Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Classic Column: Mother Mary Had Priorities

May 10, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Mother Mary was a great mother.

But she was not a great housekeeper.

Guess which mattered more.

I remember her hugging me.

I remember her looking over her newspaper to laugh at something I said.

I remember her telling me I was great.

I remember her lifting an eyebrow when I was out of line.

She never yelled at me.

Her eyebrows did.

She loved me so much she had to bite me.

This might be an Italian thing.

She would just grab my arm and bite it.

She called it a love bite.

You know what?

I liked it.

I remember it.

Do you know what I don’t remember?

That the house was kind of messy.

Mother Mary worked, and I was one of the few kids who had a working mom in my class, so I know she was busy.

But her other priority was carbohydrates.

Every Sunday, she made homemade pasta and homemade tomato sauce.

You can’t even imagine how great this was, growing up.

As I’ve written before, we had pasta every night. I didn’t even think that was weird. And I had cold spaghetti for breakfast the next day, and even had spaghetti sandwiches for lunch, which I brought into school.

How do you make a spaghetti sandwich?

Just take spaghetti and put it between two loaves of Italian bread.

This would be Italian, squared.

If people laugh at you, offer them a bite.

The kids at my lunch table started out laughing and ended up begging.

Looking back, we had our ups and downs, but what I remember most about my mother is that she loved to laugh.

She really was the funniest person. I can’t remember any of her jokes now, but the substance of her jokes don’t matter.

What I remember is she was the beating heart of our family, and there was always a laugh.

So I learned humor can get you through almost anything.

And we find ourselves in a really difficult time in our country.

Joking around may look insensitive, but it helps.

The great Mel Brooks had a birthday was this week, and he said, “Humor is a defense against the universe.”

I think that’s kind of brilliant.

There are days when it seems like the universe is conspiring to break us down.

I know there are a lot of women hurting these days, and ladies, I’m with you.

And it’s hard to find the humor in politics, or a pandemic.

But humor isn’t heartless.

It’s a way to take heart.

This too shall pass.

And not because we’ll sit by idly, but because we’ll make sure it passes.

Mother Mary taught me determination, and action.

But most importantly she taught me to laugh.

So forgive me, but here’s a method to my madness, and next week, I’ll write something funny for you.

In the meantime, I’ll look around for the things that make me laugh.

Like the dogs.

This morning Boone woke me up by sitting on my head.

It’s a dog thing.

The dogs make me laugh every day.

My cat makes me laugh once a year.

But it’s a good laugh.

I also have a barn cat who likes to sit on a horse.

Now that’s funny.

He also likes to ride around in the mower.

Too bad he can’t drive.

I have a horse who’s so lazy he lies down while I groom him.

He thinks it’s funny.

Actually it is.

And I do it.

So the joke’s on me.

And here’s something that’s always funny:

The cable company.

The cable company’s always good for a laugh.

My Internet has gone out three times this week, which of course is the week my next novel is due, and I have gone through four different cable visits, three different modems, and two pounds of pasta, not homemade.

Humor and carbs.

Every time.

We will get through this, together.

Take My Advice

May 3, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

There have been 3 stages in my life.

Childhood, divorce, and advice.

Each one has been terrific.

Let me explain.

I had a great childhood.

My parents adored me, and all I did was go outside and play.

The only screens were on doors.

My mother would tell me, “Stop reading, it will ruin your eyes.”

She was right.

And wrong.

There followed two marriages, to Thing One, and Thing Two.

The good news is that my first marriage produced my amazing daughter Francesca.

The other good news is that divorce exists.

The other day I read a news story about a Florida woman who killed both of her ex-husbands in the same day. When the police came to arrest her for murder, she asked, “Which one?”

Too dark?

Now we come to the present stage, which is advice.

I say this now because a nice thing is happening to me this week.

I’m getting an award from International Thriller Writers called ThrillerMaster, which is basically a lifetime achievement award.

Wow?

Who knew?

I never thought I’d ever even get published and here I am, forty books later.So there are interviews asking me for advice for up-and-coming writers.

Notice I did not say younger.

Because one piece of wisdom is that nothing is about age.

You can write a book at any time.

In fact, Allen Levi was in his late sixties when he wrote Theo of Golden, the mega-bestseller that was his first book.

Actually he’s the one we should be asking for advice.

