Chick Wit

• Good For What Ails You January 19, 2025

  by Lisa Scottoline

  

  These are turbulent times.

  I have a cure.

  A puppy.

  First, let me state the obvious.

  Don’t get a puppy if you’re not going to take care of it forever.

  I assume I’m talking to responsible adults here.

  But now, let’s be real.

  I got a puppy and I am in love.

  There is no illness a puppy can’t cure.

  I’m having the best time ever, throwing balls for her and holding nylabones while she chews them.

  I feel sure that every minute I spend is adding time to my life.

  My deadline is going to hell but I’ll worry when I’m dead.

  The absolute best thing to do with the puppy is sleep with one.

  In your bed.

  Under the covers.

  I know, it sounds weird.

  Maybe you have something better to sleep with.

  Like a man.

  Or a woman.

  I used to sleep with men, and none of them was as much fun as a puppy.

  That’s just the truth.

  I think it begins when we’re kids and we sleep with stuffed animals. I had a pink rabbit named Pinky, and I still have her.  She’s ancient but she looks good for her age.

  Or maybe I’m projecting.

  I don’t know who started kids sleeping with stuffed animals, but it’s an absolutely great idea. I loved Pinky, and now I have a little puppy who’s the size and shape of Pinky.

  And I’m a kid again.

  Our story begins with me putting Eve in a crate next to my bed at night, which is what I read you were supposed to do. But she would wake up two, three, and four times to go out. I would take her out each time, she’d pee, and I’d give her a treat.

  The next day, I was tired.

  Very.

  Then I started to worry that she was waking up for the treat and/or the attention.

  I figured this out because I used to kiss her all the way downstairs and outside.

  Listen, I’m a good kisser.

  Not to brag.

  So last night, from the outset, I put her in my bed instead of the crate.

  And instead of waking up four times a night, she slept till 7:30 in the morning.

  And I got the first good night’s sleep since I got her.

  Plus it was fun.

  Like, so much fun.

  Eve just cuddled up at my side, nestled in my flannel nightgown.

  This is sex for middle-aged women.

  Now we sleep together, old lady and new puppy.

  I’m well aware that some of you might be grossed out at this point.

  I say this because I once wrote a character that slept with her dog under the covers, and my editor said it was disgusting.

  Really?

  But it’s cold at night.

  How can I cover myself and not the dog?

  I’m also aware that there are people who don’t allow their dog on the furniture, much less the sheets.

  I admire them.

  They set limits I never could.

  They’re never wearing more dog hair than their dog.

  They probably balance their checkbook every month.

  And they marry the right guy the first time.

  Me, not so much.

  But it all turned out alright in the end.

  Me and my little furball are having a great time.

  Bottom line, whatever gets you through the night.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• Superhot Mama January 12, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  The holiday season is over, and that means it’s time for your new prezzies!

  Yay!

  My thing is that I wear everything I got right away and all the time.

  Like if I got a new sweater for the holiday, I put it right on.

  I wear it every day, to death.

  And then if I got another new sweater, I put that one on next.

  For about six days after the holidays, I look fantastic.

  If I got nice earrings, I wear them with whatever T-shirt I got.

  I don’t care if they go together or not.

  I lack prezzie impulse-control.

  New is new new.

  And it boosts my mood into the next year, which is also new.

  And as you may know, I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I think they’re too negative.

  Instead I think about the good things I did right and vow to keep doing them.

  Like wearing prezzies!

  And eating spaghetti!

  And kissing my puppy on the lips!

  The only downside of this season is trying to figure out some of my presents.

  For example, my bestie Nan gave me a vest that heats up by itself.

  Like menopause, but in a good way.

  It has a button that you press, which will glow various colors depending on how hot the vest is.

  You may think it’s crazy, but it’s actually genius.

  I’ve worn it for a few days and now I can’t imagine why all clothes aren’t heated all the time. I can go outside in any weather and feel super warm, glowing red as a thermometer in August. I wear it inside and don’t have to turn up the heat as high.

  It even preheats like an oven.

  I bet it bakes bread.

  And I’d get a yeast infection.

  Plus the light changes like a traffic light.

  It’s the Squid Game of vests.

  Until the battery gave out and I had to recharge it.

  But I had thrown away the instructions that came with the vest.

  I’m not used to directions for clothes.

  I’m used to put it on, then take it off.  

  I looked on the website and saw that the vest came with a Beginner’s Guide.

  That would be me.

  A heated-vest virgin.

  But no longer.

  My vest has a battery check, battery level indicators, a USB type-A output port, USB type-C input port, and a DC output port.

  How many ports does your vest have?

  I bet not enough.

  Like now I need a PhD to get dressed.

  I’m not smart enough for my smartclothes.

  Honestly my vest makes my smartphone look stupid.

  In any event, once my vest lost power, I had to get the battery out of its secret pocket, then I had to find the little dongle that I threw away, and finally I had to locate an actual USB port since my laptop doesn’t have one anymore.

  But I did it!

  I refueled my clothes!

  And here we are.

  Making new advances in outerwear every day.

  Bending nature to our will.

  Literally, empowered.

  It’s a great way to start the year, new and improved!

  Iron Woman!

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• Happy 2025! January 5, 2025

  See you next week!

• Column Classic: ‘Twas The Night Before December 29, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  For Christmas, I got broken pipes.

  Again.

  Let me explain.

  Just before the holidays, I went down to the basement.

  First mistake, right?

  Going down to the basement is asking for trouble. 

