Classic

Column Classic: Clipped

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

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

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

Column Classic: Miles To Go

By Lisa Scottoline

I know I’m supposed to become my mother, but I’m actually becoming my father.

At least I thought of him recently, when I checked the mileage on my car. I’m at 94,272, and I’ve watched it inch up from 94,109 and before that, 93,820. I check my mileage more often than I check my weight, and that’s saying something. On a long trip, I actually watch my mileage like it’s a movie with George Clooney.

I can’t get enough.

Bottom line, I’m way too involved with my car mileage.  The more miles I have, the happier I get.  I dream about hitting 100,000 miles like some people dream about hitting the lottery.

Why?

It makes me feel as if I’ve accomplished something, though I haven’t. It’s my car that’s done all the work. I’m just along for the ride. Still, every time I hit a new 10,000 mile mark, I feel like celebrating.

Growing up, I remember The Flying Scottolines driving around in our ‘64 Corvair Monza, and my father pointing to the mileage counter as the little white numbers turned slowly to something. He was so excited that we all clapped, but I didn’t understand why.

Now I’m excited, and I still don’t understand why.

I used to think it was because if I accumulated enough miles, I could justify getting a new car. But that’s not it. I love my car and want to be buried in it, with a Diet Coke in the cupholder.

At around 17,328,000,000 miles.

But I’m wondering if my mileage thing is related to my Things To Do List thing. I love having a Things To Do list, and over the years, I perfected a template for my Things To Do list. I write the list of Things To Do on the right, and on the left, next to each Thing, I draw a big circle. I get to check the circle only after each Thing is Done.

Oh boy, I love checking those circles.  I make a big check, like a schoolteacher at the top of your homework. Then I stand before my list and survey with satisfaction all the checked circles.

And oddly, I admit that I’ve added to the list a Thing I’ve already Done, just so I can check the circle.

I know, right?

It’s kind of kooky.

So I told this to a friend of mine, and she told me she does things this kooky, and she also added another kooky thing. She has a Kindle, which is an electronic reader, and at the bottom of each page, it tells you what percentage of the book that you’ve read. As you read the book, the percentage increases, and she has found herself watching the percentage increase as she reads. She’s gotten used to the fact that she read 57% of a book, as opposed to 45 chapters, and she’s even figured out how many pages it takes to increase the percentage a point. The other night, she couldn’t go to sleep because she had read 96% of the book and she had to get to 100%.

Okay, the friend is me.

Now you know.

I’m sensing that these three things – mileage counters, Things To Do, and reading percentages – are related.

Am I taking too task-oriented an approach to life?

Or am I celebrating the small things?

Or both?

There’s a great quote by E.L. Doctorow, which says that “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

I sense this quote is related, too, and that it applies not only to writing, but to everything, at least for me. Because writing a novel is like driving to Toronto or cleaning your house or starting War and Peace. Any large task is intimidating at the beginning, but it’s doable if it’s broken down, mile by mile, Thing by Thing, percentage point by percentage point. And when you finally finish that task, you can check the circle.

Have a Diet Coke, for me.

And my father.

Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

Column Classic: Can This Marriage Be Saved? 

By Lisa Scottoline

Breaking up is hard to do, especially with a credit card company. 

Our melodrama begins when I’m paying bills and notice a $50.00 balance on a credit card that I hadn’t used in a long time. When I checked the statement, it said that the charge was the annual fee. I was wondering if I needed to pay fifty dollars for a card I didn’t use when I clapped eyes on the interest rate. 

30.24% 

Yes, you read that right. In other words, if I had a balance on the card at any time, they could charge me 30% more than the cost of all the stuff I bought. 

Like a great sale, only in reverse. 

I’m not stingy, but I could get money cheaper from The Mob. 

I read further and saw that the Mafia, er, I mean, the credit card company, could also charge me a late fee of $39.95, which was undoubtedly a fair price for processing the transaction, as I bet their billing department is headed by Albert Einstein. 

So, I made a decision. 

I called the customer service number, which was almost impossible to find on the statement, picked up the phone, and as directed, plugged in my 85-digit account number. Of course, as soon as a woman answered the phone, the first question she asked was: 

“What is your account number?” 

I bit my tongue. They all ask this, and I always want to answer, “Why did you have me key it in? To make it harder to call customer service?” 

Perish the thought. 

So, I told her I wanted to cancel the card, and her tone stiffened. She said, “May I ask why you wish to close your account?” 

For starters, I told her about the annual fee. 

“Would it make a difference if there were no annual fee?” 

