Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

We Want To Pump You Up

March 29, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Well, it happened.

I joined a gym.

It was a New Year’s resolution and it’s almost April.

I finally got started because I was on a plane and I couldn’t lift my bag into the overhead.

I tried to, but it fell back down.

Then another woman tried to help, and neither of us could get it up there.

I was doing yoga at the time, via zoom, and I loved it, but my cardiologist told me that I needed to do weight-bearing exercises.

Agree, because I can’t bear my own weight.

My other impetus was Daughter Francesca, who joined a gym in New York City and goes three days a week. She’s gotten superfit, and she’s lifting all sorts of weights, plus doing squat thrusts and Bulgarian whatevers.

And she told me, “Mom, you can do it, too!”

Please tell me I’m not the only mother trying to impress her daughter.

Who raised this kid?

In any event, to return to point, I just got back from meeting my trainer.

He’s 28 and he looks 14.

He’s handsome, but that doesn’t matter to me anymore because I didn’t even wash my hair.

I hope he doesn’t read this.

First, we met in his office at the gym, and he asked me what my goals were.

I did not say, to meet and marry Bradley Cooper.

I was trying to be professional.

So I get said to get stronger and that I would love to use those weight machines like Nautilus, back in the old days.

And he said, “Well, those machines isolate only one muscle group.”

And I said, “I know, I would like to isolate as few muscle groups as possible.”

Actually I used to love those Nautilus machines because you did the exercises sitting down.

I’m great with exercises you do sitting down.

I’m even better with exercises you do eating popcorn.

Not to brag, but I’m great at multitasking.

Sitting and eating is my superpower.

I can also walk and eat.

In fact, I have a treadmill desk and I used to eat popcorn on it while I worked. The dogs learned to sit at the end of the treadmill and get the popcorn I dropped delivered to their mouth like a conveyor belt.

Good times.

But that was then and this is now.

So my trainer devised a series of exercises for me, and I did them so he could watch me and see how bad things were.

The answer is real bad.

I don’t know what any of the exercises are called, but I did one exercise which was lunging on one side of my body, with my knee touching the floor.

But I had a hard time getting up again.

In front of everybody else at the gym.

At least I was wearing a bra.

I put it on special for the occasion.

I almost took it off in the car.

But I waited until I got home.

The other exercise was squatting, so I suppose it was called a squat.

Impressed?

Anyway I squatted the way he told me to, sticking my butt out and stretching my arms forward, but I couldn’t get up and down without grunting very loudly.

People looked over.

And then I had to do something called Farmer’s Carry, which was taking weights in each hand and walking around, like you live on a farm.

Okay, you think this sounds easy?

It’s not.

My hat is off to farmers everywhere.

I did it, but by the end I was huffing and puffing.

What’s funny is, I actually do live on a farm.

So the way I look at it, anything I carry is a Farmer’s Carry.

Even a Snickers bar.

In Praise of Praise

March 22, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I graduated!

Or rather, Eve did!

Last night, Eve graduated from obedience school.

I cried.

I cried at Francesca’s graduation, too.

Allow me to tell you that my daughter was valedictorian at her high school.

In contrast, Eve was not.

Eve is basically the juvenile delinquent in her class.

Or the juvenile dog-linquent.

Sorry, I thought I was above puns but I’m not.

Eve started in Puppy Kindergarten at six months, then took Elementary School, Middle School, and Manners Level One. She just now graduated from Manners Level Two.

This dog is more educated than I am.

I’m applying for student loan forgiveness.

I’ve taken her to all of these classes, and she barked her way through every one.

I’m crazy about this dog, but she never shuts up.

She gets it from me.

In the parlance, this is called a “reactive” dog.

To me, she’s Italian.

We have a lot to say!

And I don’t want to sell Eve short. After a year of training, she has learned to sit, stay, heel, and come when called.

At least, when she’s in class.

Once I get her home, she goes from Eve to Evil.

Also, her skills aren’t due to my great training, or even that of the wonderful instructors.

It’s all because of cheese.

Eve will do anything for cheese.

I’m pretty sure she would sell the country out for cheddar.

