Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Column Classic: Mother Mary Grounds 4000 Flights

April 20, 2025

by Lisa Scottoline

A column classic in honor of Mother Mary, who passed eleven years ago, but whose memory lives on. Thanks to all of you who continue to celebrate her and read about her.

I believe in science.

Except when it comes to Mother Mary.

I always think of her this time of year, because she passed away 5 years ago, on Palm Sunday.

Yes, I’m aware that the date of Palm Sunday moves, so that it’s not the actual day she passed, which was April 13. But it’s so Mother Mary to remember her on the holiday, and I’ll explain why.

She was only 4’11”, but her personality was ten times her size.

I love talking about her, which I just did, on book tour. I’m supposed to talk about my new book, Someone Knows, but I always end up telling funny stories about her, and oddly, they all involve the weather.

I tell the story about how she was the only person in South Florida who felt an earthquake that had occurred in Tampa, a fact proved by a call she had made to the Miami Herald to report same. When the TV newsvan went to her house, they called her Earthquake Mary.

Which she loved.

I tell a story about how I made her fly north to get out of the path of a hurricane, and when she was interviewed about it at the airport, she said, “I’m not afraid of a hurricane, I am a hurricane.”

I tell a story about the day of her memorial service, when it rained so hard that my entrance hall flooded, which has never happened before or since.

And then this Palm Sunday, she sent me another weather-related sign.

I was sitting on a plane in St. Louis and heading for Chicago, when we heard that there was a sudden snowstorm blowing into Chicago.

In the middle of April.

I know it snows a lot in Chicago, but not that much in April, and this storm was unexpected. My flight and others were delayed because the Chicago airport was putting a ground hold on all flights, so we sat on the plane and waited.

And waited.

It turned out that 4000 flights were canceled that day, and mine was one of them.

Unfortunately, I missed my book signing in Chicago.

My apologies.

And I thought of my mother, which is when I wondered if, in fact, that was what she’d wanted all along.

Mother Mary was the youngest of nineteen children, so we can guess she didn’t get much attention. Even now, I think she’s saying, Look at me.

Think of me.

Remember me.

Of course, I need no reminder, nor do you, to remember those you loved and lost.

Holidays are bittersweet for those who have lost people on or around them, but there’s a part of me that thinks Mother Mary likes being remembered on Palm Sunday.

An extraordinary day for an extraordinary woman.

She loved whenever Francesca and I wrote about her. You may remember when Philadelphia magazine published its Best of Philadelphia awards and gave Chick Wit an award. For Worst of Philadelphia.

Thanks, Philly mag.

I’m still laughing.

Last.

Mother Mary happened to be visiting when I got that award and she was very disappointed.

Because it didn’t mention her.

Thanks to all of you who like the stories about her. Many of you have been to my house for our Big Book Club Party and were as loving to her as if she were your own mother.

With profanity added.

Mother Mary bathed in your affection and talked about you readers all the time. You gave her a gift that she didn’t even know she needed.

A spotlight.

In my opinion, every mother deserves one.

Mother’s Day may be around the corner, but honestly, I don’t think we give mothers the credit they deserve.

They were the invisible force of nature behind all of us, and if we were lucky, it was a fair wind, not an ill one.

I was lucky, and so was my brother Frank.

Mother Mary was the most loving of mothers and adored being a grandmother, too. I love when Francesca writes about her, because though we know how much grandparents adore their grandchildren, it’s not often you get to hear how much a grandchild loves a grandparent.

Even more.

We call Francesca The Grandmother Whisperer, because my mother would do anything if Francesca asked.

But not if I did.

Because Francesca asked, Mother Mary even went to the fireworks on July 4, and you haven’t lived until you’ve sat under an exploding sky with your vaguely combustible mother.

When Mother Mary was in hospice at our house, Francesca was at her side, caring for her, talking with her, and doing my mother’s nails, a loving act made more poignant by its circumstances.