I wanted to answer, “Is it that easy to disappear this annual fee, and if so, why do you extort it in the first place?” But instead, I said only, “No, because you have a usurious interest rate and late fee.” 

“Will you hold while I transfer you to a Relationship Counselor?” 

I’m not making this up. This is verbatim. You can divorce your hubby easier than you can divorce your VISA card. I said for fun, “Do I have a choice?” 

“Please hold,” she answered, and after a few clicks, a man came on the line. 

“Thanks for patiently waiting,” he purred. His voice was deep and sexy. His accent was indeterminate, but exotic, as if he were from the Country of Love. 

Meow. 

Suffice it to say that the Relationship Counselor got my immediate attention. I was beginning to think we could work on our relationship, and if we met twice a week, we could turn this baby around. He sounded like a combination of Fabio and George Clooney. You know who George Clooney is. If you don’t know who Fabio is, you’re not old enough to read what follows. 

“No problem.” I said. I did not say, “What are you wearing?” 

“Please let me have your account number,” he breathed, which almost killed the mood. 

So, I told him and said that I wanted to cancel my card. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. He sounded genuinely sad. I wanted to comfort him, and I knew exactly how. 

But I didn’t say that, because it would be inappropriate. 

“I have a suggestion,” he whispered. 

So, do I. Sign me up for 5 more cards. You have my number, all 85 digits. 

“We can switch you to the no-fee card.” 

I came to my senses. “Can you switch me to the no-highway-robbery interest rate?” 

“Pardon me?” he asked, but I didn’t repeat it. 

“Thanks, I just want to cancel the card.” 

“I understand.  And I respect your decision.” 

He actually said that. I made up the 85 digits part, but the rest is absolutely true. 

I knew what I wanted to say before I hung up. That we’d had a good run, but like a love meteor, we burned too hot, for too short a time. 

Instead, I said, “Thanks.” 

Honestly, it’s not me. 

It’s you. 

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 

Column Classic: Women’s Rights and Wrongs

By Lisa Scottoline

Everywhere you look you can see enormous regard for women, especially among big business. 

I’m talking about two great new products. 

The first is the wine rack. 

No, not that wine rack. 

Not that shelf with the holes that hold wine bottles. 

Silly. 

I’m talking about a bra that has two plastic bags, one in each cup, and you can fill the bags with wine, which you can drink through a tube attached to the bra. 

The “wine rack.” 

Get it? 

It’s so punny! 

Anyway, what a clever idea, right? 

I’m sure that every woman has wondered whether she could drink wine out of her bra. 

That is, everyone but me. 

Although to be fair, I have wondered if I could eat chocolate cake out of my bra. 

Then I could have cupcakes! 

See, I can think of stupid puns, too! 
By the way, I don’t know where your breasts go if the cups of your bra are occupied by wine bags. Evidently, you can’t be picky when your underwear doubles as a beverage delivery system. 

And who doesn’t want their wine warmed by body heat? 

In any event, it’s good to know that American business is constantly thinking of innovative ways to meet the needs of women. 

Alcoholic women. 

In fact, if you look up the wine rack online, they call it “every girl’s best friend.” 

Really? 

More like every girl’s best frenemy. 

Because, let’s be real. It’s a bra. 

Every girl’s best friend is going braless. 

Amazingly, in addition to the wine rack, I came across another genius product for women, called the Shewee. 

Yes, you read that right. 

According to its website, the Shewee is “urinating device that allows women to urinate when they’re on the go.” 

In other words, if you have to go while you’re on the go. 

I’d like to describe a Shewee to you, but good taste prevails. 

For a change. 

The bottom line is that it’s plastic and it’s shaped like – well, it’s for girls who have penis envy. 

In other words, no girl ever. 

Only a man would come up with the idea that women have penis envy. Because anybody who has ever seen a penis knows that no woman would want one.  

You know what’s in men’s pants that we want? 

A wallet. 

To stay on point, the Shewee is the “the original female urination device.” 

Copycats, beware. 

Accept no substitutions. 

Like a Tupperware funnel. 

The website says that the Shewee is perfect for “camping, festivals, cycling, during pregnancy, long car journeys, climbing, sailing, skiing, the list is endless!” 

It doesn’t say anything about being middle-aged. 

Too bad, because I’m pretty sure that if you’re middle-aged, you’ll want one of these babies. Even if you don’t camp or go to festivals, and your days of pregnancy are behind you. 

We know why, don’t we, ladies? 

Do I have to spell it out for you – in the snow? 

