Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Report Card

October 26, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I used to get good grades.

Until now.

Because I just got a notice from my electric company, which, in the Philadelphia area, is PECO.

I’m pretty sure PECO stands for Pricey Electric Company.

I say this because PECO just sent me a notice that says, How You Compare to Your Neighbors.

First off, stop there.

I try not to compare myself to my neighbors.

Keeping up with the Joneses is never a good idea.

Somebody smart once said, Comparison is the thief of joy.

So I try not to notice when my neighbors throw big parties that I’m not invited to, or their front lawns look greener, or their husbands are very handsome and also they have one.

But here comes PECO, giving me bad news.

I’m doing terrible compared with my neighbors.

Specifically, with regard to electrical use.

Let me explain.

According to PECO, I have so-called “efficient neighbors” are using 276 kWh.

Let’s pretend we know what kWh is.

Kilowatt Hours?

Pulled that right out of my ass.

Didn’t even have to Google it.

Because that would use electricity.

Pretty good for somebody who sucks, according to their Efficient Neighbors.

And it turns out that my “average neighbors” are using 574 kWh.

Okay, so far, so good. I’m anything but average.

I’m adorable.

But according to PECO, I am using the most of all, 1034 kWh.

Wait, what, how?

In other words, as the notice told me, Your Energy Use Was Higher Than Average Neighbors by 80%.

Ruh-roh.

I have no idea how this happened.

I’m one woman and I live in a household by myself.

I turn off the lights when I leave the room.

I don’t turn the heat on unless I absolutely need it.

I don’t turn on air conditioning unless somebody makes me.

Usually I have the TV on and a single computer.

Before I go to the movies on a Saturday night, I blow-dry my hair.

I even unplug the blow dryer when I’m done because I know that uses something called phantom electricity.

Bottom line, I live like a nun.

But somehow, I am still using 80% more electricity than my high-achieving neighbors.

Where did I go wrong?

What are they doing that I’m not?

Is it because they have husbands?

None of this makes sense to me, but the notice even went on to grade Your Electricity Use at a Glance. The grades were:

Great, Good, or Fair.

Guess what, I got a fair.

Even though I studied!

To me, a Fair is a C.

And the last C I got was in trigonometry.

But I think they graded on a curve.

Because if you’re doing 80% worse than everybody else, that’s not a C.

It’s an F -.

So I’m flunking electricity.

I hope it doesn’t go on my Permanent Record Card.

I won’t even get into my safety school.

Except at my age, my safety school is a retirement home.

But I’ve been an A student my whole life.

I even got an A in divorce.

I’m the best divorcer ever.

Twice even.

It takes practice.

The PECO notice ended with, What could have caused your energy use to increase?

You’re reading my mind, girl.

It suggested “heavy appliance use.”

Come on.

I use my dishwasher once a day.

And my washer once a week.

Okay, once every two weeks.

Okay, once every three weeks.

But maybe what’s happening is that PECO is charging too much for electricity and they’re trying to make it seem like my fault.

I’m susceptible to this argument.

I carry around a lot of guilt.

This would be the Catholic part.

Original sin is my origin story.

Or maybe PECO is gaslighting me.

Unless that’s up to the gas company.

Now that’s a report I don’t want to see.

I bet I have more gas than my neighbors, too.

Keeping it Real

October 19, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I need to get a Real ID.

And it’s giving me an identity crisis.

Let me explain.

I don’t know who made this decision or why, but we can no longer use a driver’s license to fly or do God-knows-what-else.

By the way, I just looked it up and God-knows-what else includes entering a nuclear power plant.

So keep that in mind, the next time you stop by your local nuclear power plant.

Bring your real ID and your last will and testament.

Leave your ovaries at home.

To return to point, you can still use a passport to fly, but that worries me because I had my passport pickpocketed in Sicily and it was a pain in the neck to replace.

On second thought, it wasn’t that bad to replace. I had to make a side trip to Naples and rewarded myself with the best pizza in the world.

