Chick Wit

• Column Classic: Mother Mary and The Retirement Village November 17, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Sooner or later, most families will deal with the question of whether an aging mom or dad should move to a retirement community.  The pamphlets say it’s not an easy decision, and they never met Mother Mary.

  We begin with some background. 

  As you may know, my mother lives with Brother Frank in South Beach, and lately they’ve been talking about selling their house.

  By lately, I mean the past twenty years.

  The Flying Scottolines move slowly.  So slowly, in fact, that we try to sell houses in the worst recession of all time, in which the real estate prices are at an all-time low.  If you need investment advice, just ask us.  We hear that tech stocks are superhot.

  If Mother Mary and Brother Frank sell their house, the question becomes whether they should continue to live together, or whether Mother Mary should move to a retirement village.

  It takes a village to raise Mother Mary.

  And I wish it luck.

  Anyway, they can’t decide what to do. They love living together. He’s gay, and his gay friends love their moms, so they’re all living in a happy circle of fragrant stereotypes.

  And Frank takes wonderful care of her, taking her to all of her doctor’s appointments, grocery store runs, and occasional dinners out.  There’s a special place in heaven reserved for people who take such great care of their parents, and once my brother gets there, he’ll not only get a free pass, he’ll be allowed to park anywhere.

  By the way, Mother Mary doesn’t want to live with me, because she says, “All you do is read and write.”

  To which I plead guilty.

  And though we prefer her to live with family, we all know that Frank might not always be able to take care of her, and that even though she’s in great health now, she might not always be.  So we’re all confused, and I decided that we should go visit a retirement village near me in Pennsylvania, since none of us had ever seen one.  In fact, we’re so old-school that we kept calling it a “nursing home,” which is the last term that applies. 

  On the contrary, it’s paradise.

  We were shown through a lovely building, complete with two restaurants and a “pub,” which serves drinks in front of a big TV.  We read a daily menu that included trout almandine, duck with wild rice, and baked Alaska.  We toured a gym that had a Jacuzzi and an indoor pool.  We saw a beautiful one-bedroom apartment with freshly painted walls, cushy wool rugs, and maid service.  We got brochures on discount trips to Egypt and London.  And they have a computer class, a book club, canasta, bridge, and pinochle clubs, plus yoga, aerobics, free weights, and “seated” exercise. 

  So you know where this is going:

  I’m ready to move in. 

  Now. 

  Say the word. 

  Retire me. 

  I’m old enough, at least I feel old enough. 

  They had me at “seated exercise.”  Exercising while seated is my kind of exercise.  It’s a piece a cake. 

  Just do it.

  For example, I’m seated right now, watching football on TV, which I gather is “unseated exercise.”  How conventional.  All that moving around. 

  Who needs it?

  But to stay on point, I fell in love with the place, and so did Brother Frank.  It even had a huge model train set, which he began playing with immediately, pressing the button to make the toy locomotive chug through the fake forest, until it derailed, careened off the track, and vanished into some fake shrubbery.

  He walked away quickly.

  I blamed it on my mother.

  Why not? It’s the American way.

  And I bet you think you know what Mother Mary thought of the place.

  She loved it. 

  Surprise!

  She’s hasn’t decided she wants to move there, and they’re going back to Florida to let it sink in.  We’ll see what happens, and I’ll let you know.  I’m just happy that’s she didn’t reject the idea outright.

  I think they had her at “maid service.”

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: One Down November 10, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Mother Mary never forgets anything.  Take the Case of the Crossword Puzzle Cookie Jar. 

  Our story begins when I see an ad for a cookie jar in the newspaper.  It’s a square white jar with a real crossword puzzle on each of the four sides, and it has a special pen that you use to fill in the blanks.  Plus it comes with heart-shaped cookies that I don’t have to bake myself.

  Mother Mary loves crossword puzzles, though she doesn’t much care for cookies, regardless of shape.  Bottom line, the crossword-puzzle cookie jar struck me as a great gift for Mother’s Day.  At the time I saw the ad, it was a month in advance of the holiday, so I ordered it online, charged it to my credit card, and specified that it be sent to her.  Then I ordered her flowers like I always do and figured I had Mother’s Day squared away. 

  But when I called her for Mother Mary’s Day, she’d gotten the flowers but not the crossword-puzzle cookie jar.  It never came.  She was happy with her flowers and didn’t mind not getting the jar.  She told me to make sure I wasn’t charged for it.  I wasn’t worried.  I assumed they hadn’t charged me, because something had clearly gone wrong.  The next week, she called me.

  She said, “I saw an ad for that cookie jar, and that thing cost a hundred bucks.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s too much to spend on me.”

  “No, it’s not,”  I say, because I’m such a sport.  I’m the kind of daughter who promises her mother gifts that never arrive.  And cookies that other people bake.

  “Did you check and see if they charged you?”

  “The statement didn’t come in yet, but I will.”