Anyway what’s happening with me is that the interviewer usually asks, “What is the one piece of advice you would give?”

And I can’t narrow it down.

I am full of advice.

I have so much advice, it’s coming out of my ears.

I’m not saying it’s all good.

It might be bad.

It’s based on mistakes I made.

The more mistakes you make, the more advice you have.

So look on the bright side, when you file for divorce.

You’re just racking up advice.

It’s called experience.

Nowadays we call it lived experience, which I like because I think we don’t pay enough attention to people and what they learn from their lives.

You shouldn’t need a lifetime achievement award to be asked advice.

Everyone who’s lived a lifetime can give advice.

The irony is that as people get older in this culture, we tend to listen to them less, not more.

Mother’s Day is upon us, and the best advice I ever got was from Mother Mary.

Like, Be Yourself.

So maybe on Mother’s Day, take your mom to dinner and ask her for advice.

She might answer, Eat your vegetables.

By the way, that’s excellent advice.

Nowadays there are diet doctors who sell books about plant-based diets, which is what your mother has been telling you for your whole life, for free.

And maybe you have some advice too.

I really think all of us are so thoughtful and have so much more to say than people give us credit for.

Like Daughter Francesca has given me excellent advice, and much of it I’ve followed. Even little things like, thanks to her, I’m going to the gym now and I started lifting weights.

Me?

I have a great trainer who has an array of barbells, ropes, kettleballs, and elastic bands.

He’s like Felix with his Bag of Tricks.

And for half an hour, I do whatever he says.

It’s not a power I’ve ever given to any man before.

And I don’t intend to make a habit of it, other than my trainer.

But you know what, I’m learning.

That’s my best advice of all.

Keep learning.

Stay strong.

Not every weight is a burden.

And I bet you can lift it if you try.

Classic Column: Mother Mary and the Terrorists

April 26, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

They say that the past isn’t even past, and that’s always true when Mother Mary is around.

It all begins with a call from Brother Frank.

“I got bad news,“ he says. “We’re bastards.”

“Wha?” asks I.

“Well, we went to get mom’s driver’s license renewed.”

So far, I’m following. Mother Mary doesn’t drive, but she carries an ID card that the Florida DMV issues. Her last card expired, which I found out on her last visit after I tried to put her on a plane back to Miami. They wouldn’t let her fly until they patted her down, which she enjoyed way too much.

“The DMV says we can’t renew her ID card without her marriage certificate.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a woman who’s using her married name.”

“So what?” I’m trying to understand. I don’t see what a driver’s license has to do with a marriage certificate, especially at this point in my mother’s life. My father passed in 2002, and my parents have been divorced for ever. They were married in 1950, a time when people balanced spinning plates on TV. Now that’s entertainment.

“It’s a new law, since September 11^th.”

In the background, I hear my mother yelling, “Those terrorists, they should be ashamed of themselves!”

I nod in approval. That someone should be ashamed of themselves is the worst thing she says about anyone. And when she’s really mad, she’ll shout, “Out of my sight!” I fear for the terrorists if they ever meet Mother Mary. She’ll order them out of her sight, take off her shoe, and throw it at them. She always hits her target. There are missile-launchers with less accuracy.

But to say on point, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Frank, can this be true?”

“Yes. We were in line behind a 92 year old woman whose husband had been dead for fifty years, and they wouldn’t give her an ID card. She had taken two buses to get there, so we gave her a ride home. She said it was a mikveh.”

I wince. “You mean a mitzvah, which is a good deed.”

“What’s a mikveh?”

“Forget it. Tell the story.”

“So we called the hall of records back home, and they can’t find her marriage certificate anywhere.”

“Do the records go back that far?”

“Yes, but the certificate is lost. Or it never existed.”

I blink. “It has to exist. They got married.”

“Yeah, but they’re’s no proof.”

Behind him, my mother’s yelling, “It’s all because of the terrorists!”

I let it go. “So what now?”

“She can’t visit you until we straighten this out.”

Which would be the good news.

Just kidding.

I ask, “What about a passport?”

“She needs the ID card. She’s gonna show a passport to write a check? And we’re illegitimate.”

“Does it matter?” I wonder aloud. In the olden days, they used to call it being born out of wedlock, but I never liked the word wedlock. It has a faintly incarcerated air, which fits my marital history to a T.

