Chick Wit

• Column Classic: Junk in The Trunk September 7, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  If Freud wanted to know what women want, he could have asked.

  If he’d asked me, I would have answered:

  Another kitchen cabinet.

  And I just got one!

  Here’s how it happened. 

  It was about ten years ago that I remodeled my kitchen, adding white cabinets and a trash compactor.  To tell the truth, I don’t remember wanting a trash compactor and think it was Thing Two who wanted a trash compactor, but I’ve blamed enough on him, so let’s just say I wanted a trash compactor.

  At the time, my kitchen contractor said, “I’ll install this trash compactor for you, but I bet you’ll never use it.”

  “I’m sure I’ll use it,” said I.  And I probably added, “Plus it will give me something to blame on somebody, down the line.”

  In any event, the trash compactor got installed, and it came with two free bags, which I promptly lost. 

  Ten years and one divorce later, it turns out that the contractor was right. 

  I should have married the contractor.

  But to stay on point, I never used the trash compactor.  Not once.  I even forgot it was there until three months ago, when it began to emit a mysterious and foul odor.  I searched the thing and could find no reason for it to be smelly, but I washed it inside and out anyway.  Still the smell got worse and worse, until it was so bad I could barely eat in the kitchen.  Then one day, the electrician came over to fix a light and he said,  “Smells like something died in here.”

  Bingo!

  The electrician showed me that you could slide out the compactor, which I hadn’t realized, and when we did, we found behind it an aromatic gray mound that used to be a mouse.

  Eeek!

  The electrician threw the dead mouse away, and I cleaned the trash compactor all over again, but it still stunk worse than my second marriage, which I didn’t even think was possible, so I threw the trash compactor away, too. 

  Which left an oddly empty space on my kitchen island, a blank square among the white cabinets, like a missing tooth. 

  I called the kitchen contractor, whose phone number I still had from ten years ago.  As soon as he heard my voice, he said, “Told you,” and came right over.

  Last week he installed a new cabinet, including a drawer, then asked, “What are you going to use it for?”

  ”I’m not sure yet,” I told him, excited by the possibilities.  It was almost too much to hope for – a nice empty cabinet and a whole extra drawer.  After he had gone, I pulled up a stool and contemplated my course of action.

  The decision required me to consider the problem areas of my kitchen cabinets, which are many.  My pot-and-pan cabinet is a mess because I hate to stack pots and pans in their proper concentric circles.  I just pile them up any way, playing Jenga, only with Farberware.  Also I can never figure out how to store pot lids, so I stick them in upside down, setting them wobbling on handles like the worst tops ever.  Every time I open the cabinet door, they come sliding out like a stainless steel avalanche. 

  I also have a cabinet containing Rubbermaid and Tupperware, but it’s all mixed up, so that Rubbermaid lids are with Tupperware containers and Rubbermaid containers are with Tupperware lids, making the whole thing feel vaguely illicit, like a orgy of plastic products. 

  Then I have a cabinet of kitchen appliances I have never used once in my life, but feel compelled to keep close at hand, namely a juicer, a waffle iron, and a salad shooter.  You never know when you’ll have to shoot a salad.

  My kitchen drawers are equally problematic. I have one drawer for silverware, and four others for junk, junk, junk, and junk.  All the junk drawers contain the same junk, just more of it, namely, pens that don’t work, pencils that have no point, extra buttons that go to clothes I’ve never seen, rubber bands I got free but can’t part with, menus for restaurants I don’t order from, and pennies.

  In other words, it’s all essential.

  I think I know what to put in the empty cabinet.

  Trash compactor bags.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Reading is Fundamental August 31, 2025

  by Lisa Scottoline

  With the start of a new school year upon us, I’m reminded about Mother Mary and her grammar patrol.

  

  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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Lift and Separate August 24, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Once again, you’ve come to the right place.

  If you read this, you’re going to LOL.

  But this time, I can’t take the credit. 

  Sometimes the world hands you an ace.  All you have to do is set it down on the table and play.

  I’m talking, of course, about the SmartBra.

  Have you heard about this?  If not, I’m here to tell you that at the recent consumer electronics show, a Canadian tech company introduced a smartbra, which is a bra that is smarter than you are.

  Or at least smarter than your breasts. 

  Microsoft is reportedly developing a smartbra, too, and I’m sure the other tech companies will follow suit.

  Or maybe bra.

  If it creeps you out that the male-dominated tech industry is thinking about what’s under your shirt, raise your hand.

  Just don’t raise it very fast.

  They’re watching you jiggle.

  Bottom line, the smartbras contain sensors that are supposed to record your “biometric data” and send it to an app on your mobile device. 

  It’s a fitbit for your breasts.

  Or a fittit.

  Sorry, I know that’s rude, but I couldn’t resist.

  Like I said, the world handed me an ace. 

  Anyway, to stay on point, the biometric data it monitors is your heart rate and respiration rate, but Microsoft has taken that a step further.  According to CNN, their smartbra is embedded with “psychological sensors that seek to monitor a woman’s heart activity to track her emotional moods and combat overeating.”  In fact, their “sensors can signal the wearer’s smartphone, which then flash a warning message to help her step away from the fridge and make better diet decisions.”

  Isn’t that a great idea?

  It’s a bra that tells on you when you’re hitting the chocolate cake.

  Forgive me if I’m not rushing out to buy one.

  I already know when I’m being bad, and I don’t need to be nagged by my underwear.

  By the way, the smartbra sells for $150.

  If that price gives you a heart attack, the bra will know it. 

  Maybe the bra can call 911.

