Chick Wit
- DIY FU October 27, 2024
By Lisa Scottoline
Good news, ladies!
Do-it-yourself pap smears are on the way!
Yay?
I read it in the newspaper, which still exists. Evidently, some company is coming out with a DIY pap smear that you can do all by yourself in the doctor’s office, using a swab to collect your own sample.
Wow!
They call this self-collection.
I call it a step in the wrong direction.
Before I begin, let’s state the obvious:
Don’t expect medical advice herein, and cervical cancer isn’t funny.
But I cracked up when I read about do-it-yourself pap smears.
I didn’t see it coming.
I should have known when they started self-checkout.
It’s a slippery slope, girls.
First, you look up the produce code for asparagus.
Next thing you know, you’re twirling a swab where the sun don’t shine.
Well, next to where the sun don’t shine.
Truly, the sun doesn’t shine in either place.
I wonder if anybody’s taken this into account.
Like, how do you see?
There’s no sun!
Evidently, countries like Denmark, the Netherlands, and Sweden have been self-collecting for some time.
OMG, they really have no sun!
How do they do it?
My hat’s off to those women!
And evidently, so are my panties.
The idea is that you use the swab to twirl around your vaginal walls to collect cells.
Like a COVID test, only lower.
And you can’t do it drive-thru.
Or maybe that’s next.
In fairness, the self-test was developed because some women don’t like the speculum.
As in 100% of women.
But I’d rather have a speculum than do-it-myself.
Because I’m not competent.
For example, today is Tuesday but all day long I thought it was Thursday.
Also I always forget where I parked in the airport lot.
And I’m divorced twice.
The second time, I had doubts walking down the aisle.
In other words, I’m Queen of the Unforced Error.
I’m clearly not the person who should be twirling around in my vagina.
The only person who should be twirling around in my vagina is Bradley Cooper.
Meanwhile, don’t we women have enough to do?
Women work, raise children, vote, pay bills, nurse aging parents, make cupcakes, plant bulbs, follow recipes, and shuttle kids to soccer games and violin lessons.
Do we really have to do our own pap tests, too?
Can somebody do one frigging thing for us?
Namely somebody with a medical degree?
Or at least, somebody better with a Q-tip than I am?
I can’t even get the wax out of my ears.
Do we really want me messing with my vaginal walls?
In fact, I’m so bad at things gynecological that I showed up for my last pap smear the day after I was supposed to be there. And then I forgot it the next two years.
Last week I realized that I should probably get a pap smear, but when I contacted the gynecologist, they told me that because I missed three years in a row, I was considered a New Patient.
And they weren’t taking New Patients.
So effectively, I’m thrown out of the gynecology practice I’ve been going to for the past thirty years.
Thanks.
This is what I mean by Queen of the Unforced Error.
I thought I was an Old Patient.
But I was wrong.
Did you know that the pap smear is named for its inventor, Dr. George Papanicolaou?
I can’t even pronounce Papanicolaou.
That’s why I can’t be trusted with that Q-Tip.
Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2024
- Scary Season October 20, 2024
by Lisa Scottoline
Some call this time of year autumn.
I call it spider-and-mouse season.
It’s a time of basic vermin and moral complexity.
Let me explain.
It’s turning cold in my neck of the woods, and I’m lucky enough to have a nice warm house.
Spiders know this.
They have my number.
And my address.
This time of year, if I open the front door, spiders are waiting in my entrance hall, idling like Formula One racecars. As soon as I appear, they hit the gas, gunning for me.
Actually, gunning for my house but I’m in the way.
I can deal with most insect life, even spiders, in the summer. I scoop them up with a plastic glass and trusty postcard, then put them outside.
But these are not summertime spiders.
These are autumn spiders, as big as Ferraris.
They go from 0 to 60 in a second, and the finish line is my threshold.
But I can’t bring myself to kill them.
That’s the moral complexity part.
I respect their individual creatureness, and most of them are smarter than I am.
I mean, I can’t spin a web.
Can you?
Nor do I have the patience to sit outside somebody’s door all night and wait for them to open it.
This would be the exact feeling of my marriage to Thing Two.
God bless divorce.
To return to point, even though I can’t kill the spiders, I don’t want them inside.
Because they’re scary.
So as soon as they start running for me, I chase them around with my glass and postcard, trying to trap them and take them outside.
If two race in, I can get one.
If four race in, I can get two.
So, you see this isn’t working.
I spend the rest of the morning trying to find the ones who got in, amazed at how they flatten themselves to get under the baseboard or how fast they scoot to reach the floor vent.
