Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

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.

Classic Column: Game of Thrones

June 28, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

If you read me, you know that I get jazzed about certain products.

And then I spread the word, herein.

I’d like to do that right now, with a short preface before I get to the point.

This, instead of my usual endless preface before I get to the point.

Getting to the point isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

So here we go.

First, my favorite product in the world is my books. If you enjoy these Sunday stories, they’re all collected in books I write with Daughter Francesca, and you should buy some and read them right away.

What you waiting for? You know you already like me, and the books are cheap.

And thank you for your support.

Second, any one of my books would go very nicely with the product I am about to recommend, but this is where we come to another preface. The following is for mature audiences only.

Also my readers.

If you like what I write about, and the way I write about it, you should feel free to keep reading. I say this with confidence because if you meet all of the above criteria, then you have endured stories about bunions, gray chin hairs, and adult diaper rash. And through my misadventures, I’ve recommended products I love, like Boudreaux’s Butt Paste, ThermaCare, and Bradley Cooper.

In other words, you know way too much about me and you don’t mind. Maybe you can relate.

Or you have a strong stomach.

And a great sense of humor.

Even if your breasts sag.

So what?

Unsaggy breasts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, either.

I mean, we get it, girls.

Soon you’ll be us.

Anyway, to inch closer to my point, there’s an ick factor to the discussion of my second-favorite product, so if I haven’t cured you of your prissiness so far, check out now.

Because we’re entering the throne room with my favorite new throne.

The Squatty Potty.

I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but it’s my new love.

I heard about the Squatty Potty on the radio, and I thought it sounded like an interesting idea. Bottom line, and no pun, it’s basically a stool that fits around the base of your toilet, and so when you sit on the toilet, it raises your legs into a squatting position.

Still with me?

Good. Either way. You can’t please everybody, and the people who continue to read will have their life changed.

Or at least their colon.

By the way, I have no problem in the bathroom.

Only in the bedroom.

In that I sleep with five dogs and a remote control.

Plus I’m no doctor, but I believe the Squatty Potty website, which says that squatting relaxes the puborectalis muscle, or basically, a kink in your colon. When you use your Squatty Potty, your colon gets unkinked.

Again, not a medical term.

I have a J.D., not an M.D.

But I like the idea that a squatting position is more natural for your anatomy. It may be a sign of the times that I’ve fallen in love with a toilet, but I don’t view it as being about elimination. I view it as being about my health, and by my health I mean me living as long as humanly possible and then some.

I want you to live as long that long, too, especially if you’re buying my books.

I always used to think about death, but after I turned sixty, it became more than academic. I truly wonder what will kill me, but unfortunately as soon as I find out, I’ll be dead.

Everything has a catch.

But I do find myself being more conscientious about eating healthy foods and exercising even when I don’t want to.

Let’s pretend golf is exercise.

Everybody else does.

But my favorite exercise of all is sitting down, and now I can sit down and know that I’m getting healthier, every time I’m in the throne room.

Look at it this way.

If you don’t want to do squats, you can just, well, squat.

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.

Classic Column: The Great Makeup Organization

June 21, 2026

By Francesca Serritella

My bathroom is covered in makeup.

Lipsticks and lip balms live on every ledge and sometimes end up in the dog’s mouth. The closed toilet seat cover is a staging area for foundation and blushes. Brushes peek out of a coffee mug that barely fits on the counter. Eye-shadow compacts litter the sink’s edge, daring to be knocked off and shatter on the floor.

In my defense, my bathroom is so small, three things out of place make it look like a disaster zone.

And I never have only three things out of place.

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

Francesa’s novel FULL BLOOM will be out in paperback on July 21, 2026.

Lisa’s new thriller THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING is on sale July 14, 2026

Classic Column: Gangrene Thumb

June 14, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

You may recall I mentioned earlier that I water my garden too much.

That problem is now solved.

Because I’m out of water.

