Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Penny For Your Thoughts

February 23, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I guess you heard the big financial news.

Or rather the little financial news.

They’re getting rid of the penny.

Rats!

Do you want to live in a world without pennies?

I don’t.

Pennies are so cute!

Evidently it costs $0.04 to make a penny, so I guess it’s economic.

But it costs $0.14 to make a nickel, and nobody’s dissing the nickel.

I’d take a penny over a nickel any day.

You can’t quantify everything.

Even money.

I love pennies so much I named a dog Penny. Her fur was the warm copper color of a penny.

A penny’s only 2% copper and 98% zinc, but still.

Zinc is a bad dog name.

And I always pick up a penny if I see one on the sidewalk, then I say the lines: See a penny, pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.

Honestly, I’ve been lucky since my last divorce.

I have purses that have a penny in them that I found on the sidewalk.

What are we going to do for luck now?

When we seem to need it most?

I even have memories associated with pennies.

I always got pennies in my Christmas stocking, which I loved. Somehow a penny on a magical morning is worth more than a cent.

And I had pink piggybank full of pennies. It was about three dollars but I felt rich as Midas. And I remember getting coin envelopes, stacking the pennies inside, then taking them to the bank and depositing them in my savings account.

I still have that plaid passbook.

Its balance won’t buy a pack of gum, but it has sentimental value, which is the most expensive kind.

I owned a pair of penny loafers, with actual pennies in the slot.

And how about when you went on a field trip, and they had big machines that you could put a penny in, and it would smash the penny into a souvenir?

I did that a bunch of times.

I remember how cool it was to press the penny and get this squashed penny that of course I would lose.

But still, pennies!

Remember penny candy?

When I was a kid, I used to go to a candy store and get penny candy out of a big glass jars. Come to think of it, we would all stick our hand in the same jar, so it couldn’t have been sanitary.

But what do you want for a penny?

You get what you pay for.

Cheap germs!

And I remember putting a penny in a gumball machine.

Magic!

Or, stale gum!

And there are so many expressions with pennies.

Like, a penny for your thoughts.

Now we won’t know what anybody is thinking.

Women are always asking men that in the movies.

I myself have asked men that question, in a feeble bid for intimacy.

Funny, when I heard the answer, it wasn’t worth the money.

And how about the expression, bright as a penny?

Now nothing will be bright.

Penny wise and pound foolish?

I think of that all the time.

It guides my financial planning.

And how about, not a penny more?

I think it when I’m shopping online.

A pretty penny?

Gives me a shiny image every time.

And how about penny ante?

Or in for a penny, in for a pound.

I love that expression.

Or penny dreadful?

I hate that expression.

Penny stocks will probably continue.

Because money makes the world go round, in whatever denomination.

But me, I’m saving my pennies.

Cracking Up

February 16, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

As far as I’m concerned, there are three seasons: spring, summer, fall, and cracked feet.

Read on, unless you nauseate easily.

Because I’m trying to understand what happens to my feet in winter time.

I simply don’t recognize them anymore.

I’m not sure they’re even human.

My toes look like blocks, and on the bottom, the edges are sharp.

I could cut Gruyère with my toes.

Plus there’s a white rim around the edges of both feet.

Cracks form like tectonic plates on my heels.

Flakes of skin come off if I scratch my soles.

Did you just throw up?

I did, and it landed on my feet.

And improved them.

The fun begins when the cracks start bleeding. Sometimes it hurts to walk. I mean, it’s not torture, but I have a low pain threshold.

Then I have to put Neosporin on the cracks and cover them with Band-aids, so my feet look like busted tires in a cartoon.

And no shoes help.

If I wear clogs, I can’t tell the difference between the wooden base and my feet.

I could walk across fiery coals and not feel a thing.

By the way, that’s the perfect description of my second marriage.

To return to point, I know women aren’t supposed to loathe their bodies, and generally I don’t, but my feet deserve it.

In fact, they’re getting off easy.

I think you should loathe them, too.

And now, maybe you do.

Most of you might read this and say, Obviously Lisa, you need to moisturize your feet.

To which I would reply, Honey, there is no amount of moisture that would make my feet human again.

I’ve tried Vaseline, Gold Bond, Cetaphil, and every other product on the market. I slather them on my feet at night, and the next morning, my feet are exactly the same.

They suck up all the moisture.

They’re thirsty and they drink like crazy.

Basically, I think all those products work the same way, which is that they cover your feet and seal its moisture in.

But what if there’s no moisture to seal in?

Honestly, it’s like the Sahara down there.

I’m dry as dust.

And it’s not because I’m getting older. I’ve had this my whole entire life.

And don’t get me started on my legs.

There are alligators with better skin.