You know the old saying: Just a spoonful of carbohydrates makes the medicine go down.

For what it’s worth, I understand why it’s not a great idea to link identity to a driver’s license, because not everybody drives or can afford a car.

But I don’t know why we can’t have an either/or system, so you can fly with a driver’s license or Real ID.

But lately we’re not a country that deals with nuance.

We’re all-or-nothing now.

And lately it looks we’re in a lot of All.

But I digress.

So I looked up to see what I need to get a Real ID, and one thing was my Social Security card.

Ruh-roh.

I have no idea where that is.

I seem to remember it was a little piece of white paper even smaller than a credit card, which was its first problem. If it were plastic like a credit card, I would have kept it. I still have credit cards from stores that went bankrupt decades ago.

If Wanamakers comes back to life, I’m ready.

That was a joke for Philly people.

Everyone else will have to insert their own defunct-but-beloved department store.

By the way, department stores were something that existed before Amazon.

Try to play along, young people.

Humor us olds.

The rules for Real ID say that you can use your tax form for your social security number but my tax form has my number redacted, evidently to protect my identity.

Great idea, every week I get a notice that my online identity has been compromised by one website or another.

Hackers have my Social Security card, but I don’t.

The notices I get all ask me if I want to reset my passwords.

Answer, no.

I’m taking my chances.

There are few things worse than resetting all your passwords.

Maybe wearing a bra.

Which resets your breasts.

But I would rather wear a bra 24/7 than reset my passwords.

But I did luck out in my document search because by some incredible miracle, I found my original birth certificate.

Wow!

I have no idea why I saved it because it’s a piece of paper and not a credit card. But it is supercute, and actually filled out in something called a fountain pen.

Pens are something that existed before keyboards.

I know, this is the old-timiest column ever.

Because I was born seventy years ago, and my birth certificate is a seventy-year-old document.

Which makes it the oldest document in my house.

It’s on yellowed paper and measures 5 by 7, which may be why it survived in the bottom drawer of my jewelry box, with Daughter Francesca’s baby teeth.

Please tell me I’m not the only mother who keeps baby teeth.

Or has a jewelry box of biohazards.

Look, if I’m not throwing away a Wanamaker’s card, you know I’m hanging on to those teeth.

Plus the Tooth Fairy bought them, fair and square.

I think Francesca got a buck a tooth.

More for buck teeth.

Sorry.

I keep them wrapped in ancient Kleenex with a rubber band, like a do-it-yourself mummy.

Or Mommy.

And I have to tell you, when I found my daughter’s baby teeth, it reminded me of who I am.

Francesca’s mother.

That’s my Real ID.

By the way, I also save two dog teeth and several cat toenails.

So pet mothers count as mommies, too.

That’s called nuance.

Mileage

October 12, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Well, the weather has turned cold, and I’m back to my old habits.

I’m sleeping in my clothes.

I don’t regard this as a bad habit.

I actually think it’s a good habit.

Hear me out.

It’s fall now so that means I’m in a long sleeve T-shirt, a sweater, and sweatpants.

Francesca calls them my teddybear clothes.

You cannot imagine how happy I am to be a teddybear.

I walk around feeling huggable.

And even hugged.

Who knew clothes could do such good?

At night I’m nice and warm in bed, and the next morning when I wake up, I’m ready for the day.

Obviously, no bras are involved.

I’m not braless, I’m bra-free.

If I have to go out for some reason, whether to walk the dogs or ride a pony, I put on a bra then take it off as soon as I get in.

As we all know, home is where you hang your bra.

You’re probably wondering how often I change my clothes/pajamas.

When I feel shame.

Shame is key to my life.

Or when I take a shower, which is also shame-based.

Mainly three days.

This was a good system until last weekend, because I went to Boston for work and also saw my old friend Sandy, whom I’ve known since tenth grade.

That makes it a 55-year friendship.

Do you have any friends for 55 years?

