Chick Wit

• Column Classic: Reading is Fundamental April 28, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  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.

  © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Clipped April 21, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  If you raise your daughter right, eventually she will know more than you.

  Which is the good and bad news.

  We begin when Daughter Francesca comes home for a visit and finds me engaged in one of my more adorable habits, which is clipping my fingernails over the trashcan in the kitchen.

  This would be one of the benefits of being an empty nester. You can do what you want, wherever you want. The house is all yours.

  Weee!

  In my case, this means that everything that I should properly do in my bathroom, I do in my kitchen.

  Except one thing.

  Please.

  I keep it classy.

  Bottom line, I wash my face and brush my teeth in the kitchen. I’m writing on my laptop in the kitchen, right now. My game plan is to live no more than three steps from the refrigerator at any time, which gives you an idea of my priorities.

  Anyway, Francesca eyes me with daughterly concern. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure the clippings don’t go all over the floor,” I tell her, clipping away.  Each snip produces a satisfying clik.

  “It’s not good for your nails, to clip them that way. You might want to use an emery board.”

  I know she learned that from Mother Mary, who carries an emery board everywhere, like a concealed weapon. “I don’t have one.”

  “I do, and you can use it.”

  “No, thanks.  It’s too much trouble.” I keep clipping. Clik, clik. Hard little half-moons of fingernail fly into the trash. My aim is perfect, and wait’ll I get to my toenails. Then I prop my foot up on the trash can and shoot the clippings into the air. Now that’s entertainment.

  She adds, gently, “You clip them kind of short.”

  “I know.  So I don’t have to do it so often.”

  “But your nails would look so pretty if you let them grow longer.”

  “I don’t care enough.”

  Francesca looks a little sad. “I could do them for you, Mom. Shape them, polish them. Give you a nice manicure. Look at mine. I do it myself.”

  So I look up, and her hands are lovely, with each fingernail nicely shaped and lacquered with a hip, dark polish. It reminds me that I used to do my nails when I was her age. I used to care about my nails, but now I don’t, and I’m not sure why I stopped. Either I’m mature, or slovenly.

  “Thanks, but no,” I tell her.

  She seems disappointed. It is a known fact that parents will occasionally let their children down, and this will most often occur in the area of personal grooming or bad puns. I’m guilty of only one of these. All of my puns are good.

  But to make a long story short, later we decide to go out to dinner, and since it’s a nice night, I put on a pair of peep-toe shoes, which are shoes that reveal what’s now known as toe cleavage, a term I dislike.

  If your toe has cleavage, ask your plastic surgeon for a refund.

  Anyway, both Francesca and I looked down at unvarnished toenails, newly clipped though they were. I had to acknowledge that it wasn’t a good look.

  “I can polish them for you,” she offered, with hope. “I think it they would look better, with these shoes.”

  “But we’re late,” I said, and we were.

  “It won’t take long.” Francesca reached for the nail polish, and I kicked off the shoes.

  “I have an idea. Just do the ones that show.”

  “What?” Francesca turned around in surprise, nail polish in hand.

  “Do the first three toenails.”

  Look, it made sense at the time. The other two toenails didn’t matter, and no one can find my pinky toenail, which has withered away to a sliver, evidently on a diet more successful than mine.

  But Francesca eventually prevailed, and did all five toenails.

  Like I said, I raised her right.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: The Mothership April 14, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I’m a terrible negotiator. I’m too emotional, and I can’t pretend I don’t want something I really want.

  Like George Clooney.

  But today we’re talking cars, and this is the tale of my first attempt at negotiating.

  To begin, I have an older car that I take great care of, and it’s aged better than I have, sailing past 100,000 miles without estrogen replacement.

  But around 102,000 miles, things started to go wrong, and flaxseed wasn’t helping. I knew I’d be driving long distances on book tour, and I started to worry. I called up my genius assistant Laura to ask her advice, as I do before I make any important decision, like what to eat for lunch.

  I asked her, “Laura, do you think I need a new car?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “But it’s paid off, and I love it.” And I do. It’s a big white sedan called The Mothership.

  “I know, but you have to be safe. What if it breaks down on tour?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Except it has. Twice.”

  An excellent point. One time, The Mothership died on the way to a bookstore in Connecticut, requiring the bookseller to pick me up at a truck-stop on 1-95. I bet that never happened to James Patterson.

  So, I needed a new car, and since I love my dealership, I went there. I thought they loved me, too, which they did, except when it came to the bottom line. They gave me a good deal on a new SUV, but a rock-bottom price on trading in The Mothership.

  I asked, “How can you do that to her? I mean, me?”

  I told you I get too emotional.

  And I added, “Plus you’re supposed to love me.”

  But they don’t. They run a business, and it’s not the love business. However, it’s my secret philosophy that all business is the love business, so I got angry. They had taken care of The Mothership for the past ten years, at top dollar, and it was worth so much more.

  Guess what I did.

  I walked out.