But even so, my legs aren’t as dry as my feet. You know it’s bad when people try to help. At Christmas, Daughter Francesca gave me a special kind of balm that you put on your feet at night with little red gel socks.

I slept in those for a week.

You know what got moisturized?

The socks.

I have the moistest socks in the tri-state area.

Also my sheets, because I get sick of wearing socks to bed.

My sheets are a Slip ‘N Slide.

And when you sleep with dogs, the dogs try to lick moisturizer off your feet.

Apparently Cetaphil is tasty.

It’s an appetizer to Gold Bond.

Sometimes I let the dogs lick my toes.

It’s the only action in my bedroom.

And you know what, I’m not complaining.

And as far as my feet go, I’m waiting ‘til spring.

Us and Them and the Super Bowl

February 9, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

It’s Super Bowl weekend, the Eagles against the Chiefs!

And I’m an Eagles fan, but it got me thinking.

Yes, I know. Some of you believe a thinking Eagles fan is an oxymoron.

Or that we’re morons.

But don’t hate us.

No more hating.

Because we live in divided times, but we can’t let the times divide us.

It shouldn’t be Eagles fans against Chiefs fans.

Because the Super Bowl isn’t litigation or war, it’s a game.

I believe the sentient among us understand that, even us Eagles fans.

Obviously, it’s fun to be in a tribe, and sing the songs, and wear the team colors, and get a little crazy. Case in point, I was wearing my Eagle’s jacket this week when I went into Nudy’s restaurant in my town, and they were giving out free breakfast to everybody in Eagles gear.

Wow!

In other words you didn’t have to be nude at Nudy’s.

And it was fun to see everybody dressed up in team gear and know that we felt the same way about at least one thing – free food.

Tribalism is fun, but you have to know where to draw the line.

And we do, all the time.

For example, only two teams are in the Super Bowl every year, but everybody watches it, enjoys it, and even throws a party. The Eagles have rarely been in the Super Bowl, but I watch it every single year and love every minute. I have opinions about the commercials, the half-time show, the refereeing, and even the play-calling.

Meanwhile I never played football in my life.

The Monday after the Super Bowl, everybody’s a Monday morning quarterback.

And everybody’s got opinions.

And I love that everybody loves to talk about their opinions and share them and discuss it and maybe even disagree. We rank the commercials. We decide whether the halftime show compares to Prince’s. We have a lot to yak about.

But nobody gets up in arms.

Or fights about it.

Or hates over it.

Or thinks of someone else as the Other, but rather just Another.

An unusual thing happened to me yesterday, which reminded me of that lesson.

I dented my car and I brought it into a body shop, and lo and behold, I found out that the owner was my cousin.

My actual cousin.

I had no idea he even existed. We have family reunions now and then, and he had not been at them. But as soon as I looked at him, I saw a faint reflection of my late father’s eyes.

And I teared up, like a big baby.

It turns out that our grandfathers were brothers, back in Italy, and they came to this country at about the same time, speaking only Italian and having nothing but a dream of this remarkable country and the willingness to work hard. That’s exactly what they did, and remarkably enough, only one generation later, their grandchildren, two total strangers who speak very little Italian, met by chance.

And besides the personal story, it made me realize something else, especially this Super Bowl week, in these crazy times when everybody is a Republican, a Democrat, a Libertarians, or a vegetarian.

We really do have more in common than we have different, and that is our shared humanity.

Any one of us could be the other’s family.

Because in truth, we are.

Everyone is someone’s family.

We’re all one big team.

And if we start thinking this way, we all can win.

Go, us!

Heavy Petting

February 2, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I was in New York and something great happened!

Let me explain.

I was there last weekend visiting Daughter Francesca, and we did a million things, including go to the Javitz Center to Meet the Breeds, a dog show where you can see dogs of all varieties, and pet them and kiss them.

Of course, we have dogs at home that we can pet and kiss.

So God knows why we paid thirty bucks to pet and kiss other peoples’ dogs, but there you have it.

We love dogs.

It was a great time, then afterwards Francesca had somewhere else to go and I went back to the apartment to watch the Eagles in the NFC playoffs, which I did with Flat Bradley, a cardboard cutout of Bradley Cooper.

It’s way more fun than it sounds.

And we won!

I mean the Eagles.

I also won, because Flat Bradley is the perfect man for me.

He doesn’t expect dinner and he doesn’t want my money.

And the sex is great.

You can follow along on my social media, where I post all the pix.

Except for the ones that are NSFW.

Back to the story.

The whole weekend, I was taking cabs and whipping out my credit card left and right. The day I packed to leave, I was missing my American Express card.

I had no idea where I lost it.