I got through our obedience classes by holding a tube of string cheese in front of her nose to get her to follow my commands.

I call this a cheater move.

Remarkably, the teachers did not.

I love these teachers.

And to be serious a moment, this past year has been the absolute most fun thing I’ve ever done, because Eve/Evil is such a spicy little dog that she keeps things interesting and the classes are so great at my training center, which is called “What a Good Dog.”

What a good school!

And so every Tuesday evening, I’ve been taking Eve to class and stuffing her with cheese that makes her fart all night.

But she stays!

And at her graduation, we got a certificate that says to “Lisa Scottoline and her Companion Eve.”

It should probably say to “Eve and her Companion Lisa Scottoline,” but I never mind top billing.

Our only problem is that Eve barks so much. This usually starts in the beginning when the dogs are coming in, and there are six dogs in class, so every time a new dog enters, she barks for about 5 to 10 minutes.

I think she’s trying to make friends, but she’s socially awkward.

She gives everybody a headache.

I realized this tonight when the teacher was telling us about a rally class that I signed up for next and nobody else did. I said, “Come on, everybody sign up, I’m doing it!”

And the faces remained blank.

That’s when I realized that maybe nobody wants to do it with Eve.

Or maybe me?

Awkies.

In any event, it was a great graduation night because for the first time we did a little obstacle course of all of the commands, and Eve stopped barking long enough to go through it and eat cheese.

And then one of the other people said that I was really good at praising her, which I totally acknowledge.

I kiss her ass constantly.

I will do anything to get her to shut up.

I was worried that she would flunk, but the teacher said nobody flunks.

Yay!

Let’s hear it for grade inflation!

I think everybody should get a participation trophy, even if they bark a lot.

Life is short.

Don’t skimp on treats or praise.

We all have obstacle courses we have to go through, every day, and there’s nothing wrong with a little help.

That’s what I learned at doggy obedience class.

And honestly, it’s the best lesson ever.

Column Classic: Lost and Found

March 15, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Did you hear the news?

They discovered a new organ.

All this time, it was in your body.

Not even kidding.

Maybe they were looking outside?

Anyway, an Irish surgeon, Dr. J. Calvin Coffey, discovered that we have something in our stomach called a mesentery.

Before now, the mesentery was a mystery.

Dr. Coffey teaches at the University of Limerick, otherwise well-known for its limericks.

Like, “There once was a mesentery from Nantucket….”

Evidently, the mesentery connects the intestine to the abdomen, and as Dr. Coffey explained, “It keeps the intestine in a particular shape, so when you stand up, your intestine doesn’t fall into your pelvis.”

Well, hell. That’s a good thing.

It’s like Spanks for your colorectal system.

Thanks, mesentery!

Meanwhile, I might be in love with Dr. Coffey. He has a way with words. And also if he could find a mesentery, he could find my car keys.

But to stay on point, it turns out that for the past century, medical science had thought the mesentery was a group of disjointed parts, but he figured out it’s a connected organ.

Hello!

So now you have an organ you didn’t know about.

Like a present you got for the holidays.

And it’s just your size!

People don’t understand why medical science didn’t know about the mesentery before.

Not me. I get it. If I were going to lose something in my body, the most likely place to lose it would be in my stomach.

In the folds.

Above the Bermuda Triangle.

You know what I mean.

All ladies have one, and that’s what I call mine. Because any man who goes there is lost forever.

Anyway, if you have stomach folds, you know that they’re the reason God made loose sweaters.

That’s what I wear to hide my folds, or I avoid sitting altogether.

This is my new thing since my last speaking event, when I sat down and my waistband button popped off, then the zipper went town. I couldn’t keep it up. It looked good at the lectern, if you like asymmetrical pants.

Luckily I had on a jacket, which is a folds-hider for special occasions.

And I have other tips for hiding folds.

For example, if you ever see me on the beach, I am lying down. That’s the only way my stomach looks flat. Unfortunately, that’s when my breasts also look flat, but at least it’s a matching set.

Anyway, the thing about folds is that they hide things in addition to mesenteries.

Okay, let’s get real.