I actually admire the ones who get away.
I decide they deserve to live in my nice warm house with me.
Just so they stay out of bed.
I have the same problem with mice. The other night I walked into my entrance hall and there was one little mouse curled up in a corner.
Daughter Francesca happened to be home, so I called her.
Okay, I’ll be real. I screamed to her.
Then the mouse started running around and Francesca tried to catch it with a box lid, then somehow, I slipped on the kitchen floor and started laughing so hard that the mouse got away.
Basically, a cartoon.
We searched but couldn’t find the mouse.
Meanwhile, our cats Mimi and Vivi were nowhere in sight.
They’re both seventeen years old, so I forgive them.
They were probably reading AARP magazine.
So now there’s a mouse in my house.
I’m trying to be scrupulous about cleaning up, but the dry cat food is down all day, so I’m sure I’m feeding both cats and mice.
I have a friend who found a mouse in her kitchen, then a stash of dry dog food that the mouse had been storing in the oven.
That’s one smart mouse.
I bet it can spin a web.
I keep looking for my mouse, but I have yet to find it, and It’s driving me crazy.
It’s living rent-free in my house and my head.
The only solution?
Stop thinking about it.
Pretend it’s not happening.
It just wants a roof over its head.
So do I.
And everybody’s living happily ever after.
Copyright 2024 Lisa Scottoline - Column Classic: Purse Quest October 13, 2024
Let’s talk about a decision that women have to make every morning:
Big purse or little purse?
I know it’s not life or death, but it makes you nuts if you choose the wrong one as consistently as I do.
If you carry a big purse for the day, it’s guaranteed that you’ll end up never needing anything you’re lugging around like a pack animal. And if you carry a little purse for the day, you’ll invariably end up tucking things under your armpit or asking your husband to carry them.
It’s Purse Lotto, and there are winners and losers, every day.
I lose, almost always. I keep track, and if I choose the right purse four days out of seven, I’m Purse Diva. Most weeks, I choose correctly only one day.
Purse Geek.
Now I can already hear you menfolk, thinking that the problem can be solved by a medium-size purse. That seems sensible, but it doesn’t work.
Not your fault, gentlemen. How would you know? Unless you carry a man purse, in which case, play along.
In reality, a medium purse is the worst of both worlds. It’s not big enough to carry everything you need, and it’s not small enough to let you feel footloose and fancy free. And besides, medium defeats the purpose of adding fun to your life by gambling with handbags.
So I say, live dangerously. Choose big or little. Pick your poison. See if, by the end of the day, you’re a Purse Hero or a Purse Loser.
Use me as your inspiration. You couldn’t do worse.
Just the other day, I chose a big purse and ended up walking all over NYC with daughter Francesca, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulder. I didn’t need the hardback book, full makeup case, or water bottle.
Turns out they have water in New York, too.
So the next day, I carried a cute little purse, but wrong again. I couldn’t zip it up after I bought a pack of gum, so I walked everywhere worried that my keys would fall out or I’d get pick-pocketed. And Francesca had to carry our umbrella, newspaper, and everything else in her nice big purse.
It goes without saying that the day you choose the wrong purse, your daughter will choose the right one. Last week, Francesca was six for seven.
Purse Diva.
It was the same week I got so frustrated that I opted out of Purse Lotto altogether. Francesca and I went to a movie, and I carried only my wallet.
Whoa. I threw caution to the summer wind. I went free and easy, like July itself.
Francesca looked over. “Why no purse?”
“Traveling light.”
“You should carry a purse, Mom.”
“Don’t need one.”
We settled into our seats at the movie, and Francesca gestured at my wallet. “Where are you gonna put that?”
I blinked. The seat to the right of me was taken, and my cupholder held a Diet Coke and Raisinets. I couldn’t admit defeat and ask her to put my wallet in her big purse, so I set the wallet under my chair, on the sticky floor. Yuck.
“See?” I said, hiding my distaste. “No problem.”
It worked out perfectly until we left the theater, got several blocks away, and I remembered that my wallet was still on the floor. We hurried back, and it was still there, probably because even felons couldn’t unstick it. Then we went out to dinner.
“Now where are you gonna put the wallet?” Francesca asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Right here.” I set it down on the empty chair next to me, no problem. I didn’t forget it either. But when we had gotten a few blocks from the restaurant, I realized that I’d been so worried about my wallet, I’d left my credit card on the table. We hurried back, for the second time that day.
So now I lose at Wallet Lotto, too.
“I shoulda brought a purse,” I said, going home, after all was recovered.
