Chick Wit

• 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.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• 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!

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• 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