’m well aware that some of you might be grossed out at this point.

I say this because I once wrote a character that slept with her dog under the covers, and my editor said it was disgusting.

Really?

But it’s cold at night.

How can I cover myself and not the dog?

I’m also aware that there are people who don’t allow their dog on the furniture, much less the sheets.

I admire them.

They set limits I never could.

They’re never wearing more dog hair than their dog.

They probably balance their checkbook every month.

And they marry the right guy the first time.

Me, not so much.

But it all turned out alright in the end.

Me and my little furball are having a great time.

Bottom line, whatever gets you through the night.

Superhot Mama

January 12, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

The holiday season is over, and that means it’s time for your new prezzies!

Yay!

My thing is that I wear everything I got right away and all the time.

Like if I got a new sweater for the holiday, I put it right on.

I wear it every day, to death.

And then if I got another new sweater, I put that one on next.

For about six days after the holidays, I look fantastic.

If I got nice earrings, I wear them with whatever T-shirt I got.

I don’t care if they go together or not.

I lack prezzie impulse-control.

New is new new.

And it boosts my mood into the next year, which is also new.

And as you may know, I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I think they’re too negative.

Instead I think about the good things I did right and vow to keep doing them.

Like wearing prezzies!

And eating spaghetti!

And kissing my puppy on the lips!

The only downside of this season is trying to figure out some of my presents.

For example, my bestie Nan gave me a vest that heats up by itself.

Like menopause, but in a good way.

It has a button that you press, which will glow various colors depending on how hot the vest is.

You may think it’s crazy, but it’s actually genius.

I’ve worn it for a few days and now I can’t imagine why all clothes aren’t heated all the time. I can go outside in any weather and feel super warm, glowing red as a thermometer in August. I wear it inside and don’t have to turn up the heat as high.

It even preheats like an oven.

I bet it bakes bread.

And I’d get a yeast infection.

Plus the light changes like a traffic light.

It’s the Squid Game of vests.

Until the battery gave out and I had to recharge it.

But I had thrown away the instructions that came with the vest.

I’m not used to directions for clothes.

I’m used to put it on, then take it off.

I looked on the website and saw that the vest came with a Beginner’s Guide.

That would be me.

A heated-vest virgin.

But no longer.

My vest has a battery check, battery level indicators, a USB type-A output port, USB type-C input port, and a DC output port.

How many ports does your vest have?

I bet not enough.

Like now I need a PhD to get dressed.

I’m not smart enough for my smartclothes.

Honestly my vest makes my smartphone look stupid.

In any event, once my vest lost power, I had to get the battery out of its secret pocket, then I had to find the little dongle that I threw away, and finally I had to locate an actual USB port since my laptop doesn’t have one anymore.

But I did it!

I refueled my clothes!

And here we are.

Making new advances in outerwear every day.

Bending nature to our will.

Literally, empowered.

It’s a great way to start the year, new and improved!

Iron Woman!

Happy 2025!

January 5, 2025

See you next week!

Column Classic: ‘Twas The Night Before

January 3, 2025December 29, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

For Christmas, I got broken pipes.

Again.

Let me explain.

Just before the holidays, I went down to the basement.

First mistake, right?

Going down to the basement is asking for trouble.

There was water all over the basement floor. It didn’t take a plumber to figure out that one of the overhead pipes was leaking.

Correction. Actually, it did. It took four different workmen to figure out what was leaking, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I called my plumbing and heating company, and they sent over a plumber, who said I needed a heating guy instead, and next a heating guy came over and said I needed a plumbing guy instead, and then a third guy came over who could do both and told me it would take four thousand dollars to fix my problem, which was a combination of plumbing and heating problems.

That’s all I understood, as I stopped listening after the four-thousand-dollar part.

But it had to be fixed, so I said yes, and they put me “on the schedule.”

This was two days before Christmas. I stayed home and waited for the plumber/heater guy to come, though I had three zillion things to do, among them buying last-minute gifts and turkey for Christmas dinner. When no one showed up, I called the company, and they said I wasn’t “on the schedule,” after all.

Oops.

No problem, any other week but Christmas. I had no gifts and no turkey. Time was running out. The company said they’d send somebody as soon as possible, which was Christmas Eve day. This was a problem, because it was the last shopping day until you-know-what, and all I had for the holiday dinner was cereal. Also, the tree had to be decorated, so never let it be said that I leave some things until the last minute.

Because I leave everything until the last minute.

Also, if you recall, my last Christmas Eve was spent with plumbers and heating guys. If it’s a federal holiday, I’m spending it with plumbing and heating guys.

