Chick Wit

• Classic Column: Game of Thrones June 28, 2026

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  If you read me, you know that I get jazzed about certain products.

  And then I spread the word, herein.

  I’d like to do that right now, with a short preface before I get to the point.

  This, instead of my usual endless preface before I get to the point.

  Getting to the point isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  So here we go.

  First, my favorite product in the world is my books.  If you enjoy these Sunday stories, they’re all collected in books I write with Daughter Francesca, and you should buy some and read them right away.

  What you waiting for?  You know you already like me, and the books are cheap.

  And thank you for your support.

  Second, any one of my books would go very nicely with the product I am about to recommend, but this is where we come to another preface.  The following is for mature audiences only.

  Also my readers.

  If you like what I write about, and the way I write about it, you should feel free to keep reading.  I say this with confidence because if you meet all of the above criteria, then you have endured stories about bunions, gray chin hairs, and adult diaper rash.  And through my misadventures, I’ve recommended products I love, like Boudreaux’s Butt Paste, ThermaCare, and Bradley Cooper.

  In other words, you know way too much about me and you don’t mind.  Maybe you can relate.

  Or you have a strong stomach.

  And a great sense of humor.

  Even if your breasts sag.

  So what?

  Unsaggy breasts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, either.

  I mean, we get it, girls.  

  Soon you’ll be us.

  Anyway, to inch closer to my point, there’s an ick factor to the discussion of my second-favorite product, so if I haven’t cured you of your prissiness so far, check out now.

  Because we’re entering the throne room with my favorite new throne.

  The Squatty Potty.

  I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but it’s my new love.

  I heard about the Squatty Potty on the radio, and I thought it sounded like an interesting idea.  Bottom line, and no pun, it’s basically a stool that fits around the base of your toilet, and so when you sit on the toilet, it raises your legs into a squatting position.

  Still with me?

  Good.  Either way.  You can’t please everybody, and the people who continue to read will have their life changed.

  Or at least their colon.

  By the way, I have no problem in the bathroom.

  Only in the bedroom.

  In that I sleep with five dogs and a remote control.

  Plus I’m no doctor, but I believe the Squatty Potty website, which says that squatting relaxes the puborectalis muscle, or basically, a kink in your colon.  When you use your Squatty Potty, your colon gets unkinked.

  Again, not a medical term.

  I have a J.D., not an M.D.

  But I like the idea that a squatting position is more natural for your anatomy.  It may be a sign of the times that I’ve fallen in love with a toilet, but I don’t view it as being about elimination.  I view it as being about my health, and by my health I mean me living as long as humanly possible and then some. 

  I want you to live as long that long, too, especially if you’re buying my books.

  I always used to think about death, but after I turned sixty, it became more than academic.  I truly wonder what will kill me, but unfortunately as soon as I find out, I’ll be dead.

  Everything has a catch.

  But I do find myself being more conscientious about eating healthy foods and exercising even when I don’t want to.

  Let’s pretend golf is exercise.  

  Everybody else does.

  But my favorite exercise of all is sitting down, and now I can sit down and know that I’m getting healthier, every time I’m in the throne room.

  Look at it this way.

  If you don’t want to do squats, you can just, well, squat.

  Lisa’s new novel THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING will be out on July 14, 2026.

  Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM will be available in paperback on July 21, 2026.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Classic Column: The Great Makeup Organization June 21, 2026

  By Francesca Serritella

  

  My bathroom is covered in makeup.

  Lipsticks and lip balms live on every ledge and sometimes end up in the dog’s mouth.  The closed toilet seat cover is a staging area for foundation and blushes.  Brushes peek out of a coffee mug that barely fits on the counter.  Eye-shadow compacts litter the sink’s edge, daring to be knocked off and shatter on the floor.

  In my defense, my bathroom is so small, three things out of place make it look like a disaster zone.

  And I never have only three things out of place.

  Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

  Francesa’s novel FULL BLOOM will be out in paperback on July 21, 2026.

  Lisa’s new thriller THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING is on sale July 14, 2026

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

• Classic Column: Gangrene Thumb June 14, 2026

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  You may recall I mentioned earlier that I water my garden too much.  

  That problem is now solved.

  Because I’m out of water.

  Our story begins when I noticed that the water pressure in my house is low.

  Hmm.

  By the way, I have well water.  We live like pioneers in our township, which has no police, fire, or garbage removal, though I don’t have to sew the American flag.

  Thanks, township!

  Anyway, the water level in my well generally goes down when there’s no rain, but it was getting worse and worse until I realized that something must be wrong in the springhouse.

  If you don’t know what a springhouse is, welcome to the club.    