I happen to look down after a shower the other day, in a rare moment.

It’s winter, so the shower is rare.

Also the looking down.

I mean, why? I usually can’t see anything over my belly anyway, so who needs that reminder?

Not me.

So when I looked down, my folds smoothed out, and you know what I saw sticking out of my belly button?

Dog hair.

I recognized it because there’s dog hair all over my house, and since I have dogs that have yellow, brown, black, and white hair, in every corner is multicolored canine tumbleweed.

But in my bellybutton?

Who knew?

Yet, there was, sprouting like a little furry fountain.

I started pulling it out, and the more stuff I pulled out, the more stuff there was, like a magician starts pulling scarves out of a hat.

Not only dog hair, but lint and little shreds of tissue paper.

Who knew what was in there?

Could the Bermuda Triangle be spreading?

Are you horrified yet?

I was. I even got out a tweezers to do the job right, extracting every last foreign object like a surgeon.

In fact, like a surgeon finding a mesentery.

Dr. Coffey, call me.

We have so much in common.

Column Classic: A Woman With a Plan

March 8, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m not a planner.

But I got a letter from my local funeral home, asking that I plan a funeral.

For myself.

I tried not to be insulted.

I mean, do I look that bad?

I might, since I just finished a draft of my next novel, and the truth is that daily showers, nutrition, and grooming go by the wayside when I’m on deadline.

Of course, deadline takes on a whole new meaning when your funeral home is sending you love letters.

The letter offered to save me 44% on funeral or cremation costs.

This would be the ultimate final sale.

But to take advantage, I have to decide right now if I want to be buried or reduced to ash.

Are we having fun yet?

The letter said that the sale price was “guaranteed, no-increase pricing.”

To which I thought, You’re darn tootin.’

Try and collect after I’m dead.

Oh, wait. Maybe you can.

The only things guaranteed are death and taxes, and there are taxes after death, so why not a price hike?

I just wish they’d hike me out of the ground.

Maybe that should be my epitaph:

GET ME OUT OF HERE.

How about, I GOT THIS 44% OFF. ASK ME HOW.

Or, I’D RATHER DIE THAN PAY FULL PRICE.

The letter said I should take the deal because it would “protect positive memories” for my family.

That’s my kind of sales pitch.

In other words, buy this, so your family won’t be pissed that you left them holding the bag.

You old bag.

The letter called it a Prearranged Funeral Program, which I have to admit, appealed to my vanity.

It’s not a funeral, it’s a show!

The Bye-bye, Lisa Show!

Unfortunately there’s only one episode.

The premiere and the finale are the same thing.

Bring a lot of popcorn.

It’s not a surprise ending.

You might even cry.

At least, you’d better.

You guys, when I die, I want you all there, sobbing your eyes out. Saying how wonderful I was. And also what a smart shopper.

“Her books are great, plus she got a deal on the casket!”

But I’m not sure I want a half-price deal on a casket.

Maybe you don’t get a lid.

You get a tray.

Or maybe you only get a lid and they flip you over like a cake you just took out of the oven.

If you follow.

None of these jokes apply to cremation, which is inherently unfunny.

I don’t even like hot water.

Or a sunburn.

Ouchie.

Cremation goes against our natural instincts, doesn’t it?

We tell every child, “Don’t put your hand in fire.”

But someday you’ll get a letter that says, “See that fire? Jump in!”

Really, the letter is offering a fire-sale price on an actual fire.

How meta.

This is the best part of the letter: “In short, don’t put it off. As more time passes, the more your loved ones could end up paying for this kind of security.”

HAHAHAHA.

Tick-tock, Scottoline.

Don’t delay because you could die any minute.

And it’s gonna cost somebody 44% more.

You selfish bitch.

I mean, that puts the fun in funeral.

But in the end, I’m going to take advantage of the offer.

I can’t pass up a sale.

And I like to clean up after myself, so to speak.

So maybe I’m a planner, after all.

I’ve become one, after a lifetime.

Literally.

Plus I have loyalty to the funeral home, since they buried my father and mother. And when they came to pick up my mother the morning she passed, there were tears in their eyes, and they actually said, “Is this the famous Mother Mary?”