So, I said to the company, no thanks, don’t send the plumbers on Christmas Eve. Send the plumbers on Monday, after the weekend.

What could go wrong?

You’ll see.

Francesca and I enjoyed Christmas Eve day, picked up our turkey and fixings, and stopped by the mall, where we were interviewed by a TV reporter as one of those crazy last-minute shoppers. I blamed it on Francesca. On camera. That’s the kind of mother I am.

So we came home all happy, but as we were decorating the tree, we noticed it was getting cooler in the house. And long story short, on Christmas morning, we opened our presents in fifty-five degree weather.

Inside.

Whatever had gone wrong in the basement had knocked out our heat, but no worries, we were warmed by tidings of comfort and joy.

Until the house temperature dipped to fifty-two.

Hmm.

We had put shopping ahead of heating, and now we’re going to pay for it.

Still, no worries. We remained calm. We would tough it out for the weekend, then the plumber/heater guy would come on Monday.

But a snowstorm came instead.

And the plumber/ heating guy couldn’t.

So, you know where this is going.

We have no heat, for five days now. Francesca keeps a fire burning in the fireplace in the family room, and I keep the hot chocolate coming. We sleep on couches, huddled with the dogs, in the flickering light of the fire.

So, I asked her if we should have done the prudent thing and let the plumber come, instead of having Christmas Eve.

“Nah,” she answered, with a smile.

Good girl.

Holiday Big

January 3, 2025December 22, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Well, it’s that time of year again.

I mean, it’s time to meet with my accountant.

I do this every year around Christmas.

Usually, after Christmas shopping.

It would make sense to talk to the accountant before Christmas shopping, but that would be no fun.

You don’t want to have a conversation with your accountant before the holidays.

It’s like having a conversation with your dietitian.

Not that I have one, but like many women, I am one.

My four basic food groups are pasta.

Is that okay?

But nobody likes holiday presents more than I do.

I get more excited than most five-year olds.

I think a gift is a way to show people you love them and you’re grateful to them, every day of the year.

It doesn’t have to cost a lot of money.

So my accountant reminds me.

He meets with me to tell me when I can retire, given my current rate of spending.

I tell him I’m not interested in retiring, I’m interested in spending.

He says he just wants me to make an informed decision.

Where was he before I got married?

The second time.

Okay, the first, too.

The bottom line is, I’m trying to make better mistakes.

In any event, I don’t feel like retiring anytime soon. In fact, today I announced the new book coming out this summer, my first psychological thriller. I’ve never written one before, but between politics and the news, I’ve never felt so psychological.

Its entitled The Unraveling of Julia because I’m feeling vaguely unraveled.

I changed the name so you wouldn’t know it was me.

That’s the fiction part.

I love telling stories for a living. It’s totally fun and even though it’s hard work, you get to do it in your teddybear clothes, as Daughter Francesca calls them.

I write as an excuse to dress like a teddybear.

And I know retirement is a great thing and most of my friends are retired and doing a lot of fun things. They hike, bike, ski, volunteer, take classes, and play pickle ball.

I might be the only person my age who doesn’t play pickleball.

That said, I’m also a person who just got a puppy.

At my age, that took some calculating. I hope I’ll be around for the length of this dog’s life.

That means I have to live a long time.

Or the puppy dies PDQ.

You know you’re old if after you get a puppy, you have to revise your will.

But I want this puppy provided for. She’s accustomed to toys and treats.

Every girl should be.

So my puppy’s also my beneficiary.

I know it sounds silly, but it isn’t. I was a good friend of my late neighbor Harry, who passed away, leaving his very old cat Spunky. There were no provisions in his will for Spunky, so I took the cat in and he tottered around my second floor, safe from my rambunctious dogs, and basically Spunky lived the life of Riley.

I thought he had a month left to live.

Five years later, he was playing pickleball.

Anyway, I think the holidays are for life, and love.

Not accountants or dietitians or estates lawyers.

I say, Love big, and live big.

And thanks big, to all of you.

Chew Toy

January 3, 2025December 15, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Week one of new puppy Eve is over.

It’s been a very busy seven days.

With a very long list of Things to Do, like:

Cuddle.

Hug.

Feed.

Cuddle.

Kiss.

Cuddle.

Feed.

Cuddle.

Feed.

Sleep.

Pee and poop.

Feed.

Cuddle again.

I had forgotten how 24/7 a new puppy could be, and ain’t it great?

All the other things I should be doing haven’t gotten done yet.

Like, take a shower.

Or buy holiday gifts.

Or do my actual job.