I myself am about to order a gross. 

Because it’s gross. 

My favorite thing about the Shewee is that it comes in seven different colors. 

Oddly, there was no yellow. 

If you ask me, that’s a no-brainer. 

Get your marketing together, people. 

My favorite color was “Power Pink.” 

Because nothing says empowered like being able to pee where you want, damn it. 

Sayonara, rest stops. 

I gonna pee in my car! 

Woot woot! 

Now you know the perfect gifts for all your girlfriends. 

If you get them the wine rack, I guarantee they’re going to need the Shewee. 

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2014 

Column Classic: Twisted Sister

By Lisa Scottoline

So, it turns out I have an occupational hazard. 

I’m not complaining, because at least I have an occupation. 

The only problem with my occupation is that I spend a lot of time occupying a chair. 

And the first occupational hazard is that my butt is spreading. 

What, I can’t blame that on my job? 

Fair enough. 

Thanks a lot, carbohydrates. 

Actually, the best part of my job is that I get to sit around all day in a chair, and I have set up my office so that my desk is in the middle of the room, with the TV to the left. I keep the TV on while I’m working, just to have some background noise that isn’t dogs farting. 

But a year ago, my back started to hurt. I ignored it for a while, and then when my book deadline was finally finished, I got my big butt to the doctor, who said: 

“We x-rayed your back, and you have scoliosis.” 

I thought he was mispronouncing my last name, which everybody does, and I don’t blame them. I tell them Scottoline rhymes with fettuccine, but this word sounded different. Lisa Scoliosis isn’t a good name. I asked, “Scolli-what-is?” 

The doctor answered, “It means a rotation of the spinal column, but in your case it’s not congenital. So, you’re an author?” 

“Yes,” I told him. I always put that on my medical records, so that my doctors will buy my books. I would say it’s free advertising, but given the general cost of a doctor’s visit, they would have to buy 3,293,737 of my books for me to break even. 

The doctor continued, “So you probably spend a lot of time sitting and you must be turning to the left. Why are you turning to the left?” 

“Because that’s where the TV is?” 

“Hmmm,” he said, just like a doctor in the movies. 

Or on TV. 

I was getting the general drift, because I’m a mystery writer and I don’t need a lot of clues. “So, you mean to tell me that just because I sat on my butt and watched TV while I worked, for twenty-five years, I rotated my spine?” 

“Yes.” 

So, this was all TV’s fault. Thank God it wasn’t my fault. It can never be my fault. 

The doctor added, “And you’re probably crossing your legs, too.” 

I thought about it. “I probably am. How else can you keep a dog on your lap while you work?” 

The doctor laughed. He thought I was kidding. 

You and I know I wasn’t. 

Maybe he should start reading my books. Or this column. 

Anyway, I got serious. “Now what do we do?” 

“Work out.” 

I tried not to groan. 

Why is “working out” always the answer? 

Why is the answer never “chocolate cake?” 

Meanwhile, I tell the doctor that I walk the dogs, ride a bike, and even sit like a lump on the back of a pony, but he says none of this counts. He sends me to physical therapy, telling me to dress comfortably. 

I don’t need to be told to dress comfortably.  

I’m a middle-aged woman. 

We’re too smart to dress any other way. 

I’ve already gone to two sessions of physical therapy, which are held in a big open gym with a lot of other people who were sent there for respectable reasons that had nothing to do with watching too much television. 

There, I do twenty reps of the Backward Bend, the Press-Up, Bridging, and an array of other horrible exercises, all of which require a Neutral Spine. 

This doesn’t come easily to me. 

Not only because I hate working out, but because I’m not neutral about anything. 

I have opinions. 

My least favorite of the exercises is one called Isometric Stabilization, and the directions on the sheet say that I’m supposed to, “Tighten abdominal muscles as if tightening a belt.” 

In other words, suck it in. 

Oddly, I’ve been doing this exercise my entire life.  

In any photo of me, I’m engaging in Isometric Stabilization. 

Now I have a sheet of floor exercises to do three times a day at home, with pictures to show me the correct form. 

Oddly, none of the pictures show my dogs jumping on my head, licking my face, or walking across my chest while I do the exercises. 

Any pet owner who tries to work out at home knows how helpful dogs can be. 

If you have twenty reps to do, good luck getting through rep two. 

Or maybe they are helpful? 

Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

Column Classic: Thought Bubbles

By Lisa Scottoline

You’ve probably seen the Dove commercial in which a forensic artist sketches a woman according to her own description of her face and it turns out terrible, and then sketches a second picture of a woman according to a description of her by a stranger, and it turns out great.