  “Make sure you do.  Mark my words.”

  Then, every time I call to say hi, the first thing she asks is:  

  “Did you make sure they didn’t charge you for that cockamamie cookie jar?”

  “Not yet.  Don’t you want it?  I can call and ask them to send you another one.”

  “No, I don’t want it.  It costs too much.  I just want to make sure they don’t charge you.”

  “They won’t.”

  “How do you know?  Don’t be a patsy.”

  I smile.  Patsy is a great word.  More people should use it.  “Okay, I’ll check.”

  I hang up, vowing to check my credit statement when it comes in.  The next week, she calls me.

  “I slept terrible last night,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “This thing with that cookie jar.  It’s keeping me up.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a scam.”

  I blink.  “What?”

  “Lots of people like crossword puzzles, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And lots of people like cookies.”

  “Except you.”

  “Right.  So.  The company says they’ll send the cookie jars, but they don’t, and nobody checks to see if they got charged, and the next thing you know, they’re off on a cruise.”

  “Financed by cookie jars?”

  “You got it!”

  I hang up, this time vowing I will never order her anything from the newspaper, or anywhere else.  Every gift I will buy and carry to her, or else she’ll have a heart attack for Mother’s Day. 

  But last week the statement finally came in, and I checked it.

  You know what?

  They charged me.

  But I’m not telling.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Can’t Start A Fire Without A… November 3, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  You may have heard that I’m single, and I like being single, because after two marriages and two divorces, I’m finally the boss of me.

  What a great boss I am! 

  And what a great employee!

  In both capacities, I’m easy and fun to work with.  I never dock my pay and I always do my best.  I give myself great performance reviews, and now I’m thinking about eliminating performance reviews altogether.  Who’s to stop me?

  Nobody!

  Yay!

  And going along my merry single way, I’ve learned to do many of the tasks that Thing One and Thing Two used to do.

  There weren’t that many.

  And to tell the truth, there was something that both Thing One and Thing Two could do very well. 

  Make a fire.

  Whether it was in the fireplace or the grill, they were good at fire.

  I’m not.  

  I try not to think that this is gender-related, but men have made fire since caveman days, while women stayed inside, swept the cave, and plotted divorce.

  Anyway, since I’ve gotten single, I’ve cleaned gutters, taken out trash, painted walls and windowsills, and even hammered something. 

  I pretty sure I did that, once.

  Or, again, to tell the truth, I’ve hired somebody to do all of the above.  So I have all the same things I had before, except the fire part, which I have done without, to date.

  But now, ages later, I’m missing fire. 

  Not the barbeque.  I’m single enough without smelling like lighter fluid. 

  But I do miss a fire in the fireplace.  I liked having a homey family hearth, even though I’m a family of one.

  I count!

  That’s the trick to single living.  Don’t do less for yourself just because you’re the only one around.  Don’t discount yourself.  It’s no way to live, with the idea that your wishes don’t matter. 

  And this is true, whether you’re married or not. 

  I think it happens a lot around the holidays.  We go on discount, selling ourselves cheap, like a January white sale.  It might happen because we do Norman Rockwell math, namely that ten people around the table = family. 

  But family can be you, alone. 

  After all, this is a country founded on the notion that one person matters.  Think of one man, one vote.  If you matter on Election Day, you matter the rest of the year.  So make yourself a nice lasagna and pour yourself a glass of Chianti.

  You get the leftovers, too.

  Back to the story.  I was missing a fire in the fireplace, but I’d never done it myself and I found it mystifying.  Again, the caveman thing.  Ooga booga.  Fire is magic!

  But I decided to give it a whirl.  I remembered something about kindling, so I went outside and picked up sticks, then I remembered something about rolled up newspapers, so I did that, too.  Next, I found some old logs and stacked them up in some sensible manner.  And thanks to Bruce Springsteen, I knew I needed a spark.

  Then I lit the mess.

  Well. 

  You know the expression, where there’s smoke, there’s fire?

  It’s not true. 

  I had smoke, but no fire.  And furthermore, I had a family room full of thick gray clouds, smoke alarms blaring, dogs barking, cats scooting, then phones ringing, and burglar alarm people calling, which ended in me giving them my password.

  Which is HELP!

  I called Daughter Francesca and told her what happened, and she said: “I’ll be home next week.  I’ll teach you how to make a fire.  It can be done, and by a girl.”

  And one week later, she came home, piled the kindling, rolled the newspaper, stacked the logs, and made a perfect fire.  The cats, dogs, and I stood in an awed and happy circle. 

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “You gotta warm the chimney first.  Hold the roll of newspaper up, like this.”  Francesca hoisted a flaming torch of newspaper, like the Statue of Liberty.  “See?  You can do this.”

  “Sure I can,” I said, inspired. 

  I count! 

  I vote! 

  I’m American! 

  So I can be the Statue of Liberty. 

  She’s a girl, too.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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