Mother Mary used to joke that when she passed, she wanted a mausoleum.

At least I think it was a joke.

She was proud of herself.

She stood up for herself.

She tried to get the best for herself and her family.

She loved people. She could not walk into an Acme without greeting the produce guys, whom she knew by name.

She struck up conversations with every shopper.

She played peekaboo with every baby.

She made life fun.

If Mother Mary grounded 4000 flights, she had a good laugh over it.

So did I.

Happy Easter, Mom.

We love you.

Column Classic: Shades of Gray

April 13, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

What’s the difference between accepting yourself and giving up?

I’m talking of course, about going gray.

Because that’s what’s happening.

I’ve had glimmers of gray hair before, but it was concentrated on the right and left sides of my head, which gave me a nice Bride-of-Frankenstein look.

But I’ve been working so hard over the winter that I haven’t bothered to get my hair highlighted, and today I noticed that there’s a lot more gray than there used to be.

And you know what?

It doesn’t look terrible.

Also the world did not come to an end.

In fact, nothing happened, one way or the other.

But before we start talking about going gray, we have to talk about going brown. I seem to remember that brown is my natural hair color, but I forget. In any event, sometime in the Jurassic, I started highlighting my hair. It was long enough ago that highlights didn’t require a second mortgage.

But no matter, some women are vain enough to pay anything to look good, and she would be me. I figured my highlights were a cost of doing business. In fact, I named my company Smart Blonde, so highlights were practically a job requirement, if not a uniform.

In fact, maybe highlights are deductible.

Just kidding, IRS.

(I know they’ll really laugh at that one. They have a great sense of humor.)

Anyway, my hair appointment for new highlights is tomorrow, but I’m really wondering if it’s worth it. Not because of the money, or even the time, but because I’m starting to accept the fact that my hair is not only secretly brown, it’s secretly gray.

And so I’m thinking, maybe I should just let it go. Accept that I’m not only going gray, but I’m going brown, which I used to think was worse. And that maybe I should just accept myself as I am.

Or, in other words, give up.

Now, before I start getting nasty letters, let me just say that I love silvery gray hair on people. I know women who look terrific with all-over gray hair, but mine isn’t all-over yet. It’s coming only in patches, which looks like somebody spilled Clorox on my head.

You know you’re in trouble when your hair matches your laundry.

Also, my gray hair is growing in stiff and oddly straight, so it looks like it’s raising its hand.

But that might be my imagination.

And before you weigh in on this question, let me add the following:

I’m also deciding whether to start wearing my glasses, instead of contacts. Yes, if you check out the sparkly-eyed picture of me on the book, you’ll see me in contacts. Actually, I took them out right after the photo, because they’re annoying. Fast forward to being middle-aged, where any time you’re wearing your contacts, you have to wear your reading glasses, and so one way or the other, glasses are going to get you.

And I’m starting to think that’s okay, too. In other words, I may be accepting myself for the myopic beastie that I am.

Which is good.

Or I may merely be getting so lazy that I cannot be bothered to look my best.

Which is not so good.

Because in addition to gray hair and nearsightedness, I also accept that I don’t have the answers to many things. For example, I just drove home from NYC and I don’t know the difference between the EZ-Pass lane and the Express EZ-Pass lane.

Life isn’t always EZ.

Column Classic: Perking Up

April 6, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Mommy has a new wish.

Besides Bradley Cooper.

We’re talking coffee.

And I’m on a quest.

I know, some people climb Everest.

Others cure cancer.

But all I want is a delicious cup of coffee that I can make myself, at home.

Is that so much to ask?

Evidently.

Right out front, I have to confess that I love Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

Sometimes I’ll have Starbucks and other times Wawa, but my coffee soulmate is Dunkin’.

We’ve been together longer than either of my marriages combined.

Daughter Francesca likes to tell the story of the time we were watching television and a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial came on, and I whispered, “I love you, Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Okay, that’s embarrassing enough.