  I took my business elsewhere. That very day, I called up another dealership, who said, come on over, we love you, too. In fact, we love you so much that we’ll give you a better deal on your trade-in. And they did, after inspecting The Mothership and calling her “the cleanest 100,000-mile car they had ever seen,” which we are.

  I mean, it is.

  But just when I was about to say yes, my old dealership called and told me that they still loved me. I told them I was already rebounding with my new dealership, but they said they’d top the offer on The Mothership, and after much back-and-forth, I went back to my old dealership, like ex sex.

  But long story short, the day came when I was supposed to pick up my new SUV, and I felt unaccountably sad. I took final pictures of The Mothership. I stalled leaving the house. On the drive to the dealer, I called daughter Francesca and asked her, “Wanna say good-bye to the car?”

  “Mom? You don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m not. I love this car.”

  “Aww, it’s okay. It’s probably not the car, anyway. It’s that you have such great memories in the car.”

  I considered this for a minute. “No, it’s the car.”

  By the time I reached the dealership, I was crying full-bore, snot included.

  My sales guy came over, and when he saw me, his smile faded. “What’s the matter?”

  “I love my car. I don’t want to give it up.”

  “So, keep it,” he said, which was the first time it even occurred to me. I know it sounds dumb, but it simply never entered my mind. I’d never bought a car without trading one in.

  “But what about the money?”

  “We’re only offering you a fraction of what the car’s worth. If I were you, I’d keep it.”

  “But I’m only one person. Why do I need two cars?”

  “They’re two different cars. The old one’s a sedan, and the new one’s an SUV.”

  I wiped my eyes. “You mean, like shoes? This is the dressy pair?”

  He looked nonplussed. “Uh, right.”

  “Really?” My heart leapt with happiness. I decided to keep The Mothership. It’s strappy sandals on wheels, if you follow.

  Thus ended my first attempt at hardball negotiations, which backfired. Having bargained for the best price on a trade-in, I couldn’t bring myself to trade anything in.

  Because I love it.

  It sits in my garage, aging happily.

  Soon we’ll both be antique.

  Priceless.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Unreal Estate April 7, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I have an old house, which I love. 

  And hate. 

  I’m one of those people who says, “I love old houses.” 

  But I lie. 

  I’m beginning to accept the truth, which is: 

  Old houses are a pain in the back porch. 

  This realization strikes me every year when the weather turns cold. My house has stone walls that are incredibly thick, which means that come October, it’s freezing inside. Today it was seventy degrees outside, and fifty in my house. 

  So, you say, turn on the heat, right? 

  I can’t. 

  Because my house has radiators, which hiss, clang, and bang. I can’t hear myself think when the heat is on. If you talk to me on the phone when I have the heat on, you’d think someone is breaking and entering. 

  So, I heat my house by hot flashes. 

  That’s the only way you can live in an old house. If you are an old house. 

  By the way, it’s no more habitable in summer, when the weather turns warm. I can’t open any windows, because their sashes are broken. 

  Yes, my windows have sashes. 

  Don’t ask me why or even what that is. My windows are from an era when dresses had sashes, and I guess they went sash-crazy. 

  Luckily, my door doesn’t have a corset. 

  But it’s hung at an angle, like all the doors in the house. Either the doors have shifted or the floors have, but there isn’t a right angle to be found in the house. When you walk around my house, you feel drunk. And if you’re drunk when you walk around my house, you’re in deep trouble. 

  After a margarita, I need a designated driver to get to my bedroom. 

  How did I get myself into this mess, er…I mean, old house? 

  Let’s talk turkey. 

  I always thought that the world divided into two groups; people who like New Construction and people who like Old Houses. It’s like Democrats and Republicans, except the disagreement is over something that really matters. 

  Like an attached garage. 

  Furthermore, to be perfectly honest, I always sensed hostility between the New Construction people and the Old House people. 

  Each thinks the other is a snob. 

  The Old House people look down on the New Construction people as not being classy, as if it’s more high rent to have heating you can hear. 

  And the New Construction people look down on the Old House people as being dirty, because they prefer what’s essentially a Used House. 

  It’s like New Construction people think that Old House people are filthy, and Old House people revel in their colonial filth. 

  To be fair, all of this could simply be PTSD from my second marriage. Thing Two was an Old House person, and I was a New Construction person, albeit secretly. I kept my preference to myself, as I sensed it wasn’t as ritzy, so when we looked at old houses, I fawned over the deep windowsills that would look so great with a window seat, which I would never use, as I’m not a cat. 

  All I really wanted was a family room. 

  Because in an Old House, there’s no place for the family to be, except around the hearth. 

  Where’s the hearth? Take a right at the butter churn. Don’t trip over the spinning wheel. 

  So of course, my second marriage being the picnic that it was, we ended up with an Old House and no family room. I lived in my Old House for years until I subtracted a husband and added a family room. 

  Yay! 

  My solution since then has been to take my Old House and constantly remodel it, thus changing it into New Construction. 

  Or Old Construction. 

  Like me.

  Copyright Lisa Scottoline