Aw.

So you know they have my business, from now on.

Because they read me.

People who read my books are my second favorite people on the planet.

My most favorite are people who buy my books.

Why?

Who do you think is paying to put me in an ashtray, at a date yet to be determined?

I sincerely hope it’s you.

You’ll be happy to know I got you a deal.

Thank you for your support.

Now, and later.

Classic Column: Technology Hag

March 1, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m not old, but I’m getting older.

I know this because of technology.

Meanwhile, where do I even begin with the story?

Let’s start with the time a few months ago, when I trip over a dog gate, go flying, and can’t walk.

I’ve been hobbling around since then.

Seriously, I’m bent over like the old witch in Snow White. Plus I have stringy gray hair and a big nose.

All I need is the carbuncle.

Oh, wait.

Never mind.

Check.

But not the point herein.

I hobble around for about three weeks, barely able to straighten up, much less sit or drive, and so I finally get my butt to an orthopedist, who takes an MRI and tells me that I have a labral tear in my hip.

At first I thought I heard him wrong.

I didn’t think my labral was in my hip.

I got it mixed up with another body part, which should give you an idea of how good I was at sex.

Kind of not very.

But honestly, who cares anyway?

I’m great at writing!

Anyway, it turns out that a labral tear is a tear in the ligament that’s somewhere in your hip joint, and when I leave the doctor’s office, he gives me a DVD of my MRI.

Like a party favor for the middle-aged.

I take it home, and the first thing I want to do is look at my MRI.

Which is when I realized that I don’t have a DVD player in any of my computers.

What?

I don’t even know when that happened.

I seem to remember that I got new computers a year or so ago, because I like to have a nice big screen. And I don’t mind spending the money, because all I do all day is stare at a computer, and the least I can do is have a nice one. But I never really noticed that they didn’t have a slot for a DVD player.

So I went over to my big TV, figuring that I could watch my MRI on TV, like a medical reality show, maybe one called, YOUR LABRAL ISN’T WHAT YOU THINK IT IS

I managed to locate my DVD player underneath the TV, but it needed to be hooked up, since I am addicted to Netflix and haven’t watched a real DVD in a long time. It took me a full hour of struggling to hook it up, and even then, I couldn’t get it to work.

Which is when it struck me.

I am so ancient that I have lived through several stages of technology, like the Jurassic and Pleistocene era of dinosaurs.

I remember when there were VHS tapes because I still have them.

I remember when there were camcorders because I filmed Francesca when she was a baby, plus static scenes of my feet, with me saying, “Is this thing on or off?”

Now I have lived through DVDs, which sucks, because I have an entire set of operas in DVD that I was saving to watch in my retirement, and by the time I retire, operas will be transported telepathically into your brain.

Plus I paid to have those camcorder tapes of Francesca transferred onto DVD’s, and now there’s no such thing as DVD players.

So you’re getting a fairly complete picture of what life is like as me, which I’m hoping is like life as you, too.

Who here remembers actual records?

I do.

Who remembers little 33’s?

I do.

Who remembers cassette tapes?

I do.

How about trying to rewind them and having them unspool out of the slot like brown tinsel?

I know. Me too.

So there you have it. Many of us live a life measured in obsolete technological stages.

It’s enough to make your hip hurt.

Column Classic: Handbag Time Machine

February 22, 2026

By Francesca Serritella

I was going through a closet at my mom’s house when I spotted an old handbag I felt worthy of rescuing and bringing back to New York. Upon opening it, I found a folded piece of yellow paper inside. It had a list of questions written on it in my handwriting, but that I didn’t remember writing:

“In whose house was he raised? Yours or Barbara’s?”

“How much does he eat, how often?”

“Introducing to other dogs?”

I pulled out the next items: two tickets to Dressage at Devon 2008.

Suddenly, my heart swelled at the memory.

I was transported to September 2008, when I first met Pip as a puppy. I had written these questions down, because I was so nervous and excited, I was afraid I would forget to ask them.

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

Column Classic: The Off Switch

February 15, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Do you remember a commercial that used to say, “Reach out and touch someone?”