And you know what?

It will wait.

Welcome to my new attitude.

I’m not sure if it’s perspective.

Or dereliction of duty

I know I’ll get to everything else, in time.

But before then, I have to cuddle something small, warm, soft, and furry.

Eve is ridiculously cute and adorable, and I can’t tear myself away from her.

I hang with her in her ex-pen, where we take naps together.

If you’re not familiar with an ex-pen, it’s where you put your ex-husband.

Just kidding.

Or maybe fantasizing.

An ex-pen is something that a genius friend of mine recommended, so the new puppy could have a place that was all her own in a house dominated by Boone and Kit, who have lived here for twelve years and like things to stay the same.

As in, we didn’t need a sibling, so why did you get us one?

I was worried they would be less than welcoming, if not murderous.

So I set up a large ex-pen in the kitchen and the family room, where Eve can hang out with her toys.

It’s like a dog playpen.

Or protective custody.

But in the good news category, Boone and Kit are taking her appearance surprisingly well.

So even that is going better than expected!

Meanwhile I’ve had a week of furry bliss and puppy breath.

Although I’m getting nothing done, I’m adding years to my life from endorphins bubbling in my veins.

Or wherever endorphins bubble.

If they bubble.

At this point, the only holiday shopping I’ve done is to buy dog toys, so Eve has approximately twenty, most of which squeak, rattle, and roll when I throw them to her. She would play all day, if she got her way.

Basically, she gets her way.

Sometimes we play fetch, which means that I throw the ball and then I go fetch it.

We go outside 45 times a day and three times a night, but I don’t mind. At my age and hers, we’re both fighting urinary incontinence.

The only downside is that her favorite chew toy is me.

She likes to bite my clothes, hands, arms, and basically any part of me that she can reach, flying across the ex-pen like the killer bunny in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It’s pretty funny but I know it’s not great behavior.

In this mode, she’s not Eve, she’s Evil.

My dog training books say that I can’t let her bite me and I have to start saying no.

I hate No.

I love Yes.

But I’m going to give it a try today.

Maybe.

Participation Trophy

January 3, 2025December 8, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Let me tell you the story of Motorcycle Mary.

Not to be confused with Mother Mary.

Both women were inspiring, but in different ways.

Motorcycle Mary was Mary McGee, who was the first woman in the United States to race a motorcycle.

She passed away recently at eighty-seven, and I learned about her from a short film co-produced by my favorite Formula One race driver, Lewis Hamilton.

Yes, I’m into Formula One.

Ever since I found the Netflix series Drive to Survive I became immediately addicted to Formula One, even at this late stage of my life.

At the time, I was Formula 68.

Also I got a crush on Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz, Charles LeClerc, and the other drivers. Hot men in hot cars. What’s not to like?

Now I watch the races, read the books, buy the gear, and see film shorts about amazing women like Motorcycle Mary.

She’s also the first person to race a motorcycle alone, five hundred miles across the Baja desert, in 1975. She was denied recognition and awards because she was a woman, but she didn’t let that stop her. She loved racing, so she did it more and more, despite hardship and even sabotage. When she was asked why, she answered:

“I choose to participate in life.”

Wow!

I thought that was such a wonderful perspective, even for the holidays, when there are no motorcycles in sight.

I mean, we’re busy year round, then the holidays arrive and bring more and more tasks. We process this as stress, understandably, so the holidays can become negative. Buying gifts, finding the right size, and hoping the package comes on time become chores that keep us up at night.

Or is it just me?

But lately I’m thinking about Motorcycle Mary.

And I might be Motorcycle Lisa.

Or more my speed, Tricycle Lisa.

Because I’m coming to believe that adding things is simply participating in life.

Which is good.

In fact, doing more things is just participating more and more.

Maybe life is about participating.

And we all deserve a participation trophy.

Since when do they have such a bad name?

I never agreed with that.

A participation trophy means you came, you had fun, and you went home.

Why not?

The participation trophy that motorcycle Mary is talking about is a life fully-lived.

With more adventures.

Column Classic: Giving Thanks

January 3, 2025December 1, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Happy Thanksgiving! Rerunning this column with love and gratitude for all the family and friends at our Thanksgiving tables, and in memory of those who also have empty chairs.

Information is like turkey and stuffing.

It’s hard to tell when you’ve had enough.

And the more you get, the more you want.

At least that’s how I feel. I’m bad at portion control, whether it’s Thanksgiving dinner or information.

Obviously, I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too much information. If you read this column, you know about my bunions, fleas, cellulite, and Mother Mary.

One of these is to be avoided at all costs.

