Chick Wit

• 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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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.

  

  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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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!

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Cats and Dogs in 500 Square Feet August 17, 2025

  By Francesca Serritella

  Francesca’s new novel, FULL BLOOM, an Instant USA TODAY National Bestseller, is in stores now. Here is a Dear Reader guest column she wrote recently:

  

  I recently welcomed a puppy into my life. A roly-poly tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, with russet eyebrows that tilt with cartoonish expression and a penchant for belly rubs. I named him “Bobby Baby” after the Sondheim musical Company, because company is what I needed most.

  Especially after I’d lost my beloved dog Pip. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel ready to get another dog, until I heard about this puppy born on the one-year anniversary of Pip’s passing.

  I felt like he was heaven-sent.

  My eighteen-year-old cat Mimi disagrees.

  I thought hard about inflicting a puppy’s chaotic energy on Mimi’s golden years. But Mimi is aging like the feline Demi Moore.

  Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

  Copyright © Francesca Serritella | www.francescaserritella.com | @FrancescaSerritellaauthor | @fserritella