But then Francesca tweeted that to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Dunkin’ Donuts tweeted back:

“We love you too, Lisa!”

OMG!!!!!

Anyway, you get the idea.

So I stop by Dunkin’ Donuts whenever I can and I also pick up a lottery ticket. When I lose the lottery, at least I’ve had a great cup of coffee, which makes me almost as happy.

You’re supposed to be able to make Dunkin’ Donuts at home, and I have a Keurig coffeemaker, so I bought the Dunkin’ Donuts K-Cups and did the whole Keurig thing, but it wasn’t the same as the real thing.

And unfortunately, I developed almost a superstitious belief that a cup of great coffee is essential to my writing process. I’m not the first writer to believe that a beverage is essential to great fiction. Ernest Hemingway had booze, but I have caffeine. And when my good luck charm is on shaky ground, I fear my books will start to suck, and Mrs. Bradley Cooper can’t have that.

So I decided that I would give up on making Dunkin’ Donuts at home and try different types of coffee. I understand this is called being flexible, but it’s not something that comes easily to me.

Nor should it.

One of the great things about being single is that you never have to compromise anything, and I wasn’t looking forward to compromising my one and only vice.

Nevertheless, I decided I should go back to basics, namely percolated coffee. I admit this was probably nostalgia-driven, because I remember the days when Mother Mary perked coffee on the stovetop, brewing Maxwell House from a can, but I couldn’t find a stovetop percolator and had to settle for a plug-in, and I thought I could beat Maxwell House, so I got myself to the grocery store, where I stood before a dizzying array of types of coffee, coming from everywhere around the globe, including Africa, Arabia, and the Pacific.

This was coffee with frequent-flier mileage.

Likewise there were different kinds of roasts – light, dark, French, Italian, and Extra Dark French, which sounded vaguely racist.

I went with medium Italian, because that’s basically what I am.

Then I had to choose the “body” of the coffee, which evidently meant “the weight of the coffee on your tongue.”

Everywhere you look, body issues.

Again I chose the light-to-medium bodied, ground it at the store, brought it home, perked it, and it sucked. I persevered for another week, but I couldn’t do it. I decided to throw out the baby with the coffee water and went back further to my roots to buy a little Italian Bialetti espresso maker, perked on the stovetop. But that meant I had to go back to the grocery store and start all over again, since the new coffeemaker required the moka grind, which is not even a word.

I brought the coffee home, perked it, and took a sip.

It sucked, too.

Or maybe I suck at flexibility.

So now I don’t know what to do.

I’m taking any and all suggestions.

And I have a novel to finish.

Tell me how to make a great cup of coffee.

The future of literature depends upon it.

Also my job. I’ll split the Powerball with you.

Column Classic: Sniff Test

March 30, 2025

by Francesca Serritella

Here is a Column Classic by Francesca. You can find Francesca on Facebook @FrancescaSerritellaauthor or on Instagram @fserritella.

My passion for perfume started long before it became the inspiration for my new novel FULL BLOOM, out August 5th and available for preorder now! Consider this Classic Column “Sniff Test” a certificate of authenticity for my fragrance obsession. Maybe some of you can relate…or I hope it makes you laugh!

Every woman has one department at the shopping mall that calls to them, nay, sings to them, like a choir of angels, radiating a warm, golden light from the top of the escalator.

For me, it’s fragrance.

I’m hypnotized by those glittering little bottles on glass countertops, each one with a secret inside, winking at me from across the room.

I’ve always loved perfume, ever since I was a little girl, when the crystal bottles on my mother’s dresser seemed like magical potions.

And whenever I smelled them on her, I knew she was going somewhere glamorous, mysterious, and as-yet-off-limits to me.

Douleur exquise!

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

Mayor Barney

March 23, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I have sad news to report, in the passing of our beloved barn cat, Barney.