Not the one you think.

I love information. I always want more. When I look back at my life, I regret the things I wouldn’t have done if I’d had more information. I’m talking Thing One, Thing Two, and Amway products.

But it turns out you can get more information than ever before, and I am giving thanks.

Because I heard about this kit you can buy, test yourself, and find out your DNA.

I went to the website to learn about it, astounded. You order the kit, test your saliva, and send it back to the company.

Yes, you mail them your spit.

I’m wondering if I can mail them my cellulite, too.

Plus a few fleas.

Anyway, I am excited about this, and I ordered one for Daughter Francesca and one for me.

Merry Christmas, Francesca!

I don’t know if Francesca wants a DNA kit for Christmas. If she doesn’t, I’ll take the test twice. Maybe my score will improve, like the SATs.

I didn’t get a DNA kit for Mother Mary. I can find out what’s in her DNA by looking in the mirror.

Also, can you imagine asking Mother Mary for a saliva sample?

“Here!” she’d say, and spit in my face.

So why do I want to do this? The test can let you know tons of things about yourself. For example, if you’re a carrier of 53 different diseases, including Maple Syrup Urine Disease.

I bet you didn’t even know that existed.

Neither did I.

Maybe Mrs. Butterworth had it.

I’m not sure what Maple Syrup Urine Disease is, but I’m guessing it’s a disease that makes your urine look like maple syrup.

In that case, my medical advice would be simple.

Don’t pee on your pancakes.

It may look right, but it won’t taste right.

The test also lets you know if you’re at risk for 122 diseases, including back pain.

Okay, maybe I already know that one.

And the test can determine 60 of my genetic traits, but I already know a lot of those, too. For example:

Eye Color: Bloodshot Blue.

Hair Color: Fake.

Height: Stumpy.

Breast Morphology: Presently Morphing Due to Gravity and Unfairness of Life in General.

Memory: Huh?

Earwax Type: Johnson’s.

Eating Behavior: Rapid and Unattractive.

Food Preference: Yes.

Caffeine Consumption: Dunkin Donuts.

Odor Detection: How dare you.

Pain response. Ouchy.

Muscle Performance: Slack and Wasting.

Response to exercise: Procrastination.

Response to Diet: Not Applicable.

The test can even tell you whether you’re a carrier or at risk of a disease based on whether you originate from Europe, East Asia, or sub-Saharan Africa. Sadly, there are no separate categories for those of us who originate in South Philly.

Yo!

Interestingly, the kit can also tell you about your own ancestry. Both my mother and father were Italian-American, so I always assumed I was a purebred.

But maybe not.

And if I’m not Italian, somebody has to explain my nose.

The test can even determine what percent of my DNA comes from Neanderthals, which the website calls a Neanderthal Percentage,

I thought we all came from Neanderthals, but maybe not. Maybe there are other kinds of Thals.

The website says that Neanderthals have a bigger skull, which sounds exactly like me. Mother Mary always said I have a hard head, and now I have an excuse.

It’s in my DNA.

In fact, it’s her fault.

But will you be the one to tell her?

Grand Theft What?

January 3, 2025November 24, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Lately there are a lot of wacky stories in the news, but there’s one that has me shaking my head.

In a good way.

I’m talking about the two masked burglars who broke into the Windsor Castle grounds and stole a pickup and a quad bike. Evidently they climbed a six-foot wall, entered the royal property, and took the vehicles, driving them out through a security checkpoint.

Of course, at the outset I have to say that I’m not taking this lightly.

I like the royal family and I want them to be safe.

And I expect they’ll do just fine.

I bet they already installed a Ring camera.

And I have so many questions, I don’t know where to begin.

But I don’t have normal questions like, how could this happen?

I have better questions.

Like, why?

If all the burglars wanted was a pickup truck and a quad bike, whatever that is, I’m pretty sure they could have stolen them off the street.

Or from somebody’s driveway.

Just not from the driveway of a king.

Like, anybody else’s driveway would do.

There’s just one driveway that won’t do.

And it’s the one they chose.

I don’t get it.

It seems like the path of most resistance.

Me, if I were going to do bad things, I’d avoid a king’s property altogether.

I don’t want to end up in the dungeon.

I mean, the burglars got away for now, but eventually the cops are going to catch them and throw the book at them.

Do you really want a king pissed off at you?

I don’t.

I’d steal the car of somebody who isn’t the king.

Generally, you want to avoid bad things and kings being in the same sentence.

Meanwhile, the king was away and so was the queen. But the prince and the princess were there and that’s bad enough.

I’m sure an angry prince is almost as bad as an angry king, and someday the prince is going to be the king and he’s going to remember who took his quad bike, whatever that is.

And he’s going to throw you in the dungeon.

Luckily, we don’t have to worry about kings and dungeons here.

I hope.

The other question I have is, if you find yourself having scaled a wall to get into the grounds at Windsor Castle, why steal a pickup and a quad bike?

Like I say, you can get that anywhere.

I myself own a pickup.

I love it, but I wouldn’t break into a castle to get it.

If I broke into a castle, I’d hotfoot it for the crowns.

That’s something you can’t get anywhere else.

I’d take the crown jewels, too, even though that’s another thing I don’t understand exactly what it is. I assume it means that the king and the queen are so rich that even their crowns have jewelry.

Either way, I’d take it all.

Anything that glitters, I’d stick in my pocket.

Also silver pitchers and stuff, because it’s so pretty and high-class.

Bottom line, if I broke into the classiest place ever, I’d take something classy.

Now, if these burglars have some kind of quad-bike fixation, they could have ridden the quad bike to the crown jewels.

That’s a crime that makes sense.

And also I have another question:

What, no moat?

If I had a castle, you can be damn sure I’d have a moat.

I’d stock it with piranhas, crocodiles, and a sea monster or two.

And when I got bored, I throw my quad bike in the moat.

Column Classic: Mother Mary and The Retirement Village

January 3, 2025November 17, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Sooner or later, most families will deal with the question of whether an aging mom or dad should move to a retirement community. The pamphlets say it’s not an easy decision, and they never met Mother Mary.

We begin with some background.

As you may know, my mother lives with Brother Frank in South Beach, and lately they’ve been talking about selling their house.

By lately, I mean the past twenty years.

The Flying Scottolines move slowly. So slowly, in fact, that we try to sell houses in the worst recession of all time, in which the real estate prices are at an all-time low. If you need investment advice, just ask us. We hear that tech stocks are superhot.

If Mother Mary and Brother Frank sell their house, the question becomes whether they should continue to live together, or whether Mother Mary should move to a retirement village.

It takes a village to raise Mother Mary.

And I wish it luck.

Anyway, they can’t decide what to do. They love living together. He’s gay, and his gay friends love their moms, so they’re all living in a happy circle of fragrant stereotypes.

And Frank takes wonderful care of her, taking her to all of her doctor’s appointments, grocery store runs, and occasional dinners out. There’s a special place in heaven reserved for people who take such great care of their parents, and once my brother gets there, he’ll not only get a free pass, he’ll be allowed to park anywhere.

By the way, Mother Mary doesn’t want to live with me, because she says, “All you do is read and write.”

To which I plead guilty.

And though we prefer her to live with family, we all know that Frank might not always be able to take care of her, and that even though she’s in great health now, she might not always be. So we’re all confused, and I decided that we should go visit a retirement village near me in Pennsylvania, since none of us had ever seen one. In fact, we’re so old-school that we kept calling it a “nursing home,” which is the last term that applies.

On the contrary, it’s paradise.

We were shown through a lovely building, complete with two restaurants and a “pub,” which serves drinks in front of a big TV. We read a daily menu that included trout almandine, duck with wild rice, and baked Alaska. We toured a gym that had a Jacuzzi and an indoor pool. We saw a beautiful one-bedroom apartment with freshly painted walls, cushy wool rugs, and maid service. We got brochures on discount trips to Egypt and London. And they have a computer class, a book club, canasta, bridge, and pinochle clubs, plus yoga, aerobics, free weights, and “seated” exercise.

So you know where this is going:

I’m ready to move in.

Now.

Say the word.

Retire me.

I’m old enough, at least I feel old enough.

They had me at “seated exercise.” Exercising while seated is my kind of exercise. It’s a piece a cake.

Just do it.

For example, I’m seated right now, watching football on TV, which I gather is “unseated exercise.” How conventional. All that moving around.

Who needs it?

But to stay on point, I fell in love with the place, and so did Brother Frank. It even had a huge model train set, which he began playing with immediately, pressing the button to make the toy locomotive chug through the fake forest, until it derailed, careened off the track, and vanished into some fake shrubbery.

He walked away quickly.

I blamed it on my mother.

Why not? It’s the American way.

And I bet you think you know what Mother Mary thought of the place.

She loved it.

Surprise!

She’s hasn’t decided she wants to move there, and they’re going back to Florida to let it sink in. We’ll see what happens, and I’ll let you know. I’m just happy that’s she didn’t reject the idea outright.

I think they had her at “maid service.”

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