“Next time.” Francesca patted me on the back. “Don’t feel bad.”
“Which purse should I have brought, oh sage one?”
“The small.”
Purse Genius.
Copyright © Lisa Scottoline
- Tushie Time October 6, 2024
By Lisa Scottoline
The only products I endorse are my books.
Except for today.
I’m recommending a colonoscopy.
Why?
Because it’s a damn good time.
First, let me explain that I’m not giving medical advice.
I’m not a doctor. I’m just some lady trying to make you laugh.
And I finally had a colonoscopy after putting it off for twelve years.
Obviously, I’m a procrastinator.
I’m great at procrastinating because I get so much practice.
Procrastinating is the one thing I don’t put off.
Secondly, I’m not telling you to get a colonoscopy because I got bad news and want you to avoid the same fate.
Luckily, I’m fine.
And I hope you would be, too.
But there’s only one way to find out.
And if you’re procrastinating because you believe having a colonoscopy is going to be horrible, it’s going to be better than you think.
In fact, it’s a gas.
Sorry.
We begin when I start getting texts from Penn Medicine at Radnor, which is where I scheduled the colonoscopy. The text messages came in a series the week before, and each one was cheerier than the last, like: “Lisa, it’s officially colonoscopy prep week!”
Yay?
More texts came in, and they got me thinking positively about something I had been dreading, even though they were from some mechanized, algorithmic, auto-reply bot.
Bum Bot.
Bum Bot would text me helpful directions every day, like: “Lisa, don’t forget to purchase your prep supplies!”
Thanks for the reminder, Bum Bot!
Next text, “Good morning, Lisa! Let’s take a look at your diet in preparation for your colonoscopy!”
Another great idea!
Then, “Lisa, Have you made arrangements for a ride home? Let us know!”
Why, no, thanks for asking, Bum Bot!
I began to look forward to his texts.
It’s sexting for old people.
Then: “Hi Lisa, remember that you really want to avoid high fiber foods! Here’s a short list of foods to avoid and foods to eat!”
At this point I fell in love with Bum Bot.
He cared about me and my fiber content.
The way to a woman’s heart is through her…stomach.
And the night before the colonoscopy, he wrote: “Please enjoy your dinner this evening! This will be your last meal with solid food!”
Hmm, maybe too execution-y.
On the day before the test, Bum Bot texted: “Good morning, Lisa! It’s game time!”
Go, team, go!
Push ‘em back, shove ‘em back, waaaay back.
Well, not that far back.
I had to take pills and drink liquid divided into two parts, overnight. Even at midnight, Bum Bot texted: “Great job! The first half of your prep is complete!”
Every step of the way, he was behind me.
Literally.
After I drank the second half, he texted: “You’ve come so far, and the worst is over!”
What a guy!
The worst was over!
Meanwhile I hadn’t even had my colonoscopy yet.
Bum Bot texts to me ended with clapping emojis: “Congratulations! You did it!”
I felt so accomplished!
All I did was sit on the toilet all night!
Later, the procedure was just me going to sleep via anesthesia and waking up rested under a warm blanket, which I loved.
The nurses were great, the doctor was great, and everybody was great.
And incredibly, they emailed me a colonoscopy report that even included color pictures taken from inside my colon.
Whoa!
I’d show you one but it’s NSFW.
More old people porn.
You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.
Honestly, I was a little grossed out, but also, fascinated!
Turns out, sometimes it’s good to have your head up your ass.
Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2024
- Survey Says September 29, 2024
By Lisa Scottoline
I’m loved.
By an algorithm.
But I’ll take it.
As you may know, I haven’t had a date in forever and I write sex scenes from memory.
But now I can’t remember.
To return to point, that doesn’t mean I don’t have love in my life.
I have great friends, furry animals, and above all, a phone.
My phone loves me deeply.
And so does every place I shop online.
How do I know?
Because they tell me so, via my phone.
These days, every time I buy something, I get a text or email from the website fifteen minutes later, telling them how much they enjoyed my patronage.
All I did was click.
But now we’re in a relationship.
I’m not complaining.
I know, they’re trying to get into my pants.
I mean, my wallet.
But at least someone’s asking me questions and cares about my answer.
I didn’t get that in either marriage.
Even an algorithm is better than Thing One and Thing Two.
I should have married Al Gorhythm.
Sorry.
The same thing happens when I go into stores. I mean brick-and-mortar, like old-school buildings where you drive there, walk inside, and buy stuff.
Stores are better boyfriends than sites because they care about me, in detail.
After I leave, every store sends me a survey, asking me pages of specific questions:
How was my experience at their store?