If you do, you’re very lucky.

Sandy and I don’t see each other as much as we did in French II. She lives in Vermont and I live in Pennsylvania, so we stay in light touch through text and zooms, but when we see each other, we finish each other sentences.

Except Sandy is a psychiatrist so she’s a better listener than I am.

So, you know who gets to finish her sentences.

When I first saw Sandy, she looked terrific in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans with a leopard print, and matching sneakers.

When I told her how cute she looked, she told me something remarkable: “I made this whole outfit, even the sneakers.”

Now, I don’t know what to tell you.

Sandy and I are a lot alike, but 55 years has changed us.

She makes sneakers, and I can’t be bothered to make dinner.

I don’t know how this happened.

It struck me that having a girlfriend is something of a miracle, especially when you’ve had one for a long time.

Even if you don’t see them or talk to them, very often, they are a constant throughline in your life. And if you have lived long enough, you know that there are precious few throughlines in life.

I myself have had two divorces, several different cars, and even more dogs. I’ve changed careers. As an author, I’ve even written different types of novels. My weight has gone up and down. My hair has gone from mousy brown to fictional blonde.

That is the only thing that will never change on me.

My fake hair color.

But a girlfriend like Sandy is a constant, like an operating system on a computer. Like any good support system, she makes things run, but invisibly so. I just know she’s there for me, and I will always be there for her.

We sat down over lunch and talked about our parents, because I knew her wonderful mother and father the way she knew Mother Mary and my father. We talked about our siblings, our children, and our dogs because she is as big a dog lover as I am.

And we walked all over Boston, where I did plenty of shopping and she did none, and she taught me what upcycling is, which means making old clothes into new clothes instead of throwing them away.

I thought that we were upcycling ourselves.

Sandy is my own personal history on two homemade sneakers, and I am hers, in Hokas.

And when I spend time with her, I feel it fulfilling my soul, in a way that being with someone who knows you completely and loved you even when you had braces, glasses, and hair that was still its natural color.

Because that stuff is just superficial, like the clothes we put on and take off.

And we shared a hotel room, in which she slept in actual pajamas while I slept in the same outfit that I had worn that day.

She didn’t say anything.

There’s no judgment in an old friend.

There’s no shame with an old friend.

There’s only love.

And the miles you put on the relationship, no matter what shoes you wear.

Or make.

What’s A Girl To Do?

October 5, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m powerless.

Literally.

Not because I’m living in a country roiled by crazy politics, climate change, or agita in general.

I mean I got no electricity.

And I can’t get no satisfaction.

Tell you why.

I lose power all the time in my house, maybe twenty times a year.

No joke.

I also get power surges, which is like the evil twin of a power outage.

Listen, I’m no physicist.

I don’t know enough about electricity to tell you what either of these things are.

All I can tell you is that they’re engaged in a conspiracy against me.

I’ve had power outages and surges that fried my dishwasher, a dryer, and several computers.

My power goes out or surges during any thunderstorm, snowstorm, and even on a sunny day that happens to be windy.

Give me a break.

Snow and thunder are good excuses, but wind?

Sack up, power grid.

When did you get so delicate?

They tell me wind is a problem because trees get knocked down, and that causes a power outage. But I look outside and none of my trees are knocked down. I drive around the neighborhood and no other trees are knocked down. It’s a beautiful sunny day with a slight breeze, like a blow dryer on cool.

But somewhere, someplace, a downed tree is frying my appliances.

It’s like a butterfly effect for housewares.

Okay, I’m not stupid, so I tried to protect myself.

I bought a generator.

And last month, I got a power surge that fried the generator.

I was actually sitting in the kitchen when all the lights flickered, then went black, and in the next moment I heard a large popping noise, which was my checkbook.

Just kidding, it was my generator.

I talked to the electrician, and he told me that I should install a power surge protection system in the house, which would prevent this sort of thing.

So I reached for my checkbook, and they installed the power surge protection system.