He was a beautiful chunky tabbycat with bright green eyes, who wandered onto my backyard one day and decided to stay for ten years, until he passed away.

He died suddenly of kidney failure, and all of us are in heart failure.

I say us because I live on a horse farm, and I don’t run it myself. I have a wonderful assistant, Nan, and a wonderful barn manager, Katie, and all of us loved Barney. Daughter Francesca loved him, too, giving him extra hugs whenever she came home, and my friend Laura adored him and so did my friend Franca, who brought over her grandkids and even they loved him.

I love cats, and amazingly, I still have Vivi, my house cat who is now eighteen years old and going strong, thank God.

The loss of any cat, or any pet, is heartbreaking.

But Barney’s passing made me realize that there’s something unique about a barn cat.

I don’t know how much time you spend in barns or around horses, but the way it sometimes goes is that there’s a random cat that sticks around to catch mice, or maybe he doesn’t stick around but drops in from time to time. And sometimes he’s given a name and sometimes he isn’t. He’s a cat with a job, which is to catch mice, and more often than not, he’s nobody’s cat.

But Barney was everybody’s cat.

That sentiment was expressed by Katie’s husband Sean, and he was exactly right.

Barney got his name because he lived in the barn, but he had a personality as big as any barn. He was unbelievably affectionate, purring on contact, greeting everybody who came over, then following all of us around, including any plumber, electrician, or carpenter.

We had to tell contractors to close the windows and doors on their trucks because Barney would inevitably find his way in, pilfer their lunch or make himself comfy.

He wasn’t a cat, he was a mayor.

We lived and worked in his city.

The only rules he followed were his own.

He hung with the horses and drank from their buckets.

He curled up on their backs and they didn’t even mind.

He caught mice and arranged them like a serial killer.

He left pawprints on all our cars.

He had 243 nicknames and came to all of them.

He was a total character and of course he was a rescue who rescued us.

It was Nan who spotted him first in the yard, and she went to him immediately, noticing that he had infected abscesses around his neck. He wore no tag or identification, but she took him to the vet that day, and we got him antibiotics and plenty of canned food.

He healed in two weeks and never left.

He was always free to roam but never did.

We heated the tack room so he’d be warm year ‘round, and made him a cat door, so in no time it was his palace. He had all the wet food he wanted, plenty of treats, and lots and lots of love.

He faced down any neighboring cats who trespassed on his property.

All of the dogs here were afraid of him, even though they’re bigger.

He protected the farm, us, and democracy in general.

Because he was so much a part of all of our lives, we all feel a hole in our hearts at his loss.

We can still see him walk across the pasture.

We can still hear him purr in our ear.

We can feel him making biscuits on our laps.

We know his meow, strong and insistent, or chirpy and cheery.

Barney was much more than a barn cat.

He was an everywhere everything everybody’s cat.

And we all loved him very very much.

Rest in peace, Barnstable.

Dirty Laundry

March 16, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I think I need to do my laundry more often.

Let me explain.

As you may know, I live alone.

As in, I’m celibate.

But I digress.

Since it’s just me, I don’t generate a lot of laundry.

I barely sweat.

Did I mention I’m celibate?

And also, in winter, who sweats?

Usually, I’m bundled up in fleece tops and sweatpants and from time to time, I even sleep in them.

TMI?

Get ready.

I’m about to air my dirty laundry.

Literally.

In any event, I don’t have a lot of laundry.

And when I do, I just throw it in the washing machine, which I use as a hamper.

When it’s full, then I run it off.

I don’t do it more often because I have a job.

Also, I’m trying to be ecologically sound.

Okay, I’m lazy.

I’m probably doing laundry every two weeks.

So the other day I decided to throw something in the laundry and run off a load, but inside the machine was a visitor.

A mouse.

He looked back up at me, and his expression said, “Took you a while.”

I replied, “EEEK!”