“I don’t know if it matters. It seems like everybody’s illegitimate, these days. I feel kind of cool.”

I laugh. “I know, right? We’re Brad and Angelina’s twins.”

“I’ll be the boy.”

“I’ll be the girl.”

Mother Mary shouts, “Bastards!”

But I don’t ask which ones she means.

Classic Column: Which Spices Would You Take To a Kitchen Island?

April 19, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

There’s nothing like home improvement to improve your life.

At least, not in theory.

I say this because I’m adding a garden room to my house, even though I don’t even know if that’s a thing, because I have a garden and I want a room in front of it so I can see it through the window.

Like TV, only without Andy Cohen.

The garden room is attached to the kitchen and since it needed a door, the oven and cabinets had to be moved, and in any event, you see where this is going. Adding a garden room meant that the kitchen got remodeled. Because the thighbone is connected to the leg bone and the leg bone is connected to the wallet.

Anybody who’s ever started home improvement knows that as soon as you improve one thing, you have to improve other things, so that everything is New and Improved, like detergent, only much more costly.

But I’m not complaining.

I feel lucky to be able to make these changes, and since I work at home, I’m spending 24/7 on the premises, I want to premises to suit me. And while we’re turning that frown upside down, let me add that since I’m still terribly single, it’s great to have everything exactly the way I want.

Finally.

And then I’ll die.

My epitaph will read:

HERE LIES LISA SCOTTOLINE

DID SHE IMPROVE ENOUGH?

To stay on point, remodeling the kitchen means that I’m starting to look hard at my priorities, namely, spices. Please tell me that I’m not on the only woman who owns approximately 75,932 spices, accumulated over decades, and that the spices are dusted off every decade, which is the only time they’re even touched.

I’m looking at you, cardamom.

How this came about is that when I moved the oven, I lost the shelf above it, which is where I kept the aforementioned spices, and that meant that I had to find the spices a new home or concede the obvious and throw them out.

So I began to cast a skeptical eye at my spice rack.

And it took me on a tour of my own life.

Let’s begin with Marriage Rookie Enthusiasm.

In that time period of my life, I had just married Thing Two, my daughter Francesca was young and I had two stepdaughters living at home. I wanted to be not only the best mother of all time, but also the best stepmother, so I instantly bought American Mom spices, which you use when you bake apple pie. You know the autumnal array of allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.

To make a long story short, I made exactly one apple pie.

Divorce ensued, but I got custody of the spices.

Then it was just Francesca and me, and being Italian-American, I decided that I was going to make homemade tomato sauce, or gravy. Mother Mary made the best gravy ever, but she refused to give me the recipe because I was a lawyer.

Don’t ask.

I watched her do it and she always used onion salt, garlic salt, salt salt, and extra salt.

No fresh spices were involved.

Yet it was delicious.

Still I could never make gravy as good as she did, and in time I gave up, though I still have the garlic salt. I feel certain that Mother Mary approves, smiling down from heaven and hoping that the garlic salt has solidified into a sodium bullet.

The next stage of my spice life was Francesca going to college, and that was when I decided I wasn’t going to act mopey because I was an empty nester, and believe me, I got over that fast.

LOL.

But in spice terms, that was the time of my Indian Awakening, an idea I got from a Williams Sonoma catalog. I bought every Indian spice known to man, extending well beyond starter curry into garam masala, turmeric, and vadouvan. They came in round pots full of orange and yellow powders, like nightmare blusher.

These were the coolest spices ever, but I never looked at them again because as an empty nester, I stopped cooking altogether.

Which was coolest of all.

This brings us to the present day, when the only spices I use are salt and pepper.

They require neither shelf, rack, nor cabinet.

They’re sitting alone together on the kitchen island, like survivors of a suburban shipwreck.

Where they’ll stay until the next Williams Sonoma catalog comes in the mail.

Puppy Envy

April 12, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’ve been dog-sitting Daughter Francesca’s dog Bobby.

And it’s created a problem.

Because I like Bobby better than my dog Eve.

Just kidding.

Kinda.

Let me explain.

Bobby and Eve are Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, a tri-color and a Blenheim respectively, and they’re both about a year and a half years old. Francesca and I are besties, so the dogs are besties, and they love playing together.