And last week I got another power surge which fried the power surge protection system.

I’m not even kidding.

And it also fried my burglar alarm system, which is another thing I put in to protect myself.

I await the estimate. I’m going to tell them to put it on my tab.

The alarm company suggested that I put in a claim for all of these damages on my homeowners’ insurance.

And I do have homeowners insurance, to protect myself.

But we all know that if I put in a claim, my rates will go up, because that’s the way insurance works.

So bottom line, how do I protect myself when all of my self-protection fails?

At this point I have installed four backup systems, none of which are backing up.

Do you know what is backing up?

My agita, in general.

Get In, Losers

September 28, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m not in menopause.

I’m in adolescence.

I realized this the other day, when it occurred to me that I was turning into a thirteen-year-old boy.

Because of videogames.

By way of background, I never played a videogame in my life.

I’m more of a book person.

Also a dog person.

And a carbohydrates person.

But I got interested in F1 racing from a Netflix show entitled Drive to Survive.

Even though my idea of driving to survive is going to the cardiologist.

Nevertheless I got completely sucked into the show, which follows the stories of superhot men driving fast cars.

Evidently I’m not dead below the waist.

Who knew?

Anyway this led to me actually buying a sports car, which is a thing of beauty, even though I never go above the speed limit.

I don’t drive fast, I drive beautiful.

Then I started imagining myself behind the wheel of a real F1 race car.

No, I didn’t buy one.

But it turns out that there’s an F1 videogame and I thought that would be really fun, so when my bestie Laura asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I told her:

A superhot F1 driver.

Just kidding.

I told her, an F1 videogame.

I knew she would know the game because her husband and sons are also F1 fans. I was imagining some kind of game that I played on my computer and used my headphones for. It didn’t occur to me that I would need a joystick or anything else.

In other words, I didn’t think it through.

Which is so like teenage me.

And what happened next was that Laura and her amazing sons came through with flying colors, and gave me not only a videogame but some kind of F1 race simulator, which comes with a real car seat, an actual steering wheel, cushy headphones, and a wraparound screen.

It even has seatbelts.

I might need to increase my collision insurance.

Her family came over and built the whole damn thing, which was incredibly nice of them.

Yes, I feel totally guilty.

But also totally excited.

It’s like a racecar that goes nowhere.

Except in my imagination.

We put it in my office next to my computer, which is also a machine that doesn’t work without imagination.

So maybe a race simulator is perfect for an author?

Who cares, I love it!

I just got off deadline for my next book, and I can’t wait to get in the driver’s seat, learn how to play, and waste tons of time.

I’m about to become a videogamer.

Sorry, I mean gamer.

That’s what we call us, for short.

I feel pretty sure that I won’t be the only fossil gamer.

I wonder how many of us there are.

I’m about to find out.

I logged on to pick a gamer name, which took me way too long.

I rejected Superhot1.

Also ReadingIsFundamental.

And AgeIsJustANumber.

I eventually settled on a name that matches my vanity license plate, which I can’t tell you because it’s too embarrassing.

But if you log on to the F1 game, you’ll know it’s me because I’ll be the one going 35 miles an hour on the straightaway.

I intend to be a virtual traffic hazard.

You might call this a midlife crisis.

Or, more accurately, an end-of-life crisis.

But I call it a let’s-live-life crisis.

And I’m buckling up.

Plot Twist

September 21, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

My friends, these are plot-twisty times.

Of course I’m talking about my new puppy Eve.

Before I get started, let me thank you for your patience in reading my classic columns while I’ve been finishing my next book. I can’t do two things at once, so I had to take a break in the homestretch of the draft, but now it’s done, so I’m back writing fresh columns.

And you know how fresh I can be.

Also let me say thank you so much for your support of my book The Unraveling of Julia, which came out this summer. Many of you have been reading me for years, even decades, and I’m grateful for you every day.

Okay, back to new puppy Eve.