Who is surprised by this?

Not me.

I could’ve told you that women are their own worst critics.

I also could’ve told you that composite drawings make everybody look ugly.

If you ask me, even the second pictures of the women didn’t look as good as the women did in reality.

Felons are never that hot.

But the tagline of the campaign is, “You Are More Beautiful Than You Think.”

And everyone is hailing this as a brilliant marketing campaign and a profound way to look at women, or for women to look at themselves.

But you know what I think?

I think it really doesn’t matter if you’re beautiful or not.

Let’s be real.

I don’t need a composite artist to tell me what I really look like, because I have a mirror.  And to tell the truth, every time I look in the mirror, I have the exact opposite reaction:

I thought I looked better than that.

It’s not like I have a big ego or think that I’m especially attractive.  But I can tell you that when I look in a mirror, it’s a disappointment.

I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I ran into a forensic sketch artist and he started drawing me.  I might take his pencil and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

In other words, my own personal tagline should be, “I’m Not As Beautiful As I Think.”

But who cares?

I’m not a model.

I’m a writer, a mother, and a middle-aged woman.  Bottom line, I’m fine with how I look, even though I’m not beautiful.

And all I want from Dove soap is to get me clean.

When did a soap company get to be our national therapist?

I wish Dove would get out of the self-esteem business and figure out how to get me even cleaner, longer.  Or how to make soap with more suds, because I like a lot of suds.

Dove, don’t flatter me by telling me I’m not only beautiful, but more beautiful than I think.  Because I wasn’t born yesterday, and I don’t look it.

In other words, don’t lather me up, just lather me up.

I guarantee we’ll never see a soap commercial like that for men.  Nobody will ever sell soap by talking about how men are handsomer than they think.  In the first place, most men aren’t half as handsome as they think, but they don’t care about that.

And they’re right.

I like Dove soap, but I don’t need it to build my self-image and I don’t want it to pretend to do so by convincing me that I’m in fact more beautiful than I think, because it assumes that beauty is and should be the key to our self-esteem.  What should matter to women is who we are and how we act, and if we set our own dreams and fulfill them, in our lives.

And none of that has anything to do with what we look like.

At all.

And even ugly women deserve to feel good about themselves.

Dove might know something about soap, but their analysis is only skin-deep.

I don’t even give them an A for effort.

I think that this is the softest sell ever.

And you know who’s taking a bath?

Women.

Copyright 2013 Lisa Scottoline

Column Classic: We Are All Ferraris

By Lisa Scottoline

By the time you read this, you will have survived Valentine’s Day. 

Congrats! 

I spent mine with dogs and cats, but I’m not all pathetic and sad about it, and if you were in a similar position, you don’t have to be mopey, either. 

Here’s why. 

You’re not alone. You may feel that way, thanks to TV commercials for conversation hearts and bouquets you aren’t getting, but you’re not the only one. There’s lots of women like us, who end up manless in middle age, whether by choice or not. I know, because I get lots of heartfelt emails from widows and divorcees, as I am fast becoming the poster child for inadvertent celibacy. 

By which I mean, not woe-is-me celibacy, but more like, Oh, has it really been that long? 

Also, why don’t I miss it, when I used to like it well enough?  

And why aren’t I on a mission to find a man? 

To begin, let me tell you about a recent blind date. Most of my dates are blind, as that gives me a fighting chance. 

I thought he was nice, handsome, and smart, which is three more things than I ever expect. And we were having a great time, yapping away though his first and second vodka. But by the time he got to his third vodka, his words slurred, his eyes glistened, and he blurted out the following: 

“I miss my girlfriend. I don’t know why she broke up with me. The kids didn’t like her, but I did.” 

Uh oh. 

This would not be a happy ending. He told me the next day that it was the only time he’d ever tried to kiss somebody who was putting her car into reverse. 

That would be me, and can you even believe he went in for the good-night smooch? 

Could it be worse? 

No. 

So, take a lesson from my horrible blind date. He was bemoaning the loss of his girlfriend, when he had a perfectly fine woman sitting across from him, ready, willing, and able. 

Oh, so able. 

In other words, don’t miss out on the fullness of your life merely because something is missing. 

A man is not a passport. Having one is nice, but not the law. And if you’re alone, you can’t go into suspended animation. You have to live your life and you can be happy. So, make yourself happy. 

How? 

Flip it. If you think that being on your own is the problem, turn that idea on its head.  Make being alone a bonus. For example, if you’re on your own, you don’t have to ask anybody’s permission to do anything or take anyone else’s feelings into account. You can paint your kitchen orange if you want and make all manner of dumb mistakes. 

You’re not single, you’re a cappella! 

Which sounds a lot more fun, plus it’s Italian. 

But how do you figure out what makes you happy? 

Try things. Try anything. Paint. Draw. Take piano lessons. Read a book. Keep a journal. Write a story. Go to night school. Volunteer. Sing. Rearrange the furniture.  Rescue animals. Join a book club or start one. 

Dance! 

Bottom line, any verb will do. 

Do whatever you like. And since I bet you’ve spent most of your life taking care of others, take a little care of yourself. Get your hair done, and your toenails. Especially the amazing disappearing pinkie toenail. 

If you can find it. 

Spend a little money on yourself.  Buy a new sweater and parade around. 

Look at you, girl! 

Here are some of the things that make me happy: Daughter Francesca, dogs, friends, work, books, reading, cats, a big TV, a pony, opera, and chocolate cake. My life and my heart are full, and though I live alone, I don’t feel lonely. 

As for the occasional date, if it happens, great. Maybe I’ll meet a man who doesn’t like vodka that much, but no matter. 

The point isn’t him. 

It’s me, and you. 

Think of yourself as an exotic sports car, like a Ferrari, that leaves its garage only occasionally. 

Not everybody can drive you, and you don’t wait to be driven. 

You’re not that kind of car. 

And neither am I. 

So hit the gas, and live. 

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2011

Column Classic: I Like Big Brains and I Cannot Lie

By Lisa Scottoline

I have excellent news, ladies.

And its excellent news for men too, depending on how they feel about big butts on women.

But, men, whatever your opinion, I’m advising you to keep it to yourself. Don’t go spouting off to your wife or significant other while you’re reading. You will start a conversation that can go sideways pretty quick.

Or more appropriately, south.

Bottom line, no pun, I came across an article reporting that women with big butts are less likely to develop disease and are even smarter than women with average or smaller butts.

Finally, some good news!

Even if it does seem completely unbelievable!

According to the article, women with bigger butts have lower cholesterol levels because their – correction, our – hormones process sugar faster. And we also have less of a risk of developing cardiovascular conditions or diabetes.

I know that sounds totally wrong, but I read it on the Internet, so you know it’s 100% correct.

When it comes to medical information, the Internet is always dead-on.

But if you rely on it, you end up dead.

Just kidding.

I absolutely do rely on the Internet for medical advice. In fact, I don’t even know why we have doctors anymore.

Oh, right, we don’t.

Because if your deductible is $6500, like mine, you basically don’t have a doctor. Or you better hope that if something bad happens to you, it ends up being really catastrophic, so you get your money’s worth.

Fingers crossed?

To return to point, the article said that women with big butts have a surplus of omega-3 fatty acids.

Or fatty assets.

Or a fatty ass.

Anyway, I believe that. Because I’m a woman with a big butt and I have a surplus of everything.

Including goodwill and happiness!

And in even better news, omega-3 fatty acids are related to improved brain function.

How great is that?

Aren’t you glad you came?

You can thank me anytime!

In fact, I hope you’re sitting on your nice big butt as you read this column, and now you know that you’re comprehending it at warp speed because of your superior brain function.

Who knew that your brain was connected to your butt?

Unless you’re one of those people who have their head up their ass.

The article even said that the fatty tissue in our butts “traps harmful fatty particles and prevents cardiovascular disease.”

Wait, what?

That’s basically saying that fat traps fat – but maybe it does!

After all, birds of a feather flock together.

Who are we to question Dr. Internet?

More excellent medical advice!

So, from now on, just look at your big fat butt and visualize it as some extremely fleshy Venus fly trap, trapping all the fat in the tri-state area, strengthening your heart and increasing your IQ.

Fat is genius!

Now, if the medical advice in this article is true, that would mean that the Kardashian’s are the smartest people ever.

Laugh away, but the joke’s on you.

They made zillions of dollars selling pictures of their butts.

And we bought them.

In other words, they made asses out of us.

With their asses.

GENIUS!

I must say that I have never weighed in, again no pun, on the whole big-butt phenomenon. My butt is big and always has been, but I never viewed it as positive. When I was growing up, the cool thing was to have a flat, skinny, or nonexistent butt. Happily, those days are over.

Or behind us.

Nowadays, people pay to have butt implants, and since this article, I finally understand why.

So, people will think they’re smart.

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2016