  There was water all over the basement floor. It didn’t take a plumber to figure out that one of the overhead pipes was leaking.

  Correction. Actually, it did. It took four different workmen to figure out what was leaking, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I called my plumbing and heating company, and they sent over a plumber, who said I needed a heating guy instead, and next a heating guy came over and said I needed a plumbing guy instead, and then a third guy came over who could do both and told me it would take four thousand dollars to fix my problem, which was a combination of plumbing and heating problems.

  That’s all I understood, as I stopped listening after the four-thousand-dollar part.

  But it had to be fixed, so I said yes, and they put me “on the schedule.”

  This was two days before Christmas. I stayed home and waited for the plumber/heater guy to come, though I had three zillion things to do, among them buying last-minute gifts and turkey for Christmas dinner. When no one showed up, I called the company, and they said I wasn’t “on the schedule,” after all.

  Oops.

  No problem, any other week but Christmas. I had no gifts and no turkey. Time was running out. The company said they’d send somebody as soon as possible, which was Christmas Eve day. This was a problem, because it was the last shopping day until you-know-what, and all I had for the holiday dinner was cereal. Also, the tree had to be decorated, so never let it be said that I leave some things until the last minute.

  Because I leave everything until the last minute.

  Also, if you recall, my last Christmas Eve was spent with plumbers and heating guys. If it’s a federal holiday, I’m spending it with plumbing and heating guys.

  So, I said to the company, no thanks, don’t send the plumbers on Christmas Eve. Send the plumbers on Monday, after the weekend.

  What could go wrong?

  You’ll see.

  Francesca and I enjoyed Christmas Eve day, picked up our turkey and fixings, and stopped by the mall, where we were interviewed by a TV reporter as one of those crazy last-minute shoppers. I blamed it on Francesca. On camera. That’s the kind of mother I am.

  So we came home all happy, but as we were decorating the tree, we noticed it was getting cooler in the house. And long story short, on Christmas morning, we opened our presents in fifty-five degree weather.

  Inside.

  Whatever had gone wrong in the basement had knocked out our heat, but no worries, we were warmed by tidings of comfort and joy.

  Until the house temperature dipped to fifty-two.

  Hmm.

  We had put shopping ahead of heating, and now we’re going to pay for it.

  Still, no worries. We remained calm. We would tough it out for the weekend, then the plumber/heater guy would come on Monday.

  But a snowstorm came instead.

  And the plumber/ heating guy couldn’t.

  So, you know where this is going.

  We have no heat, for five days now. Francesca keeps a fire burning in the fireplace in the family room, and I keep the hot chocolate coming. We sleep on couches, huddled with the dogs, in the flickering light of the fire.

  So, I asked her if we should have done the prudent thing and let the plumber come, instead of having Christmas Eve.

  “Nah,” she answered, with a smile.

  Good girl.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Holiday Big December 22, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Well, it’s that time of year again.

  I mean, it’s time to meet with my accountant.

  I do this every year around Christmas.

  Usually, after Christmas shopping.

  It would make sense to talk to the accountant before Christmas shopping, but that would be no fun.

  You don’t want to have a conversation with your accountant before the holidays.

  It’s like having a conversation with your dietitian.

  Not that I have one, but like many women, I am one.

  My four basic food groups are pasta.

  Is that okay?

  But nobody likes holiday presents more than I do.

  I get more excited than most five-year olds.

  I think a gift is a way to show people you love them and you’re grateful to them, every day of the year.

  It doesn’t have to cost a lot of money.

  So my accountant reminds me.

  He meets with me to tell me when I can retire, given my current rate of spending.

  I tell him I’m not interested in retiring, I’m interested in spending.

  He says he just wants me to make an informed decision.

  Where was he before I got married?

  The second time.

  Okay, the first, too.

  The bottom line is, I’m trying to make better mistakes.

  In any event, I don’t feel like retiring anytime soon. In fact, today I announced the new book coming out this summer, my first psychological thriller. I’ve never written one before, but between politics and the news, I’ve never felt so psychological.

  Its entitled The Unraveling of Julia because I’m feeling vaguely unraveled.

  I changed the name so you wouldn’t know it was me.

  That’s the fiction part.

  I love telling stories for a living. It’s totally fun and even though it’s hard work, you get to do it in your teddybear clothes, as Daughter Francesca calls them.

  I write as an excuse to dress like a teddybear.

  And I know retirement is a great thing and most of my friends are retired and doing a lot of fun things. They hike, bike, ski, volunteer, take classes, and play pickle ball.

  I might be the only person my age who doesn’t play pickleball.

  That said, I’m also a person who just got a puppy.

  At my age, that took some calculating. I hope I’ll be around for the length of this dog’s life.

  That means I have to live a long time.

  Or the puppy dies PDQ.

  You know you’re old if after you get a puppy, you have to revise your will.

  But I want this puppy provided for. She’s accustomed to toys and treats.

  Every girl should be. 

  So my puppy’s also my beneficiary.

  I know it sounds silly, but it isn’t. I was a good friend of my late neighbor Harry, who passed away, leaving his very old cat Spunky. There were no provisions in his will for Spunky, so I took the cat in and he tottered around my second floor, safe from my rambunctious dogs, and basically Spunky lived the life of Riley.

  I thought he had a month left to live.

  Five years later, he was playing pickleball.

  Anyway, I think the holidays are for life, and love.

  Not accountants or dietitians or estates lawyers.

  I say, Love big, and live big.

  And thanks big, to all of you.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2024