  All I know is that it’s a picturesque little shed that houses where the water comes up from the well.  More than that I can’t explain, because I have no understanding of how my springhouse works.  I never go in there because it’s damp, dark, and scary, like a basement on steroids. 

  I called the plumbers who specialize in wells and they wanted me to show them the springhouse, so I was shamed into going in.  Inside were strange black gauges, weird blue tanks, and two body-size open trays of water, which is the water I drink, evidently laying around all day and night, so that bugs, snakes, paramecium, and God-knows-what-else can swim around in it before it finds its way into the glass that I put to my parched lips.

  Delicious.

  The plumbers inspect the well and say that it’s fine, so we all leave the springhouse and troop around the lawn to solve the mystery of why I have no water.  You don’t have to be Nancy Drew to notice that the grass in my front yard, near the garden, is surprisingly soggy.

  Uh oh.

  So we go find the faucet for the garden hose, which is in the garage, and the plumbers guess that the pipe must be leaking under the garage, since it was never used until I put in this stupid garden.  They say it must have been corroding, but the corrosion was holding it together.  

  Like me.

  Anyway, we trace the leak backwards to the basement under the garage, which is another place I never go because it’s damp, dark, and scary, like a springhouse on steroids.

  As soon as we open the door, we see that the basement brims with water.  Pieces of wood, broken glass, and kreplach float by.

  Long story short, we call in the plumbers who specialize in flood damage and they use three pumps to pump the water out of the basement.  They figure out where the leak is in the pipe, but also surmise it can’t possibly be causing the soggy grass.  In other words, I have two leaks in two pipes, caused by watering the garden!

  Yay!

  We call in a third set of plumbers who specialize in second leaks, and these are the guys who put on their booties before going to work.  

  For a middle-aged woman, a plumber is a booty call.  

  They find the leak under the soggy lawn but are not sure exactly where. They explain that they will need to dig trenches and lay new water lines, and that an estimator will come out on Saturday to tell me how much my gardening hobby is going to cost me.

  Obviously, I have a green thumb. 

  Dollar-green.

  So by Sunday night, as I write, my entire front lawn is a swamp.

  The only dry spot is the garden, where the flowers left by the deer are dying of thirst. 

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Classic Column: Just Desserts June 7, 2026

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  It can be a problem when your kid comes home to visit.  You’re not used to living together, and even the littlest thing can cause a fuss.

  For Daughter Francesca and me, it was dessert.

  We’re finally on the same page, food-wise, which is a nice way of saying that we’re both trying to lose weight, so we’re eating healthy foods.  She’s home this weekend, so for dinner I made politically-correct pasta.  By which I mean, I sautéed a few tomatoes in olive oil with whole cloves of garlic, and when the mixture got soft, I took it out of the pan and dumped it on top of whole wheat spaghetti.

  By the way, the best thing about this recipe, which I invented, is that it uses garlic without having to chop it up.  I hate it when my fingers smell like garlic, and I don’t buy garlic already chopped, because that’s cheating.  But this way, if you toss whole cloves in the pan, they get mushy, and you can mash them with a fork.  Mashing is more fun than chopping, and doesn’t involve your fingers.

  You pay nothing extra for these culinary tips.

  Go with God.

  And before I tell you about the fight, let me mention also that I’m working on portion control.  I know that’s my main problem.  This should have been a reasonable-calorie dinner, even though it’s pasta, but I always up the ante by getting a second and a third helping.  You might ask, why do you make so much food in the first place, Lisa?  The answer is simple.

  I’m Italian.

  Actually the truth is, I like to make extra of everything, like scrambled eggs, so I can give some to the dogs.  Every morning, I make six eggs, knowing that I’ll eat two and give them the rest.  They wait patiently during my breakfast, knowing that their eggs will come.  It’s all very easy.  

  But I was doing the same thing with whole wheat pasta, making extra for the dogs, until I realized I was using them as my portion control beard.

  I busted myself and stopped.

  To stay on point, I made a delightful spaghetti meal, and Francesca made a side salad.  We had a fun dinner, yapping away and trying not to eat more helpings of pasta, even though I was calling to us from the colander.  When we finished our meal, I wanted dessert.

  This, I can’t help.

  I love to eat dessert right after dinner.  And when I say right, I mean immediately.  Timing is everything.  It doesn’t have to be a lot of something, just a taste.  It’s not my fault, and I figured out why this is so:  

  It’s because dessert sounds so much like deserve.  Also, we say that people get their just desserts, which means they get what they deserve.  So, ipso fatso, I feel as if I deserve dessert.

  Right now.

  But Francesca doesn’t like dessert right after dinner.  She can wait, which I consider a four-letter word.  

  This is a long-standing battle we have, because I like us to eat together, and the conversation usually goes like this:  I ask her, “Want some dessert?”

  She answers, “No, thanks.  We just ate.”

  “But don’t you want something sweet?  I’m having mine now.”

  “No, I’m not hungry for dessert yet.”

  I get cranky.  “When do you think you’ll want dessert?”

  “I don’t know.  Later.”

  “Sooner later or later later?”

  Okay, so usually I don’t eat my dessert then, and we retire to the family room, where we watch TV and work, and I spend the rest of the night asking her, “Is it later yet?”

  Just like she used to ask me, “Are we there yet?”

  Payback, no?

  So last night, I figured I’d solve this problem.  All I wanted was a small helping of vanilla ice cream, with a banana.  And because I wanted it right after dinner, I decided to have it then.  If I had to eat alone, so be it.  Plus, this way I’d have more time to burn off the calories, by reaching for the remote throughout the evening.

  So I had my ice cream and banana.  

  Delicious.

  But then what happened is that sometime around nine o’clock, Francesca sauntered into the kitchen and returned with a small plate of vanilla ice cream.  She strolled over to the couch, sat down, and started eating.  

  I stared at her, along with the dogs.

  It looked so delicious.  I could almost taste it on my tongue.  In fact, I could taste it on my tongue, because I had it two hours ago.

  Two whole hours ago.

  So you know where this is going.

  I had to have a second dessert.

  I told her it was her fault, and we had a fight.

  In the end, I apologized, because she was right.

  And I got what I deserved.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Classic Column: Bizarro Birthdays May 31, 2026

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I just got off the phone with Mother Mary, who’s lost her mind.  Or maybe it’s Scottoline birthday madness.

  Let me explain.

  She told me a story that happened to her that day, when she was going outside to do the laundry.

  Yes, you read that right.

  She lives in Miami with brother Frank and she goes outside to do the laundry because they keep their washer and dryer in the backyard.

  This makes no sense to me, but she swears that it’s common in Florida to keep major appliances in the backyard, like shrubs with twenty-year warranties.  

  Still, it’s hard for me to believe.  I suspect that my mother and brother are redneck Italians.

  But never mind, that’s not the point of the story.

  So Mother Mary is going outside to put in a load of laundry and she sees one of her neighbors, a nice young woman, walking her two-year-old son by the hand.  My mother stops to say hello, and the little boy looks up at her with big blue eyes and says:

  “I love you, Mary.”

  So of course my mother melts, because she loves kids, and she even gets choked up telling me on the phone.  The whole story is sounding really sweet until she gets to the next part, which is when she asks the mother of the toddler when is his birthday, and the woman answers:

  November 23.  

  Okay, means nothing to you, but that’s brother Frank’s birthday.  

  And on the phone, my mother tells me:  “I looked at that little boy, and I thought he was like Frank.  Like he has your brother’s soul.”

  I thought I heard her wrong.  “Pardon?”

  “When he said he loved me, I looked into his eyes and I could see his soul, and it was Frank’s soul.”

  “You mean they’re alike?”

  “No, I mean they’re the same.”

  I tried to deal.  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.  I’m telling you, he has the same exact blue eyes as Frank and he was born on the same day.  He has Frank’s soul.”

  “Ma, Frank still has his soul.  He’s not dead yet.”

  “I know that,” she said, irritably.  “They share the same soul.”

  “Ma, that’s crazy.”

  “Sorry, but I know, I can tell.  Remember the earthquake?”

  This shuts me up, temporarily.  It’s matter of public record that Mother Mary was the only person in Miami to feel an earthquake that took place in Tampa, and the South Florida newspapers even dubbed her Earthquake Mary.  Ever since then, she thinks she’s Al Roker, but supernatural.

  She said, “It’s the same soul.  Absolutely.”

  “Ma, just because they have the same birthday doesn’t mean they have the same soul.”

  “Hmph.  What do you know, about birthdays?”

  She was referring to something I’ll never live down, which happened to me over thirty years ago, when daughter Francesca was three years old.  I had taken her in a stroller into an optician’s shop in town, and a man walked through the door, pointed directly at Francesca, and said: “Her birthday is February 6.”

  I was astounded.  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  I went home that day and called my mother.  “Ma, some guy just guessed that Francesca’s birthday is February 6!  Isn’t that amazing?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her birthday is February 7.”

  I blinked. “It is?”

  “Yes, dummy.”

  Look, I have no idea how it happened, but for the first three years of Francesca’s life, I celebrated her birthday on the wrong day.  

  Sue me.

  Maybe it’s because I was in labor for 349,484 hours, so the exact day she was born seemed like a technicality.  And since then, it was just she and I celebrating a day earlier, with nobody around to know better.

  So now I can never say anything about birthdays, ever.

  But at least I know where everybody’s soul should be.

  And their washer-dryers, too.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline