Chick Wit

• Mileage October 12, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Well, the weather has turned cold, and I’m back to my old habits.

  I’m sleeping in my clothes.

  I don’t regard this as a bad habit.

  I actually think it’s a good habit.

  Hear me out.

  It’s fall now so that means I’m in a long sleeve T-shirt, a sweater, and sweatpants.

  Francesca calls them my teddybear clothes.

  You cannot imagine how happy I am to be a teddybear.

  I walk around feeling huggable.

  And even hugged.

  Who knew clothes could do such good?

  At night I’m nice and warm in bed, and the next morning when I wake up, I’m ready for the day.

  Obviously, no bras are involved.

  I’m not braless, I’m bra-free.

  If I have to go out for some reason, whether to walk the dogs or ride a pony, I put on a bra then take it off as soon as I get in.

  As we all know, home is where you hang your bra.

  You’re probably wondering how often I change my clothes/pajamas.

  When I feel shame.

  Shame is key to my life.

  Or when I take a shower, which is also shame-based.

  Mainly three days.

  This was a good system until last weekend, because I went to Boston for work and also saw my old friend Sandy, whom I’ve known since tenth grade.

  That makes it a 55-year friendship.

  Do you have any friends for 55 years?

  If you do, you’re very lucky.

  Sandy and I don’t see each other as much as we did in French II. She lives in Vermont and I live in Pennsylvania, so we stay in light touch through text and zooms, but when we see each other, we finish each other sentences.

  Except Sandy is a psychiatrist so she’s a better listener than I am.

  So, you know who gets to finish her sentences.

  When I first saw Sandy, she looked terrific in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans with a leopard print, and matching sneakers.

  When I told her how cute she looked, she told me something remarkable: “I made this whole outfit, even the sneakers.”

  Now, I don’t know what to tell you.

  Sandy and I are a lot alike, but 55 years has changed us.

  She makes sneakers, and I can’t be bothered to make dinner.

  I don’t know how this happened.

  It struck me that having a girlfriend is something of a miracle, especially when you’ve had one for a long time.

  Even if you don’t see them or talk to them, very often, they are a constant throughline in your life. And if you have lived long enough, you know that there are precious few throughlines in life.

  I myself have had two divorces, several different cars, and even more dogs. I’ve changed careers. As an author, I’ve even written different types of novels. My weight has gone up and down. My hair has gone from mousy brown to fictional blonde.

  That is the only thing that will never change on me.

  My fake hair color.

  But a girlfriend like Sandy is a constant, like an operating system on a computer. Like any good support system, she makes things run, but invisibly so. I just know she’s there for me, and I will always be there for her.

  We sat down over lunch and talked about our parents, because I knew her wonderful mother and father the way she knew Mother Mary and my father. We talked about our siblings, our children, and our dogs because she is as big a dog lover as I am.

  And we walked all over Boston, where I did plenty of shopping and she did none, and she taught me what upcycling is, which means making old clothes into new clothes instead of throwing them away.

  I thought that we were upcycling ourselves.

  Sandy is my own personal history on two homemade sneakers, and I am hers, in Hokas.

  And when I spend time with her, I feel it fulfilling my soul, in a way that being with someone who knows you completely and loved you even when you had braces, glasses, and hair that was still its natural color.

  Because that stuff is just superficial, like the clothes we put on and take off.

  And we shared a hotel room, in which she slept in actual pajamas while I slept in the same outfit that I had worn that day.

  She didn’t say anything.

  There’s no judgment in an old friend.

  There’s no shame with an old friend.

  There’s only love.

  And the miles you put on the relationship, no matter what shoes you wear.

  Or make.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• What’s A Girl To Do? October 5, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I’m powerless.

  Literally.

  Not because I’m living in a country roiled by crazy politics, climate change, or agita in general.

  I mean I got no electricity.

  And I can’t get no satisfaction.

  Tell you why.

  I lose power all the time in my house, maybe twenty times a year.

  No joke.

  I also get power surges, which is like the evil twin of a power outage.

  Listen, I’m no physicist.

  I don’t know enough about electricity to tell you what either of these things are.

  All I can tell you is that they’re engaged in a conspiracy against me.

  I’ve had power outages and surges that fried my dishwasher, a dryer, and several computers.

  My power goes out or surges during any thunderstorm, snowstorm, and even on a sunny day that happens to be windy.

  Give me a break.

  Snow and thunder are good excuses, but wind?

  Sack up, power grid.

  When did you get so delicate?

  They tell me wind is a problem because trees get knocked down, and that causes a power outage. But I look outside and none of my trees are knocked down. I drive around the neighborhood and no other trees are knocked down. It’s a beautiful sunny day with a slight breeze, like a blow dryer on cool.

  But somewhere, someplace, a downed tree is frying my appliances.

  It’s like a butterfly effect for housewares.

  Okay, I’m not stupid, so I tried to protect myself.

  I bought a generator.

  And last month, I got a power surge that fried the generator.

  I was actually sitting in the kitchen when all the lights flickered, then went black, and in the next moment I heard a large popping noise, which was my checkbook.

  Just kidding, it was my generator.

  I talked to the electrician, and he told me that I should install a power surge protection system in the house, which would prevent this sort of thing.

  So I reached for my checkbook, and they installed the power surge protection system.

  And last week I got another power surge which fried the power surge protection system.

  I’m not even kidding.

  And it also fried my burglar alarm system, which is another thing I put in to protect myself.

  I await the estimate. I’m going to tell them to put it on my tab.

  The alarm company suggested that I put in a claim for all of these damages on my homeowners’ insurance.

   And I do have homeowners insurance, to protect myself.

  But we all know that if I put in a claim, my rates will go up, because that’s the way insurance works.

  So bottom line, how do I protect myself when all of my self-protection fails?

  At this point I have installed four backup systems, none of which are backing up.

  Do you know what is backing up?

  My agita, in general.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• 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