  Maybe the bra can even drive you to the hospital.

  Don’t slack, bra.

  That’s for breasts.

  The Canadian company says that wearable tech is the latest thing, and that it developed its smart bra because it had “a plethora of requests from eager women who wanted in on the action, too.” 

  Do you believe that? 

  I don’t. 

  On the contrary, I know a plethora of eager women who wish they didn’t have to wear a bra at all. 

  I also know a plethora of eager women who take their bra off the moment they hit the house. 

  Plus I know a plethora of eager women who skip the bra if they’re wearing a sweatshirt, sweater, or down vest. 

  Finally, I know a plethora of eager women who would never use the word plethora in a sentence.

  Okay, maybe I’m talking about myself. 

  Frankly, I don’t want “in on the action” if the action means a bra that will tell the tri-state area I’m pigging out.

  However, I want “in on the action” if the action means Bradley Cooper. 

  And nobody needs a smartbra to monitor what would happen to my heart if Bradley Cooper were around.

  By the way, researchers are not currently developing a pair of smart tighty whitey’s for men.

  That’s too bad because I have a name for it.

  SmartBalls.

  But maybe men don’t need underwear with a sensor that detects their emotional changes. 

  They already have such a sensor. 

  In fact, they were born with it. 

  Too bad it doesn’t make any noise.

  Like, woohooo!

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Cats and Dogs in 500 Square Feet August 17, 2025

  By Francesca Serritella

  Francesca’s new novel, FULL BLOOM, an Instant USA TODAY National Bestseller, is in stores now. Here is a Dear Reader guest column she wrote recently:

  

  I recently welcomed a puppy into my life. A roly-poly tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, with russet eyebrows that tilt with cartoonish expression and a penchant for belly rubs. I named him “Bobby Baby” after the Sondheim musical Company, because company is what I needed most.

  Especially after I’d lost my beloved dog Pip. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel ready to get another dog, until I heard about this puppy born on the one-year anniversary of Pip’s passing.

  I felt like he was heaven-sent.

  My eighteen-year-old cat Mimi disagrees.

  I thought hard about inflicting a puppy’s chaotic energy on Mimi’s golden years. But Mimi is aging like the feline Demi Moore.

  Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

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

• Column Classic: Extra Extra Crispy August 10, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  My faith in American ingenuity is restored.

  We just invented fried butter.

  Whew!

  You may have been worried that we didn’t have any more tricks up our sleeve, but you would be wrong.  We used to invent things like electricity, heart valves, and polio vaccines, but we’ve finally come up with something useful.

  Somebody at the Iowa State Fair developed a recipe for deep fried butter.

  It sold like hotcakes.

  Fried hotcakes.

  What an idea!  How else you gonna meet your daily cholesterol requirements?

  They make it by freezing a stick of butter, dipping it in batter with cinnamon and sugar, deep-frying it in vegetable oil at 375 degrees, then drizzling it with a honey glaze.

  You know you want one.

  The other bestsellers at the state fair were deep-fried pickles, deep-fried corn dogs, and deep-fried macaroni and cheese.

  I might move to Iowa.

  Land where the tall corn (dogs) grow.

  It’s not just state fairs, either.  My favorite fancy restaurant serves microgreens with fried goat cheese.  Guess which I eat first, the microgreens or the fried cheese?  Right, and thank God the fried cheese isn’t micro.

  Tell the truth.  Who hasn’t dived into a plate of fried mozzarella sticks?

  Bottom line, it’s time to concede that we love fried things.  French fries, fried onion rings, fried chicken.  And we don’t just love fried food, we even love the fried part, all by itself.

  Everybody on earth has nibbled the fry off of something.

  Case in point, me. 

  Back in my non-vegetarian days, I used to love Kentucky Fried Chicken, extra crispy.  Extra crispy was code for really really fried.  When there was no more chicken left, I ate the nuggets of really really fried.  Even after two days in the refrigerator, I ate delicious knots of crunchy, salty, really really fried. 

  The chicken was beside the point, because the only thing that mattered was the fried, and that’s true with every fried food. 

  It tastes the same. 

  Fried.

  Yay!

  This is why I order shrimp tempura at a Japanese restaurant.  Because all I taste is the fry, and I might as well be at Seafood Shanty.

  Tempura is Japanese for corn dog.

  We agree that frying will make a good thing better, but the truly amazing thing about frying is that it will make even disgusting things better.

  Example?

  Calamari.

  It’s a squid, for God’s sake.  Have you ever seen a squid?  If you had, you wouldn’t put it in your mouth. 

  But fry it, and people fight to get to it first. 

  Same thing with softshell crabs.  A softshell is a crab that has recently molted its shell, so that its exoskeleton is still soft.  You wouldn’t normally eat a soft exoskeleton, much less all the stuff that’s inside a crab, namely whatever he ate last. 

  Do you think crabs are picky eaters?

  I don’t.

  So you have to factor that in.

  Plus the eyes are still attached. 

  Enough said.

  If you had to eat a softshell crab as is, you would refuse.  Your better judgment would prevail.

  But fried?

  Everybody’s there.

  The proof is that people in Thailand eat fried bugs.

  Now you know why.

  Tastes like (fried) chicken.

  The next step is only logical.  If frying makes disgusting food delicious, there’s no reason to stop at food, at all.

  I’m not only thinking out of the box, I’m thinking out of the refrigerator.

  If you can fry squid, you can fry flip-flops.

  If you can fry butter, you can fry bark.

  If you can fry bugs, you can fry Crestor.

  And you’re gonna have to.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline