Chick Wit

• 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.

  Copyright © 2026 Lisa Scottoline

• 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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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. 

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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.

  Copyright © 2017 Lisa Scottoline

• 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

  Copyright © Francesca Serritella | www.francescaserritella.com | @FrancescaSerritellaauthor | @fserritella