Our story begins when I noticed that the water pressure in my house is low.

Hmm.

By the way, I have well water. We live like pioneers in our township, which has no police, fire, or garbage removal, though I don’t have to sew the American flag.

Thanks, township!

Anyway, the water level in my well generally goes down when there’s no rain, but it was getting worse and worse until I realized that something must be wrong in the springhouse.

If you don’t know what a springhouse is, welcome to the club.

All I know is that it’s a picturesque little shed that houses where the water comes up from the well. More than that I can’t explain, because I have no understanding of how my springhouse works. I never go in there because it’s damp, dark, and scary, like a basement on steroids.

I called the plumbers who specialize in wells and they wanted me to show them the springhouse, so I was shamed into going in. Inside were strange black gauges, weird blue tanks, and two body-size open trays of water, which is the water I drink, evidently laying around all day and night, so that bugs, snakes, paramecium, and God-knows-what-else can swim around in it before it finds its way into the glass that I put to my parched lips.

Delicious.

The plumbers inspect the well and say that it’s fine, so we all leave the springhouse and troop around the lawn to solve the mystery of why I have no water. You don’t have to be Nancy Drew to notice that the grass in my front yard, near the garden, is surprisingly soggy.

Uh oh.

So we go find the faucet for the garden hose, which is in the garage, and the plumbers guess that the pipe must be leaking under the garage, since it was never used until I put in this stupid garden. They say it must have been corroding, but the corrosion was holding it together.

Like me.

Anyway, we trace the leak backwards to the basement under the garage, which is another place I never go because it’s damp, dark, and scary, like a springhouse on steroids.

As soon as we open the door, we see that the basement brims with water. Pieces of wood, broken glass, and kreplach float by.

Long story short, we call in the plumbers who specialize in flood damage and they use three pumps to pump the water out of the basement. They figure out where the leak is in the pipe, but also surmise it can’t possibly be causing the soggy grass. In other words, I have two leaks in two pipes, caused by watering the garden!

Yay!

We call in a third set of plumbers who specialize in second leaks, and these are the guys who put on their booties before going to work.

For a middle-aged woman, a plumber is a booty call.

They find the leak under the soggy lawn but are not sure exactly where. They explain that they will need to dig trenches and lay new water lines, and that an estimator will come out on Saturday to tell me how much my gardening hobby is going to cost me.

Obviously, I have a green thumb.

Dollar-green.

So by Sunday night, as I write, my entire front lawn is a swamp.

The only dry spot is the garden, where the flowers left by the deer are dying of thirst.

Classic Column: Just Desserts

June 7, 2026

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 I 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.

But then what happened is that sometime around nine o’clock, Francesca sauntered into the kitchen and returned with a small plate of vanilla ice cream. She strolled over to the couch, sat down, and started eating.

I stared at her, along with the dogs.

It looked so delicious. I could almost taste it on my tongue. In fact, I could taste it on my tongue, because I had it two hours ago.

Two whole hours ago.

So you know where this is going.

I had to have a second dessert.

I told her it was her fault, and we had a fight.

In the end, I apologized, because she was right.

And I got what I deserved.

Classic Column: Bizarro Birthdays

May 31, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I just got off the phone with Mother Mary, who’s lost her mind. Or maybe it’s Scottoline birthday madness.

Let me explain.

She told me a story that happened to her that day, when she was going outside to do the laundry.

Yes, you read that right.

She lives in Miami with brother Frank and she goes outside to do the laundry because they keep their washer and dryer in the backyard.

This makes no sense to me, but she swears that it’s common in Florida to keep major appliances in the backyard, like shrubs with twenty-year warranties.

Still, it’s hard for me to believe. I suspect that my mother and brother are redneck Italians.

But never mind, that’s not the point of the story.

So Mother Mary is going outside to put in a load of laundry and she sees one of her neighbors, a nice young woman, walking her two-year-old son by the hand. My mother stops to say hello, and the little boy looks up at her with big blue eyes and says:

“I love you, Mary.”

So of course my mother melts, because she loves kids, and she even gets choked up telling me on the phone. The whole story is sounding really sweet until she gets to the next part, which is when she asks the mother of the toddler when is his birthday, and the woman answers:

November 23.

Okay, means nothing to you, but that’s brother Frank’s birthday.

And on the phone, my mother tells me: “I looked at that little boy, and I thought he was like Frank. Like he has your brother’s soul.”

I thought I heard her wrong. “Pardon?”

“When he said he loved me, I looked into his eyes and I could see his soul, and it was Frank’s soul.”

“You mean they’re alike?”

“No, I mean they’re the same.”

I tried to deal. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m telling you, he has the same exact blue eyes as Frank and he was born on the same day. He has Frank’s soul.”

“Ma, Frank still has his soul. He’s not dead yet.”

“I know that,” she said, irritably. “They share the same soul.”

“Ma, that’s crazy.”

“Sorry, but I know, I can tell. Remember the earthquake?”

This shuts me up, temporarily. It’s matter of public record that Mother Mary was the only person in Miami to feel an earthquake that took place in Tampa, and the South Florida newspapers even dubbed her Earthquake Mary. Ever since then, she thinks she’s Al Roker, but supernatural.

She said, “It’s the same soul. Absolutely.”

“Ma, just because they have the same birthday doesn’t mean they have the same soul.”

“Hmph. What do you know, about birthdays?”

She was referring to something I’ll never live down, which happened to me over thirty years ago, when daughter Francesca was three years old. I had taken her in a stroller into an optician’s shop in town, and a man walked through the door, pointed directly at Francesca, and said: “Her birthday is February 6.”

I was astounded. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

I went home that day and called my mother. “Ma, some guy just guessed that Francesca’s birthday is February 6! Isn’t that amazing?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because her birthday is February 7.”

I blinked. “It is?”

“Yes, dummy.”

Look, I have no idea how it happened, but for the first three years of Francesca’s life, I celebrated her birthday on the wrong day.

Sue me.

Maybe it’s because I was in labor for 349,484 hours, so the exact day she was born seemed like a technicality. And since then, it was just she and I celebrating a day earlier, with nobody around to know better.

So now I can never say anything about birthdays, ever.

But at least I know where everybody’s soul should be.

And their washer-dryers, too.

Giuseppe Scottoline

May 24, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Recently I mentioned that I received an award from International Thriller Writers called the ThrillerMaster, which makes me sound a lot more exciting than I am.

The award was a lifetime achievement award for writing, and I’m so grateful for it, especially to my readers.

But I’m not bringing it up to brag, but to tell you about the subject of my acceptance speech – my grandfather Giuseppe Scottoline.

Giuseppe came to the United States from the town of Ascoli Piceno in Italy’s Le Marche region, which is rural and beautiful. Unfortunately he passed away before I was born, so I never met him. He was only five feet tall, and by all accounts, he was very shy. My grandmother Mary, whom I knew and loved, was taller than her husband.

And she had no problem speaking her mind.

Giuseppe, Mary, and a daughter settled in West Philadelphia, where they had two more daughters and a young son who would become my father Frank Scottoline.

At first, Giuseppe wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in America, and neither did my grandmother. They were intimidated by this big, busy country, and they’d really believed the myth that the streets were paved with gold, which seems incredible.

The Scottolines are adorably gullible.

But they stayed, and Giuseppe decided to support his family by mowing lawns, with a push mower.

You can see the problem with his business plan.

There’s no grass in West Philadelphia.

So he pushed his mower to the houses that had lawns, and my father told me it was miles away. Giuseppe mowed lawns all day, then pushed the mower back home.

And the Scottolines survived.

What’s remarkable for present purposes is that Giuseppe was completely illiterate. He couldn’t read or write in his own language.

He even signed his name with an X.

I know, I’ve seen it. It wasn’t a big X, like an “X marks a spot” on a treasure map, promising untold riches. It was the little x of a shy and silent man, intended not to draw attention to itself or take up too much space.

And it strikes me as amazing that only two generations later, I received an award for writing books. Me, the granddaughter of an illiterate man.

And as you may know, my daughter Francesca is a novelist in her own right, with her debut novel nominated for Best First Novel by International Thriller Writers and a paperback title Full Bloom coming out this July.

What I’m trying to say is that Giuseppe may have been an unassuming man, but he got himself to this amazing country and thereby changed the story of his family.

His legacy wasn’t millions of dollars, but the hope for something better, which is far more precious.

It really makes me wonder how we measure lifetime achievement.

I’ve written fifty books and I’m delighted that I was recognized with an award.

But where’s the award for people like Giuseppe?

I imagine all the things people like him did during their lifetimes, the hardships they overcame and the obstacles they persevered through.

How many times did they think something wonderful was going to happen, only to learn that the streets were hard with asphalt?

How far did they push their mowers?

How did they stick it out when times became impossibly difficult, through World War II and the Great Depression? Or even now?

There are so many people who have achieved so much in their lifetime, survived, and even flourished through so much adversity, but none of them gets recognition.

I’d love to change the way we think about achievement.

Giuseppe was a little man.

But to my mind, he was a giant.

My Wild Life

May 17, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Do you remember Girls Gone Wild?

Well, at my house, Mother Nature is the girl.

And my wildlife is going wild.

We begin with the foxes.

You may know that a mother fox and her five kits moved into an old groundhog hole in my backyard.

They’re adorable!

All I do is film them all day long.

Next I’ll be making baby books for them.

But they grew up really fast and now they’re all running around like crazy, popping in and out of the den.

Last week I didn’t see them for a day and I worried they left for college.

Then they came back, all five kits, with backpacks and girlfriends and everything.

Now I have six foxes in my backyard, which they call home.

Like their den is right outside my den.

I was tempted to try to domesticate one because I read that they’re like dogs.

Hopefully they’re better than Eve/Evil.

Can you walk a fox?

But my friends talked me out of it. Everyone’s worried they’ll cause trouble, but it’s the squirrels causing the trouble.

Let me explain.

I own a Toyota Tundra, which is a wonderful truck in every way.

Unfortunately, squirrels like it, too

Because every year, no matter how much I use the truck, I open the door to find shredded paper all over the front seat. So I follow the pieces to the glove box and when I open it, it’s full of nuts, twigs, and pieces of what used to be the air filter that goes to the cab.

And I have to pay $700.00 to replace the air filter.

So this year, I moved the truck to a different location and hoped that the squirrels wouldn’t find it.

But they did, the next day.

I had an entire squirrel family nesting in the engine.

Honestly it’s nuts.

And it’s costing me money I’d squirreled away.

Between the fox den and the squirrel nest, my life is a children’s book.

Then I started to wonder why squirrels don’t eat the filters in my other cars, which are parked in the same place.

So I went online and got my answer.

Evidently, Toyota lines its air filters in the Tundra with soybean oil, and guess what?

Squirrels are vegan?

Who knew?

Everybody on the online message boards has different suggestions for ways to keep squirrels from eating the filters, like:

“Hit the recirc button.”

No. I’d have to find it first.

“Spray peppermint oil mixed with water.”

Sorry. Too woo-woo.

“Remove the wiper arms and cowling, then secure galvanized mesh over the intake gap.”

No. What?

The only mesh I care about is pelvic.

Me, I’m thinking of another solution.

Not bothering to replace the air filter in my cab.

I don’t know why I need an air filter in my cab.

I don’t know why I need filtered air anywhere.

What am I filtering out?

Certainly not squirrels.

I don’t use the truck often enough to catch whatever contagion is outside the cab.

I guess an air filter is like a mask for your car.

So I’m going commando.

It’s Nature’s way.

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