Worse, he was sitting among mouse droppings scattered over my laundry like chocolate jimmies.

Please tell me you know that’s the sprinkles they put on ice cream.

Now you’ll never eat them again.

Anyway, the mouse was alive, but barely.

I got over the initial shock, then I realized I had to get him out of there, so I got a saucepan and put it inside the machine, and trapped him. Then I put the lid on, ran him outside, and set him down in my backyard at the edge of the woods.

There’s a stream back there, too, in case he got thirsty.

And has GPS.

Anyway he scampered away.

I’m guessing he was looking for a lady who has sex.

So, happy ending.

I’m a good person, but a bad housekeeper.

I went upstairs and threw away the laundry that had been in the washing machine.

By the way, there’s a drainpipe that goes into the back of the washing machine and runs from outside the house, so I’m telling myself he got in from the outside.

That’s a better story than he was already in the house.

I can make up anything I want to.

I write fiction.

The whole thing grossed me out, but I consider myself and the mouse lucky.

I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened in the dryer.

All’s well that ends well.

And what’s my lesson?

I’m not doing my laundry more often.

But I’m gonna get a screen on that pipe.

Column Classic: City Slickers 3: The Legend of Bandana-Napkin

March 9, 2025

By Francesca Serritella

Here is a Column Classic by Francesca about an epic trip we took to the Grand Canyon! You can find Francesca on Facebook @FrancescaSerritellaauthor or on Instagram @fserritella

They say you don’t really know a person until you travel together, but is that true if the person is your mother?

I asked myself this on our recent trip to Arizona, our first mother-daughter vacation in almost ten years. We had an amazing time and got along great, but I noticed some new quirks, beginning as soon as our first flight.

“Can you open the window?” she asked.

“Sure.” I slid the shade up and squinted into the light. “Wow, you can see—”

“Nm-mm,” my mother grunted, and I noticed she was shielding her eyes.

“Sorry, too bright?”

“No, I don’t want to see how high we are, it scares me.”

Now I squinted at her. “You asked me to open it.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to see!”

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

I know her, but do I understand her?

I wondered again by the pool in Scottsdale, when I lowered my sunglasses to see my mother approaching with what appeared to be a cloth napkin tied around her head.

“Perfect, huh?” She posed like a pirate beauty queen. “I went to the gift shop for something to cover my head, but then I realized, I could get this from the restaurant! It’s just like a bandana!”

“It’s even more like a napkin.” And I reminded her she had a ball cap in the bag.

“Nah, the brim blocks the sun.” She settled down on the chair next to me, readjusting her bandana-napkin.

I slid down behind my book.

Another of my mom’s quirks is that she loves to order drinks, or “dwinks” when she’s ready to party, but she hates the taste of alcohol. She always forgets this last part.

“Can I taste it?” She sipped my Sauvignon Blanc and grimaced. “So winey.”

The only wine sweet enough for her is Lambrusco, an unusual, sparkling red, and when she asks for it, she tricks waiters into thinking she’s a jaded oenophile. Most restaurants don’t have it, so the waiter will suggest other esoteric options, using words like “tannic” and “peaty.”

I wanted to tell him, she wants notes of “juice box,” do you have a juice box wine?

As the server left to bring a sample of a “jammy” Pinot Noir I knew she’d suffer through, I said, “You don’t have to order a drink.”

“Of course I do, we’re on vacation!”

She had a point.

I was getting the hang of Vacation Mom, when I anticipated a problem. If a peek out an airplane window was too much for her vertigo, how was she going to enjoy the Grand Canyon?

The irony was that she’d planned the trip. The Grand Canyon was entirely her idea; she had even booked a guide to take us hiking into it.

I sat her down. “I’m worried about you. You need to mentally prep that it’s going to be really, really huge and you might get freaked out by the height.”

She waved me off. “It’ll be great, I just won’t go on the high parts.”

“Mom, I think the whole thing is a high part.”