If you do, you may also recall that the product they were advertising was a telephone.

Because back in the day, people needed to be encouraged to use the phone.

Let’s pause for a moment of silence.

Not necessarily to mourn, but to consider how times have changed.

Because these days, you have to encourage people not to use the telephone. In fact, you have to beg them not to use the phone. You have to put up signs in hallways so that they won’t use the phone, and you have to designate special railroad cars so they won’t use the phone, and you have to pass laws so they won’t use the phone while they’re driving, because everybody uses the phone all the time, twenty-four seven, nonstop.

In other words, we’re reaching out.

But we’re not touching anybody.

We’re too busy on the phone.

We have priorities.

We’re also watching TV all the time.

Do you remember when you used to have to wait a week for your favorite show to come on? The commercials called it “appointment television” and they encouraged you to “make an appointment” with your television to see your show.

Between you and me, it wasn’t that hard an appointment to get.

Try and see my gynecologist.

Next year.

But to stay on point, somewhere along the line, the appointment book got thrown out the window. And we started watching TV all the time, one show after the other, all the time, twenty-four seven, nonstop.

I do it, too.

Last night, I was watching a new television show, and as soon as it finished, a commercial came on saying that I could get the second episode right away.

But it was already midnight, and I should have been asleep by eleven.

I pressed the On button and started watching.

I watched the whole entire second episode, half-asleep and half-awake, so that not only am I tired today, I didn’t even see the stupid show.

I cannot be trusted with a TV in my room.

I’ve done the same thing when I watch shows on Netflix, where you don’t even have to press the On button to watch the next episode, thus eliminating that single volitional act, that tiny moment when you have a choice about watching another episode or returning to your life.

Nah.

Plus I have been known to combine these nonstop activities, and undoubtedly so have many of you, so that you can be watching your 303rd episode of The Whatever Show, while you’re texting nonstop on the phone or cruising Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter nonstop.

When was the last time you were on the phone with somebody and you suspected they were scrolling through their phone during the conversation?

Or:

When was the last time you were barely listening to somebody while you were on the phone with them, because you were scrolling through your phone during the conversation?

Okay, guilty.

On both counts.

Anyway it’s very clear what the problem is here.

It’s not our fault.

It’s never our fault.

You could’ve guessed I would say that, if you have read me before.

I never blame me, or you.

This is a place where you can come and I will reliably tell you how to solve problems in your life without changing anything you do.

Leave the diets and exercise to everyone else.

This is the true judgment-free zone, and all that we need is an Off Switch.

That’s the solution, right there.

If the television manufacturers would start making televisions with a big red Off Switch right in front, we would have a fighting chance.

It’s their fault.

In fact, the other day, I couldn’t find my remote, so I went to the television to turn it off and I couldn’t even find the Off Switch. I spent fifteen minutes looking for the Off Switch on the front of the TV, then ran my fingers along its sides, feeling up my TV.

The TV enjoyed every minute.

This is what I’m telling you, it’s TV manufacturers conspiring with TVs to get felt up.

With the phones, it’s easy to turn off the phone, but that’s part of the conspiracy.

Here’s how it works:

The phone turns itself off, in that the calls “drop” all the time.

And what happens every time a phone call drops?

We become frenzied and call back instantly.

You could’ve been ending a phone conversation with somebody, but if the call gets dropped, you’re going to call back instantly and spend even more time on the phone.

See, another conspiracy!

More shenanigans with the Off Switch.

Sometimes they don’t give us one, and sometimes they work in mysterious ways.

It’s just not our fault.

I Was Today Years Old

February 8, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’ve discovered something that changed my life.

No, not divorce.

I knew about that already.

I’m talking crampons.

You probably already know what crampons are, but I didn’t.

It’s like those online memes that say, “I was today years old when I learned that…”

I love those memes, like I was today years old when I learned that a loofah is the inside of a gourd.

Or I was today years old when I learned that mayonnaise takes water stains off a table.

Or I was today years old when I learned that genuine leather is the lowest grade leather available, not the best.

I never knew any of those things, either.

By the way, I don’t know if any of the things above are true, they’re just things I saw on the Internet as examples.

But you get the idea.

Usually it’s household tips.

Like, how does your box of Saran Wrap work?

God knows.

I’m not today-years-old enough.

To return to point, this is the winter of our discontent, and I still have tons of snow around my house. I slip and slide all day long and I’m getting to the point when I’m worried about falling.

This is not age-related, it’s annoyance-related.

Like I fell off my bicycle last summer and broke my arm and it really messed up my work schedule. Bottom line, I don’t have time to get sick.

Also it hurt and was no fun.

I never want to see another orthopedist again, unless he’s single.

Anyway, there’s a lot of snow and ice on the top layer, so it’s really slippery, and when I walk the dogs, I slide around, and it occurred to me that if I fell and hurt myself at night, I might have to lie there in the snow until morning, cursing.

Best case scenario.

Worst case scenario, I’m in one of those commercials that says, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

By the way, I used to think the person meant they couldn’t get up because they broke something.

But now I realize that there is a certain age when it’s not that easy to get off the floor.

In other words, I was today years old when I learned that “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” could be me.

Which sucks.

I’ve always been pretty strong, but I have to confess, lately if I’m sitting on the floor with the dogs, I have to get on all fours before I stand up.

For a moment, the three of us are on all fours, looking at each other.

Then one of us rises to a stand, with a little grunt.

Also, again, profanity.

I don’t know when this horror started but it’s only one of many that I happily pay as a price for staying alive.

Anyway I was complaining to my genius friend Nan about my fear of falling on the ice, and she told me there’s something called crampons.

And they are incredible.

What’s a crampon?

It sounds like a tampon that gives you cramps.

Which would be ironic.

But crampons are cleats on steroids.

It’s a thing that you put over your boot, with a rubber strap over the top and metal spikes on the bottom.

It looks like S&M for people with a foot fetish.

And I’m in love.

The other night I walked the dogs everywhere in the snow and ice, and I felt completely stable in my crampons.

In fact, I felt invincible.

Maybe those of you from the North knew about crampons, but it’s news to girls from the South (of Philly).

Now I look forward to the next snowstorm.

Bring it on, February.

Nothing crampons my style.

Vicious Cycle

February 1, 2026

by Lisa Scottoline

I got plumbing problems.

No, not personally.

In that regard, I’m not sure I even have plumbing anymore.

I’m pretty sure the pipes are rusty.

Like, disintegrating.

But that’s not my point herein.

The problem is my washing machine.

I’m dealing with The Mystery of the Maytag.

This is not to malign a product.

I don’t know if my problem is Maytag’s fault, but I’m going to plumb the depths to find out.

Sorry.

We begin with what just happened, which is that I walked into my dining room, where it was raining.

The dining room is directly below the laundry room on the second floor, and I had just put in a load of laundry, so I raced upstairs to find that the hose on the back of the washing machine was detached and spraying water all over the place.

I got drenched, but I knew what to do because this happened so many times. I found the on-off valve on the wall, moved it, and the water stopped.

And my anger started.

I have had this problem so many times that my dining room now has bubbles in the ceiling from water damage.

And so do all of the books sitting on the floor.

Okay, I admit it, I shouldn’t have books in my dining room, but I do.

Don’t you?

Anyway all the books in my dining room are wrinkled like they were dropped in the bathtub.

Or, like me.

And every time this happens, I call a plumber, who says it’s the fault of the appliance, so I call an appliance guy who says it’s the fault of the water, and then I call a water guy who says there’s nothing wrong with the water.

And we start over.

It’s happened five times already.

It’s not only a vicious cycle, it’s a wet one.

This time I even called an electrician because somebody had the theory that the hose was becoming detached because of electrolysis, which I thought removed unwanted chin hair.

For that, I use a tweezers.

I’m all over the unwanted-hair situation.

I cracked that case.

It’s the washer that’s the problem.

After all, I am one person and I produce a few items of laundry a week.

I can wait a month to do laundry because there’s so little.

Also because I’m lazy.

Nowadays I do laundry less and less, because every time, I know I’m risking an interior thunderstorm.

And there’s no accountability.

Everybody who’s supposed to fix it says it can’t be fixed, and the only solution they have all come up with is to change the hoses every six months.

So I do.

But this time, they came detached at three months.

I could change them every three months, but I would really like to know what the hell is going on.

Normal people don’t have washing machines that wash the room.

I think a better solution would be to throw the washing machine out the window.

Or do my laundry in my sink.

Or beat it against a rock.

Best yet, I can throw rocks at the washing machine.

Column Classic: Snow Job

January 25, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Today, we discuss regret. Which I have, in spades, of late.

I don’t regret something I bought, which is called buyer’s remorse. I regret something I didn’t buy, and I don’t know what that’s called.

Cheapskate’s remorse?

Or just plain dumb?

I didn’t buy the thing in question because it was expensive and I thought I could do without it, but after doing without it for ten years, I find myself full of regret. I made a mistake. I wish I’d bought one. I yearn for one. I even fantasize about one.

Odd.

I used to lust after men, or jewelry. Thoughts of either could keep me up all night. Men bearing jewelry would be ideal. Men wearing jewelry would not.

But neither of those things is the object of my fantasy, anymore. There’s only one thing I don’t have that would really turn me on.

Nowadays, my idea of a sex toy is a snowblower.

Oh baby.

I want it so bad, it’s good.

But at this point, I’m not sure I can bring myself to buy one. Why?

Regret.

It all started when I was watching the TV news, during the last storm. I love snow coverage, and as soon as there’s flurries in the forecast, I switch on the TV. I wait for the anchorman to stand in the middle of the flakes, like a doll in a snowglobe. Or for him to plunge a yardstick into the drift, like a doctor with a thermometer. Or for the Doppler to creep across the map, inching ominously toward us.

Doppler doesn’t mess around.

It’s radar.

But then the storm comes and goes, and the next day on TV, everybody groans and whines as they shovel out their sidewalks, cars, and driveways. There’s only one happy person.

The guy with the snowblower.

He’s not bent over at all. His hands aren’t cramped, and his nose doesn’t leak.

All he has to do is walk around, with his snowblower doing all the work, parting the drifts like a motorboat in Margate Bay, making a frothy wake.

Oh, yes.

I want one bad.

And I regret that I don’t have one, at the same time that I’m not sure whether I should buy one.

I’ve done without a snowblower for a decade, and I worry that, if I get one now, I’ll get the worst of both worlds. If I’d bought it a long time ago, I could’ve been blowing snow all this time and gotten one cheaper. Because I didn’t, I’ll have done without for a decade, and I’ll be buying one when it cost more.

It’s two for one, mistake-wise.

Regret, regret, regret.

But I kept thinking about getting one, so I went online and studied the websites to make a decision, which is easier said than done. First problem, there’s two types of machines, one called a snowblower and one called a snowthrower.

Who knew?

I read the websites, but I couldn’t figure out the difference between a snowblower and a snowthrower. I have never blown or thrown snow. I have only shoveled it, scraped it, swept it, and cursed it. I’ve gotten excellent at cursing it, and done correctly, it won’t sprain your back.

Only your middle finger.

I bet you curse snow, too. It rarely responds. I suspect its feelings are hurt. It’s used to being wished for, around Christmastime, then oohed and aahed at, even photographed. It remembers when we loved it and called it our winter wonderland.

Then regret sets in, and we regret even the snow.

What happened to those beautiful snowflakes, each one unique?

Who cares?

Die, die, die. Get blown and thrown.

Go away.

The weatherman came on the TV and said there was another storm coming, so I chose the snowblower page and found a grid that let me Shop by Brand, Shop By Type, and Shop By Engine. Then I spotted a category that made it easy:

Shop by In Stock.

Ideal for girls like me.

Who put off buying a snowblower for ten years, and then couldn’t take it anymore and drove to the store, saying:

Gimme what you got.

Sell it to me and stick it in my car.

I don’t care if it blows, throws, or packs the snow into a cone and squirts it with cherry juice.

I want it gone.

And finally, no regrets.

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