But this last visit, I could see that Bobby is the model child.

Guess who’s the problem child.

Eve/Evil.

Bobby is personality plus. He’s always in a great mood, he’s friendly to other people and dogs, and he loves to cuddle.

I mean, really cuddle.

Anytime I sit down, he sits right beside me.

If I stretch out on the floor to read or watch TV, he comes over and rests his head on my shoulder.

When I go to sleep at night, he cuddles on my pillow or sleeps with his neck on mine.

I know that sounds crazy, but I love it.

In winter, my neck was nice and toasty.

And I could feel his little heartbeat.

I slept better than ever, like he was furry Ambien.

In contrast, Eve always sleeps at the foot of the bed.

I pull her up to get her to sleep near me, but she won’t have any.

She likes lying on my feet, which means I can’t move.

And she barks to wake me up at 6:00 in the morning.

Meanwhile I don’t have to get up until 7:30.

I am my own boss.

My office is downstairs.

When Eve barks that early, Bobby will lazily open one eye. He’s in no hurry to leave our pillow paradise, either.

Then he’ll lick my face, endlessly.

Yes, we make out.

He’s my Employee of the Month.

He deserves a bonus — or a bone.

Honestly, this is my kind of dog.

Only he’s not my dog.

By the way, Eve chews rugs, furniture, and wooden baseboards.

Bobby chews nothing but food.

His only bad habit is that he will find a sneaker, carry it around, and hide it somewhere. It takes a while for me to find both sneakers.

Do I mind?

No, it’s fun!

Eve and Bobby are the Goofus and Gallant of dogs.

The dogs are from the same breeder, who told us, “female dogs love you, but male dogs fall in love with you.”

Before, I thought that sounded gendered.

And I worried that Eve was getting the bitch edit, literally.

But it’s true, of these two.

In the end, one is sugar and one is spice.

But if I could, would I trade Eve for Bobby?

Not really.

Eve is my sassy, spicy, bossy little girl.

She might even be me in dog form.

Adorable!

Just in her own way.

Queen of the One-Liners

April 5, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

My mother passed away on Palm Sunday about ten years ago, and I always think about her around now, not in a sad way, but in a way that makes me smile.

Maybe the following will make you smile, too.

Because Mother Mary’s last days were everything I would’ve wanted for her, complete with her salty brand of humor. She had congestive heart failure, which is surprising for someone with so much heart, and she entered hospice at my house, with my Brother Frank and Daughter Francesca with her.

I’m sure many of you have been through hospice with people you love, so you know what a uniquely terrifying and heartbreaking time it can be. But at the same time, what happened for my mother was glorious, and in many ways, a reflection of the way she lived her life.

None of us knew how long she would live, but she was in pretty great spirits and no pain. So we set up a bed in the living room, but she didn’t need to lie in it and generally walked around the house or plopped on the couch in front of the TV, which was her favorite position.

Mine, too.

We invited friends of hers to come over, and since she hadn’t lived in the Philadelphia area for many years, they showed up in force. Everyone brought food, flowers, and good cheer, and we felt as if we were hosting a very unique sort of party every day, one that was especially meaningful to her.

Then guess what.

She got a second wind.

And a second month.

Mother Mary always loved a good time, and she reconnected with everybody she loved, among them a son from a previous marriage for whom she had been estranged almost all of her life. He was kind enough to come over and spend time with her, too, and the reunion did all of our hearts good.

Hers, especially.

As time went on, her throat became more strained and she couldn’t talk, so she wrote on a greaseboard. The first question any friend asked her was, “How are you?”

To which she would always write: “Outside of all this crap, I’m doing fine.”

I took a picture of her sentence above, and I love seeing it, especially now.

My mother wasn’t the type to give a lot of advice in sit-down lectures. But she had a lot to say and fired off lines like that all the time.

Jokes that made me laugh, then think.

And those quips told everything about her.

Think of the courage it takes to write that sentence.

And at that point, she was dying.

She went from no pain to no picnic in no time.

We were swabbing her throat with sponge lollipops.

But the way she lived her life was to set aside all that crap, and do fine.

By an act of sheer will.

Wow!

I remember that line when I’m having a hard time, or when I’m seeing my country go through hard times.

Dying can teach us so much about living.

Outside of all this crap, we’re doing fine.