Before I go further, let me tell you that the last time I lost a credit card, I was also visiting Francesca in New York City. It was my Visa card and it dropped out of my pocket as I walked along the Hudson River. I cancelled the card, but later that day, a woman emailed me through my website to say she’d found it!

I love New York!

After that I vowed to never carry a credit card in my pocket.

Now I carry my credit card in my wallet.

But I manage to lose it anyway.

I know.

I’m amazing, right?

I’m Queen of Unforced Errors.

The proof is that I got married a second time.

Anyway to return to the story, I was walking to get a coffee before I called the credit card company, and I walked in the door of the coffee shop, it struck me that I had been here two days ago.

So I took a chance and asked the barista, “By any chance, did I leave an American Express card here?”

And the barista asked, “What’s your name?”

I did not answer Mrs. Bradley Cooper, even though I have the mug that says so.

I answered, and he said, “Yes, you left your card!”

And he handed it to me!

What?

Amazingly, I’ve lost a credit card in New York on two occasions and both times, New York gave me the card back!

What a city!

And that morning I walked to the car, carrying my coffee and Flat Bradley.

You think New York has seen everything?

It’s hasn’t.

On the sidewalk, every head turned.

Drivers in cars pointed and laughed.

Yes, I had a walk of shame with a cardboard celebrity.

And we’ll be watching the Super Bowl together, me and my corrugated man.

Go Birds!

Fanfare

January 26, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

It’s playoff season!

For me that means, Go Birds!

Yes, I’m an Eagles fan.

Lifelong. Die hard. I bleed green.

At least I did before menopause.

Anyway the reason this matters is lately I’m wondering if I’m a jerk.

Because I was listening to the radio, and they were talking about how awful Eagles fans were.

And then I read an editorial about how awful Eagles fans were.

And then I asked my bestie Laura and she said a lot of people think Eagles fans are awful, but I still love you.

OK, I didn’t know any of this.

Maybe I should have, since the stadium has its own in-house judge to send fans to jail when they get out of line.

Buzzkill.

Another hint is Robert DeNiro as an Eagles fan in The Silver Linings Playbook, a movie I love because it has an adorable Jennifer Lawrence and also my imaginary boyfriend Bradley Cooper.

But I thought that movie was just fiction.

But now I realize I was in denial.

Nobody tells us Eagles fans that we’re jerks.

Maybe because they’re afraid of getting punched in the mouth.

Me, I’m not that kind of Eagles fan.

But it got me thinking, like that Reddit forum, Am I The Asshole?

Like when I say I’m the Eagles fan, do people think I’m an asshole?

Because I’m kind of not.

At least you have to know me better to know what kind of asshole I am.

And if I really plumb my fandom with the Eagles, it comes from being a shariah Philadelphian.

This is my hometown, I’ve never lived anywhere else, and I have the accent to prove it.

But if I go deeper, my love for the Eagles goes back to being Frank Scottoline’s daughter.

My father wasn’t the Eagles fan that you expect, certainly not an asshole, and not even a sports fan in general.

But I used to spend every Sunday lying on the living room floor with him, watching games.

My family is big lying-on-the-floor fans.

I still am.

There is no couch that beats a floor.

The dogs love it cause we cuddle up.

And any time I watch an Eagles game from the floor, I remember my dad lying beside me, explaining about the offensive and the defensive teams, and telling me the names of the players.

He was a mellow guy so he never shouted at the TV. In fact I don’t think I ever heard my father curse.

Meanwhile my mother’s hobby was profanity.

So maybe you see why the divorce.

My father and I never went to a single football game. We didn’t have the money, but I didn’t know that. What we had was a soft rug, plenty of potato chips, real coke with sugar, and a father and a daughter lying on the floor for two games back-to-back, talking for eight hours.

And during playoff season, that would include Saturdays.

So yes, I’m an Eagles fan, but I hope you like me anyway.

Sadly my father has passed on, so now I watch the game with a cardboard cutout of Bradley Cooper.

You might think I’m kidding but I’m not.

I started doing it because I know from the children’s books that kids love Flat Stanley, and I started thinking, why can’t adults have Flat Bradley?

Well it turns out I can.

So I bought a cardboard standee of Bradley Cooper a few years ago, and then he got a little worse for wear.

I won’t tell you how.

Then my bestie Franca got me a new Flat Bradley, and he looked so good in his cardboard tuxedo.

You can check my social media during the playoffs and watch me make dirty jokes with a cardboard cutout of a man.

Why do I do it?

For fun.

Because if you ask me, I think fandom is about fun. It’s about belonging to a community, or a city, or a group of people who love the same thing.

I love fans of all kinds.

I love fans of anything.

I love people who love things.

To me, that’s what life is about.

It’s a loving kinship, with team gear.

So Go Birds!

We’re family.

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.

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