You may remember that I got Eve a few months ago, for lots of reasons, but mainly because I wanted a dog to take walks with me every day.

My two other dogs, Boone and Kit, are thirteen years old, and they don’t share my enthusiasm for the walk.

In truth, I don’t share my enthusiasm for the walk.

I make myself do it because it’s the laziest form of exercise.

I say that with love.

I have friends who run, hike, ski, and bicycle. I make excuses not to do those things.

Even I can’t find an excuse not to walk.

But we all love a plot twist, and Eve doesn’t like to walk.

As in, Eve will not walk.

If I go towards her with the harness, she runs away.

If I jingle a leash, she scoots under the bed.

If I actually succeed in putting a harness on her, she plants her front end down and her back end up and refuses to move.

I didn’t know why.

Dogs love to walk, right?

And who wouldn’t want to walk with me?

I’m a gas.

Actually I have gas.

Maybe that’s it?

Anyway I wondered if she had something wrong with her, so I took her to the vet, who examined her legs, and at my insistence, even did an x-ray.

Her legs are fine. She just doesn’t want to walk.

By the way, she doesn’t want to go to the car, either.

I jingle keys like the people in commercials, where the dogs jump up and bolt out the door to the car.

Eve bolts to the couch.

I even took her to obedience school.

She was a champ there, like the teacher’s pet.

Literally.

But now Evil is back to her old ways.

Finally I did what any mom would do.

I bribed her.

I carry her outside, then give her treats as we walk along.

You can imagine how comfortable this is, me bending over every ten steps and cheering “good girl” all the way.

Still, I’m into it. I love her and I love walking, so I’m going to make it work.

We parents can’t predict what our children will do, for good or for ill.

I say that because this summer also produced a different plot twist for me, a wonderful one in that my daughter Francesca’s second novel Full Bloom was published. It’s an amazing novel, and thank you to all of you who supported her book with the same enthusiasm you have shown mine over the years.

And because of you, in a wonderful plot twist, Francesca made the USA TODAY Bestseller List, right next to me! In the same week, my novel was the 79th and hers was the 80^th bestselling book of all sold in the country.

Wait, what?

Wow!

We were side-by-side on the list, as in life!

What are the odds?

It’s a harmonic convergence, family-wise.

By the way, I didn’t know Francesca would grow up to be a writer.

I wanted her to be a veterinarian.

For obvious reasons.

But I’m so happy and proud of her, and this summer taught me a great lesson:

You really do not know where life will lead you, or your family.

Sometimes there’s trouble, other times there’s joy.

I celebrate those joyful moments.

With enormous gratitude.

And now, Eve and I are going for a walk.

Good girl!

Column Classic: Sucking Up

September 14, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Good news! Lisa is just putting the finishing touches on her new novel, and will be writing new columns ASAP!

I just read a story about a man who thought he had a lung tumor.

But it turned out to be a toy he’d inhaled as a child.

This is an absolutely true story.

Actually, all the stories in these columns are true, but most of them are bizarre things that happened to me.

This is a bizarre thing that happened to someone else.

It turns out that there was a postal worker in Britain who had been treated for a bad cough, and an X-ray revealed a mysterious mass in one of his lungs. The doctor thought it was a tumor, performed a bronchoscopy, and found a tiny toy cone from a Playmobil set. Which the man remembered getting for his seventh birthday, forty years before.

Wow.

The doctors took out the cone, and the man’s cough disappeared.

Plus he got his toy back.

Do endings get any happier than that?

Or harder to believe?

He couldn’t remember eating the toy cone, but obviously he must have.

I have that problem too.

I never remember the things I eat.

I could swear I’m not eating anything, but mysteriously, I just gained five pounds.

I must have eaten the entire Playmobil dollhouse.

And the dolls.

Plus the play and the mobil.

It was also incredible that the toy cone didn’t go into his stomach, but into his lungs.

That’s another problem I have.

Anything I eat goes into my hips.

But the story got me thinking about random toys I could’ve eaten at that age.

Barbie comes immediately to mind.

As in, Barbie shoes.

You remember Barbie shoes, don’t you?

They were plastic high heels that came in different colors and never stayed on her foot.

Maybe because she was permanently on tiptoe.

Or maybe because high heels aren’t worth the trouble.

I loved everything about Barbie, but I was fixated on her shoes, which I collected and sorted by color.

I took better care of Barbie’s shoes than I do of my own.

And weirder than that, I also had a habit as a child of walking on tiptoe.

Like, all the time.

I remember my mother and father being concerned about it and even taking me to a doctor.

Which was so not the Scottoline way.

We never went to doctors because Mother Mary believed in the healing powers of Vicks VapoRub.

I’m surprised she didn’t rub it into my feet and call it a day.

My entire childhood smelled like camphor and tomato sauce.

Anyway, the doctor said that there are a percentage of kids who are “toe-walkers,” that my parents shouldn’t worry about it, and I would grow out of it by age five.

He was partly right.

They shouldn’t have worried about it, and they didn’t, after that.

But I never grew out of it.

I still do it, even today.

Not all of the time, but sometimes.

Weirded out yet?

I never even realized I do it until I was speaking at a book signing and people started asking me why I was standing on tiptoe. And I realized that I speak on tiptoe at most of my signings, and I’m the most comfortable that way.

I looked it up online and it says that there are adults who toe-walk and that it doesn’t indicate an underlying neurological problem.

Obviously they don’t know me that well.

The articles say that it can mean your Achilles tendon is too short, but I don’t know how long my Achilles tendon is, and in any event, I’m short too, so my Achilles tendon probably matches me.

Otherwise how would it fit in wherever it is?

You see I’m no biologist.

Online it says that adult toe-walkers with an unknown cause are called idiopathic toe-walkers.

There’s no need for name-calling, Internet.

In any event, I don’t know why I do it.

Maybe to feel taller.

Or maybe in my mind, I’m wearing Barbie shoes.

At least I’m not eating them.

Column Classic: Junk in The Trunk

September 7, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

If Freud wanted to know what women want, he could have asked.

If he’d asked me, I would have answered:

Another kitchen cabinet.

And I just got one!

Here’s how it happened.

It was about ten years ago that I remodeled my kitchen, adding white cabinets and a trash compactor. To tell the truth, I don’t remember wanting a trash compactor and think it was Thing Two who wanted a trash compactor, but I’ve blamed enough on him, so let’s just say I wanted a trash compactor.

At the time, my kitchen contractor said, “I’ll install this trash compactor for you, but I bet you’ll never use it.”

“I’m sure I’ll use it,” said I. And I probably added, “Plus it will give me something to blame on somebody, down the line.”

In any event, the trash compactor got installed, and it came with two free bags, which I promptly lost.

Ten years and one divorce later, it turns out that the contractor was right.

I should have married the contractor.

But to stay on point, I never used the trash compactor. Not once. I even forgot it was there until three months ago, when it began to emit a mysterious and foul odor. I searched the thing and could find no reason for it to be smelly, but I washed it inside and out anyway. Still the smell got worse and worse, until it was so bad I could barely eat in the kitchen. Then one day, the electrician came over to fix a light and he said, “Smells like something died in here.”

Bingo!

The electrician showed me that you could slide out the compactor, which I hadn’t realized, and when we did, we found behind it an aromatic gray mound that used to be a mouse.

Eeek!

The electrician threw the dead mouse away, and I cleaned the trash compactor all over again, but it still stunk worse than my second marriage, which I didn’t even think was possible, so I threw the trash compactor away, too.

Which left an oddly empty space on my kitchen island, a blank square among the white cabinets, like a missing tooth.

I called the kitchen contractor, whose phone number I still had from ten years ago. As soon as he heard my voice, he said, “Told you,” and came right over.

Last week he installed a new cabinet, including a drawer, then asked, “What are you going to use it for?”

”I’m not sure yet,” I told him, excited by the possibilities. It was almost too much to hope for – a nice empty cabinet and a whole extra drawer. After he had gone, I pulled up a stool and contemplated my course of action.

The decision required me to consider the problem areas of my kitchen cabinets, which are many. My pot-and-pan cabinet is a mess because I hate to stack pots and pans in their proper concentric circles. I just pile them up any way, playing Jenga, only with Farberware. Also I can never figure out how to store pot lids, so I stick them in upside down, setting them wobbling on handles like the worst tops ever. Every time I open the cabinet door, they come sliding out like a stainless steel avalanche.

I also have a cabinet containing Rubbermaid and Tupperware, but it’s all mixed up, so that Rubbermaid lids are with Tupperware containers and Rubbermaid containers are with Tupperware lids, making the whole thing feel vaguely illicit, like a orgy of plastic products.

Then I have a cabinet of kitchen appliances I have never used once in my life, but feel compelled to keep close at hand, namely a juicer, a waffle iron, and a salad shooter. You never know when you’ll have to shoot a salad.

My kitchen drawers are equally problematic. I have one drawer for silverware, and four others for junk, junk, junk, and junk. All the junk drawers contain the same junk, just more of it, namely, pens that don’t work, pencils that have no point, extra buttons that go to clothes I’ve never seen, rubber bands I got free but can’t part with, menus for restaurants I don’t order from, and pennies.

In other words, it’s all essential.

I think I know what to put in the empty cabinet.

Trash compactor bags.

Column Classic: Reading is Fundamental

August 31, 2025

by Lisa Scottoline

With the start of a new school year upon us, I’m reminded about Mother Mary and her grammar patrol.

Cute owl wearing glasses reading a book, cartoon style

Mother Mary has a new job that benefits us all.

Before I reveal it, let me explain that over the years I’ve made a few author friends, and I buy their books and get them to sign them to my mother, which gives her a big charge. Last month I shipped her five books, including my newest one, then I called to ask her, “How’d you like my book?”

“I loved it, it was great!. But I have some corrections for it. And for the others.”

“Corrections? How many?”

“About five.”

“Five corrections?” I ask, surprised. “Like typos? That’s bad.”

“No, five pages of corrections. And for the others, too.”

I am astounded. “Five pages of typos?”

“Not typos, corrections, and I have five pages per book. So, twenty-five pages of corrections.”

Now, I officially don’t get it. “Give me an example of something you corrected.”

“Okay, in your book, you use the word ain’t. Ain’t is not a word.”

“Is it used in dialogue?”

“Yes.”

“Then, it’s fine. That’s how the character speaks. That’s not a mistake.”

“Yes, it is. Nobody should use the word ain’t. You know better than that, you went to college. I’ll mail you the sheets. You’ll see.”

“Okay, send them.”

“Ain’t! Hmph!”

So Mother Mary mails me the alleged corrections, twenty-five pages of notebook paper, each line written in capitals in a shaky red flair. AIN’T IS NOT A WORD! is the most frequent “correction.” A few are typos, but the rest are editorial changes, different word choices, or new endings to the plot.

Bottom line, Mother Mary is a book critic, in LARGE PRINT.

Still, I read the sheets, touched. It must have taken her hours to make the lists, and it’s really sweet. I call to tell her so, which is when she lowers the boom:

“You need to send the lists to your friends,” she says. “Your friends who wrote the other books. They should know about the mistakes, so they can fix them.”

“Okay, Ma, you’re right. Thanks. I will.”

I don’t like lying to my mother, but I’m getting used to it. I figure I’ll put the sheets in my jewelry box, with daughter Francesca’s letters to Santa Claus. Those corrections are going to the North Pole.

Then my mother adds, “You don’t have to worry about the one set, though.”

“What one set?”