Cue the soundtrack to City Slickers.

But when the day came, my mom closed her eyes for much of the mountainous drive up (don’t worry, she was in the backseat) yet remained in good spirits!

We arrived at the Canyon, and the guide showed us to the top of the steep trail. Or at least he pointed to it from a safe distance, since my mom refused to get out of the car. I said I couldn’t leave her in there like a dog, but she insisted:

“You go, that’s why I hired him, I want you to have a good time.”

I was touched. And I realized how much of my mom’s behavior was to make me happy: a good view from the window seat, fun drinks at dinner—okay, the napkin thing was just weird, I got nothing for that—but she wouldn’t let her quirks keep us from having an unforgettable vacation.

In the end, I made it less than thirty minutes down into the Canyon before my own vertigo forced me to turn back. When I reemerged on the top, flat ground, there was no sweeter sight than my little mom, bravely out of the car, trying to take a photo with a shaky hand while gripping onto a signpost for dear life—a good ten yards from the gorge’s edge.

When she saw me, she broke into a grin, still clinging to the signpost like a koala. “How was it?”

I smiled. “Perfect.”

Entitled

March 2, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Big news!

I applied for Social Security!

I know, there are those of you who don’t think this is big news, and there are others who have no idea what I’m talking about.

Allow me to explain.

You get to apply for Social Security when you get old.

And the good news is, I got old!

I crossed the finish line!

I bookended my own life!

I really don’t take this lightly. Not everybody gets to be old, and I have friends who did not get to the privilege of aging.

Life is precious.

But it’s not an entitlement.

Like Social Security.

I remember when I saw the taxes taken out of my first paycheck, and Mother Mary told me the money would be given back to me when I’m old.

It seemed unfair.

Until now.

Frankly, the government did the right thing.

Because I would’ve invested in shoes.

Also handbags.

But they kept my money, and all I had to do was keep breathing.

I did it!

I was excited to apply for Social Security, but I worried there would be a lot of forms and I wouldn’t know where to begin.

So I typed into the computer, How do I apply for Social Security?

A link popped onto the screen, and I answered the questions from there.

It took me TEN minutes to apply for Social Security online.

God’s honest truth!

I felt like I finished the test early and was looking around at everyone else still writing, a position I’ve never been in.

I admit I wasn’t sure about one of the questions, which was whether I wanted my first check now or later, but I decided the answer is now, especially because I’d waited long enough and I’m worried about what’s going to happen to Social Security.

Here’s where I tell you that I used to be a government employee.

I worked for the federal court system when I was a law clerk to a judge on the Third Circuit Court of Appeals. It was the most wonderful job I ever had except for the one I have now, where I’m the judge.

I give myself great performance reviews.

And raises.

Also shoes and handbags.

To return to point, I knew a lot of government employees back then, and they were all hard-working, honest, and dedicated to their jobs.

They did not waste taxpayer money.

No one ever forgot for a minute that someone was paying for our pencils, computers, and desks.

Bottom line, we were paying.

But nowadays, a random billionaire is running around like the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland, shouting “off with their heads,” waving a chainsaw, and firing federal employees willy-nilly, claiming that most federal employees are frauds.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

But this column is supposed to be funny.

And the joke’s on us, friends.

Now we’ll pay taxes but get fewer services, all thanks to random billionaires who pay no taxes.

They’re not entitled, they just act that way.

Here’s the truth:

America is a big country, and its government provides a lot of services that need to be administered. The court system in which I worked administered justice. In other words, you cannot get justice without a lot of people to do the things that need to be done first.

Just like you cannot eat a dinner without somebody to buy and cook the food, then set the table and clean up after.

It’s really that simple.

You cannot get services like justice without administrators, and when you eliminate the administrators, you eliminate the services.

I can only pray that random billionaires don’t take our Social Security, put our checks in their own pockets, and call it justice.

Because it’s the exact opposite.

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.

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