Were all of my questions answered?
Were the salespeople knowledgeable and courteous?
How about the store itself? Was it clean and well-lit?
Was it able to find everything I needed?
Would I recommend the store to my friends?
Or only my enemies?
I might be the only person who actually responds to these surveys.
I love it!
Ask me anything!
I have opinions!
I’m sharing them!
If it says, Is there anything else you would like us to know, I click, YOU’RE DARN TOOTIN!
Then I elaborate.
I show my work.
Every restaurant sends me a survey, too, and I tap away on my phone, rating the appetizers, the wait staff, and the specialty drink menu:
Yes, I sure would recommend that margarita with smoky mescal!
Last week I went to a horse show and even they sent me a survey.
What’s my opinion on the horse show?
I love horses!
I would recommend the show to every horse I know!
By the way, I give everybody good ratings, but it’s the truth. I’m not out to ruin anybody’s day or get anybody fired. I waitressed in college and I love everybody. I’m a five-star machine.
Why?
People don’t get enough positive reinforcement in life.
My point was proven last week, when I watched a Formula One race and British driver George Russell radioed in the middle of the race, “I need a bit of encouragement, mate.”
OMG, can you imagine?
He’s driving a racecar at 200 miles an hour.
I’d give him all the encouragement he needs.
I give him so much encouragement he wouldn’t need gas.
Meanwhile you should see me drive at 70 miles an hour.
My teeth start to chatter.
To return to point, I’m going to shop more often because I love all the surveys, which I answer in a loop of recycled love.
I even recommend stores on Yelp, if they ask me to.
After all, I have my career because readers have been kind enough to recommend my books to others, so I pay it forward.
Thanks, mate!
Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2024
★ Nominated for Macavity Award for Best Mystery Short Story
★ Nominated for Edgar Award for Best Short Story
Now in Paperback
★ #4 New York Times Bestseller
★Barnes & Noble Most Anticipated Novel of March
★ Booklist Starred Review
★ “A Best Historical Fiction of Spring” – BookBub
★ LibraryReads Selection for March 2023
★ BookBub Most Anticipated of 2023
★ Lit Hub Top 25 Book for 2023
★ CrimeReads Top 25 Historical Crime Book to Look For in 2023
★ Zibby Magazine Most Anticipated Book of 2023
ON SALE NOW
★ New York Times Bestseller
★ #1 Apple Books Bestseller
★ USA Today Bestseller
★ People Book of the Week
★ Library Reads Selection
★ Highly Anticipated Thriller of 2022 by Buzzfeed
★ Goodreads Most Anticipated Spring Book
★ Goodreads Most Anticipated Mystery of 2022
★ Publishers Weekly Top 10 Mystery Thriller of 2022
★ Bookbub Most Anticipated Mystery & Thriller of 2022
★ Top 10 Editors Pick for March by Audiofile Magazine
On Sale Now
★ Goodreads Nominated for Best Historical Fiction of 2021
★ Best Historical Fiction – Foreign Policy Magazine
★ Best Historical Novel of 2021 – Cosmopolitan
★ Named One of the Best Historical Fiction of 2021 by SheReads
★ Instant New York Times Bestseller
★ USA Today Bestseller
★ An Indie Bestseller
★ Chosen as a “Buyer’s Pick” by Costco
★ Ingram Books Club Pick
★ Good Morning America “Must Read Book of March” from Zibby Owens
★ A USA Today “Book Not to Miss”
★ Indie Next Pick
★ Library Reads Selection
★ Barnes and Noble “Best Historical Fiction to Read Right Now”
★ Library Journal Starred Review
★ A Bustle Most Anticipated Book of March 2021
On Sale Now in Paperback
GHOSTS OF HARVARD
Ghosts of Harvard, which The Washington Post called “a sweeping and beguiling novel” as well as “a rich, intricately plotted thriller,” is Francesca Serritella’s debut novel.
★ Best First Novel Finalist– International Thriller Writers
★ Philadelphia Magazine “Great Beach Read of 2020”
★ Amazon Editor’s Pick for “Best of the Month”
★ Goodreads “May’s Most Anticipated Novel”
★ Named a “Thriller that Will Have You on the Edge of Your Seat This Summer” by PopSugar
★ Named an “Addictive New Thriller” by Book Riot
★ Teen Vogue Book Club Pick
★ Parade Magazine’s Best Thriller & Mystery of Summer
★ Best Books of 2020: Boston.com Reader’s Pick
★ Favorite College-Set Thriller of All Time – Audible.com