“A set of corrections, for your new friend.” She names a Famous Author who isn’t really my new friend, but Somebody I Wish Were My New Friend. I can’t name her here, as she will never be my new friend, now. In fact, she’s probably my new enemy. Because my mother sent her five pages of unsolicited editorial changes to her terrific, number-one bestseller.

“You did what?” I ask, faint. “Where did you get her address?”

“Your brother got it from the computer.”

“Her address is on the computer?”

“She has an office.”

Of course she does. “And you sent it to her?”

“Sure. To help her.”

I try to recover. I have only one hope. “You didn’t tell her who you are, did you?”

“What do you mean?”

I want to shoot myself for never changing my last name. My last name is Scottoline and so is Mother Mary’s, and the Very Famous Author signed a book to her at my request, so in other words….

“Oh, sure, I told her I’m your mother, in case she didn’t know.”

“Great.” I sink into a chair. “And you did that because…”

“Because I’m proud of you.”

Ouch. I can’t help but smile. How can I be angry? I tell her, “I’m proud of you, too, Ma.”

It’s not even a lie.

Column Classic: Lift and Separate

August 24, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Once again, you’ve come to the right place.

If you read this, you’re going to LOL.

But this time, I can’t take the credit.

Sometimes the world hands you an ace. All you have to do is set it down on the table and play.

I’m talking, of course, about the SmartBra.

Have you heard about this? If not, I’m here to tell you that at the recent consumer electronics show, a Canadian tech company introduced a smartbra, which is a bra that is smarter than you are.

Or at least smarter than your breasts.

Microsoft is reportedly developing a smartbra, too, and I’m sure the other tech companies will follow suit.

Or maybe bra.

If it creeps you out that the male-dominated tech industry is thinking about what’s under your shirt, raise your hand.

Just don’t raise it very fast.

They’re watching you jiggle.

Bottom line, the smartbras contain sensors that are supposed to record your “biometric data” and send it to an app on your mobile device.

It’s a fitbit for your breasts.

Or a fittit.

Sorry, I know that’s rude, but I couldn’t resist.

Like I said, the world handed me an ace.

Anyway, to stay on point, the biometric data it monitors is your heart rate and respiration rate, but Microsoft has taken that a step further. According to CNN, their smartbra is embedded with “psychological sensors that seek to monitor a woman’s heart activity to track her emotional moods and combat overeating.” In fact, their “sensors can signal the wearer’s smartphone, which then flash a warning message to help her step away from the fridge and make better diet decisions.”

Isn’t that a great idea?

It’s a bra that tells on you when you’re hitting the chocolate cake.

Forgive me if I’m not rushing out to buy one.

I already know when I’m being bad, and I don’t need to be nagged by my underwear.

By the way, the smartbra sells for $150.

If that price gives you a heart attack, the bra will know it.

Maybe the bra can call 911.

Maybe the bra can even drive you to the hospital.

Don’t slack, bra.

That’s for breasts.

The Canadian company says that wearable tech is the latest thing, and that it developed its smart bra because it had “a plethora of requests from eager women who wanted in on the action, too.”

Do you believe that?

I don’t.

On the contrary, I know a plethora of eager women who wish they didn’t have to wear a bra at all.

I also know a plethora of eager women who take their bra off the moment they hit the house.

Plus I know a plethora of eager women who skip the bra if they’re wearing a sweatshirt, sweater, or down vest.

Finally, I know a plethora of eager women who would never use the word plethora in a sentence.

Okay, maybe I’m talking about myself.

Frankly, I don’t want “in on the action” if the action means a bra that will tell the tri-state area I’m pigging out.

However, I want “in on the action” if the action means Bradley Cooper.

And nobody needs a smartbra to monitor what would happen to my heart if Bradley Cooper were around.

By the way, researchers are not currently developing a pair of smart tighty whitey’s for men.

That’s too bad because I have a name for it.

SmartBalls.

But maybe men don’t need underwear with a sensor that detects their emotional changes.

They already have such a sensor.

In fact, they were born with it.

Too bad it doesn’t make any noise.

Like, woohooo!

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