So I honor her this week, which is so much about rebirth in Spring, and on Easter, which signifies resurrection for the Christian world.

Mother Mary’s spirit lives on, undefeated.

Brave.

Proud.

Happy.

So does ours.

We Want To Pump You Up

March 29, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Well, it happened.

I joined a gym.

It was a New Year’s resolution and it’s almost April.

I finally got started because I was on a plane and I couldn’t lift my bag into the overhead.

I tried to, but it fell back down.

Then another woman tried to help, and neither of us could get it up there.

I was doing yoga at the time, via zoom, and I loved it, but my cardiologist told me that I needed to do weight-bearing exercises.

Agree, because I can’t bear my own weight.

My other impetus was Daughter Francesca, who joined a gym in New York City and goes three days a week. She’s gotten superfit, and she’s lifting all sorts of weights, plus doing squat thrusts and Bulgarian whatevers.

And she told me, “Mom, you can do it, too!”

Please tell me I’m not the only mother trying to impress her daughter.

Who raised this kid?

In any event, to return to point, I just got back from meeting my trainer.

He’s 28 and he looks 14.

He’s handsome, but that doesn’t matter to me anymore because I didn’t even wash my hair.

I hope he doesn’t read this.

First, we met in his office at the gym, and he asked me what my goals were.

I did not say, to meet and marry Bradley Cooper.

I was trying to be professional.

So I get said to get stronger and that I would love to use those weight machines like Nautilus, back in the old days.

And he said, “Well, those machines isolate only one muscle group.”

And I said, “I know, I would like to isolate as few muscle groups as possible.”

Actually I used to love those Nautilus machines because you did the exercises sitting down.

I’m great with exercises you do sitting down.

I’m even better with exercises you do eating popcorn.

Not to brag, but I’m great at multitasking.

Sitting and eating is my superpower.

I can also walk and eat.

In fact, I have a treadmill desk and I used to eat popcorn on it while I worked. The dogs learned to sit at the end of the treadmill and get the popcorn I dropped delivered to their mouth like a conveyor belt.

Good times.

But that was then and this is now.

So my trainer devised a series of exercises for me, and I did them so he could watch me and see how bad things were.

The answer is real bad.

I don’t know what any of the exercises are called, but I did one exercise which was lunging on one side of my body, with my knee touching the floor.

But I had a hard time getting up again.

In front of everybody else at the gym.

At least I was wearing a bra.

I put it on special for the occasion.

I almost took it off in the car.

But I waited until I got home.

The other exercise was squatting, so I suppose it was called a squat.

Impressed?

Anyway I squatted the way he told me to, sticking my butt out and stretching my arms forward, but I couldn’t get up and down without grunting very loudly.

People looked over.

And then I had to do something called Farmer’s Carry, which was taking weights in each hand and walking around, like you live on a farm.

Okay, you think this sounds easy?

It’s not.

My hat is off to farmers everywhere.

I did it, but by the end I was huffing and puffing.

What’s funny is, I actually do live on a farm.

So the way I look at it, anything I carry is a Farmer’s Carry.

Even a Snickers bar.

In Praise of Praise

March 22, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I graduated!

Or rather, Eve did!

Last night, Eve graduated from obedience school.

I cried.

I cried at Francesca’s graduation, too.

Allow me to tell you that my daughter was valedictorian at her high school.

In contrast, Eve was not.

Eve is basically the juvenile delinquent in her class.

Or the juvenile dog-linquent.

Sorry, I thought I was above puns but I’m not.

Eve started in Puppy Kindergarten at six months, then took Elementary School, Middle School, and Manners Level One. She just now graduated from Manners Level Two.

This dog is more educated than I am.

I’m applying for student loan forgiveness.

I’ve taken her to all of these classes, and she barked her way through every one.

I’m crazy about this dog, but she never shuts up.

She gets it from me.

In the parlance, this is called a “reactive” dog.

To me, she’s Italian.

We have a lot to say!

And I don’t want to sell Eve short. After a year of training, she has learned to sit, stay, heel, and come when called.

At least, when she’s in class.

Once I get her home, she goes from Eve to Evil.

Also, her skills aren’t due to my great training, or even that of the wonderful instructors.

It’s all because of cheese.

Eve will do anything for cheese.

I’m pretty sure she would sell the country out for cheddar.

I got through our obedience classes by holding a tube of string cheese in front of her nose to get her to follow my commands.

I call this a cheater move.

Remarkably, the teachers did not.

I love these teachers.

And to be serious a moment, this past year has been the absolute most fun thing I’ve ever done, because Eve/Evil is such a spicy little dog that she keeps things interesting and the classes are so great at my training center, which is called “What a Good Dog.”

What a good school!

And so every Tuesday evening, I’ve been taking Eve to class and stuffing her with cheese that makes her fart all night.

But she stays!

And at her graduation, we got a certificate that says to “Lisa Scottoline and her Companion Eve.”

It should probably say to “Eve and her Companion Lisa Scottoline,” but I never mind top billing.

Our only problem is that Eve barks so much. This usually starts in the beginning when the dogs are coming in, and there are six dogs in class, so every time a new dog enters, she barks for about 5 to 10 minutes.

I think she’s trying to make friends, but she’s socially awkward.

She gives everybody a headache.

I realized this tonight when the teacher was telling us about a rally class that I signed up for next and nobody else did. I said, “Come on, everybody sign up, I’m doing it!”

And the faces remained blank.

That’s when I realized that maybe nobody wants to do it with Eve.

Or maybe me?

Awkies.

In any event, it was a great graduation night because for the first time we did a little obstacle course of all of the commands, and Eve stopped barking long enough to go through it and eat cheese.

And then one of the other people said that I was really good at praising her, which I totally acknowledge.

I kiss her ass constantly.

I will do anything to get her to shut up.

I was worried that she would flunk, but the teacher said nobody flunks.

Yay!

Let’s hear it for grade inflation!

I think everybody should get a participation trophy, even if they bark a lot.

Life is short.

Don’t skimp on treats or praise.

We all have obstacle courses we have to go through, every day, and there’s nothing wrong with a little help.

That’s what I learned at doggy obedience class.

And honestly, it’s the best lesson ever.

Column Classic: Lost and Found

March 15, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Did you hear the news?

They discovered a new organ.

All this time, it was in your body.

Not even kidding.

Maybe they were looking outside?

Anyway, an Irish surgeon, Dr. J. Calvin Coffey, discovered that we have something in our stomach called a mesentery.

Before now, the mesentery was a mystery.

Dr. Coffey teaches at the University of Limerick, otherwise well-known for its limericks.

Like, “There once was a mesentery from Nantucket….”

Evidently, the mesentery connects the intestine to the abdomen, and as Dr. Coffey explained, “It keeps the intestine in a particular shape, so when you stand up, your intestine doesn’t fall into your pelvis.”

Well, hell. That’s a good thing.

It’s like Spanks for your colorectal system.

Thanks, mesentery!

Meanwhile, I might be in love with Dr. Coffey. He has a way with words. And also if he could find a mesentery, he could find my car keys.

But to stay on point, it turns out that for the past century, medical science had thought the mesentery was a group of disjointed parts, but he figured out it’s a connected organ.

Hello!

So now you have an organ you didn’t know about.

Like a present you got for the holidays.

And it’s just your size!

People don’t understand why medical science didn’t know about the mesentery before.

Not me. I get it. If I were going to lose something in my body, the most likely place to lose it would be in my stomach.

In the folds.

Above the Bermuda Triangle.

You know what I mean.

All ladies have one, and that’s what I call mine. Because any man who goes there is lost forever.

Anyway, if you have stomach folds, you know that they’re the reason God made loose sweaters.

That’s what I wear to hide my folds, or I avoid sitting altogether.

This is my new thing since my last speaking event, when I sat down and my waistband button popped off, then the zipper went town. I couldn’t keep it up. It looked good at the lectern, if you like asymmetrical pants.

Luckily I had on a jacket, which is a folds-hider for special occasions.

And I have other tips for hiding folds.

For example, if you ever see me on the beach, I am lying down. That’s the only way my stomach looks flat. Unfortunately, that’s when my breasts also look flat, but at least it’s a matching set.

Anyway, the thing about folds is that they hide things in addition to mesenteries.

Okay, let’s get real.

I happen to look down after a shower the other day, in a rare moment.

It’s winter, so the shower is rare.

Also the looking down.

I mean, why? I usually can’t see anything over my belly anyway, so who needs that reminder?

Not me.

So when I looked down, my folds smoothed out, and you know what I saw sticking out of my belly button?

Dog hair.

I recognized it because there’s dog hair all over my house, and since I have dogs that have yellow, brown, black, and white hair, in every corner is multicolored canine tumbleweed.

But in my bellybutton?

Who knew?

Yet, there was, sprouting like a little furry fountain.

I started pulling it out, and the more stuff I pulled out, the more stuff there was, like a magician starts pulling scarves out of a hat.

Not only dog hair, but lint and little shreds of tissue paper.

Who knew what was in there?

Could the Bermuda Triangle be spreading?

Are you horrified yet?

I was. I even got out a tweezers to do the job right, extracting every last foreign object like a surgeon.

In fact, like a surgeon finding a mesentery.

Dr. Coffey, call me.

We have so much in common.

Column Classic: A Woman With a Plan

March 8, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m not a planner.

But I got a letter from my local funeral home, asking that I plan a funeral.

For myself.

I tried not to be insulted.

I mean, do I look that bad?

I might, since I just finished a draft of my next novel, and the truth is that daily showers, nutrition, and grooming go by the wayside when I’m on deadline.

Of course, deadline takes on a whole new meaning when your funeral home is sending you love letters.

The letter offered to save me 44% on funeral or cremation costs.

This would be the ultimate final sale.

But to take advantage, I have to decide right now if I want to be buried or reduced to ash.

Are we having fun yet?

The letter said that the sale price was “guaranteed, no-increase pricing.”

To which I thought, You’re darn tootin.’

Try and collect after I’m dead.

Oh, wait. Maybe you can.

The only things guaranteed are death and taxes, and there are taxes after death, so why not a price hike?

I just wish they’d hike me out of the ground.

Maybe that should be my epitaph:

GET ME OUT OF HERE.

How about, I GOT THIS 44% OFF. ASK ME HOW.

Or, I’D RATHER DIE THAN PAY FULL PRICE.

The letter said I should take the deal because it would “protect positive memories” for my family.

That’s my kind of sales pitch.

In other words, buy this, so your family won’t be pissed that you left them holding the bag.

You old bag.

The letter called it a Prearranged Funeral Program, which I have to admit, appealed to my vanity.

It’s not a funeral, it’s a show!

The Bye-bye, Lisa Show!

Unfortunately there’s only one episode.

The premiere and the finale are the same thing.

Bring a lot of popcorn.

It’s not a surprise ending.

You might even cry.

At least, you’d better.

You guys, when I die, I want you all there, sobbing your eyes out. Saying how wonderful I was. And also what a smart shopper.

“Her books are great, plus she got a deal on the casket!”

But I’m not sure I want a half-price deal on a casket.

Maybe you don’t get a lid.

You get a tray.

Or maybe you only get a lid and they flip you over like a cake you just took out of the oven.

If you follow.

None of these jokes apply to cremation, which is inherently unfunny.

I don’t even like hot water.

Or a sunburn.

Ouchie.

Cremation goes against our natural instincts, doesn’t it?

We tell every child, “Don’t put your hand in fire.”

But someday you’ll get a letter that says, “See that fire? Jump in!”

Really, the letter is offering a fire-sale price on an actual fire.

How meta.

This is the best part of the letter: “In short, don’t put it off. As more time passes, the more your loved ones could end up paying for this kind of security.”

HAHAHAHA.

Tick-tock, Scottoline.

Don’t delay because you could die any minute.

And it’s gonna cost somebody 44% more.

You selfish bitch.

I mean, that puts the fun in funeral.

But in the end, I’m going to take advantage of the offer.

I can’t pass up a sale.

And I like to clean up after myself, so to speak.

So maybe I’m a planner, after all.

I’ve become one, after a lifetime.

Literally.

Plus I have loyalty to the funeral home, since they buried my father and mother. And when they came to pick up my mother the morning she passed, there were tears in their eyes, and they actually said, “Is this the famous Mother Mary?”

Aw.

So you know they have my business, from now on.

Because they read me.

People who read my books are my second favorite people on the planet.

My most favorite are people who buy my books.

Why?

Who do you think is paying to put me in an ashtray, at a date yet to be determined?

I sincerely hope it’s you.

You’ll be happy to know I got you a deal.

Thank you for your support.

Now, and later.

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