Chick Wit

• 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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• 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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2026

• 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.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2026

• 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.

  © Lisa Scottoline

• I Can See Clearly Now January 18, 2026

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  It’s the new year, so it’s time to reorganize my kitchen drawers.

  Don’t get the idea I do this every year.

  I do it every 30 years.

  But I do it when the year is new.

  So that counts.

  I started with the drawer that contained so much junk that I couldn’t open or close it anymore without stuff sticking out, so it was time. Actually what it mostly contained was a bunch of pairs of glasses, and it was quite a spectacle.

  I took a picture after I reorganized it because I was so proud of myself, but I should have taken the Before picture so you could see what a goddess I am.

  But let’s focus for a minute on the glasses.

  I didn’t know how many pairs of glasses I had until I went through that drawer. Part of the problem is that I never throw any glasses away because my  prescription has stayed the same. In fact, the only reason I ever get new glasses is because of the horrible things I do to them.

  Mainly, sitting on them.

  This is easy to do.

  Try it at home.

  With practice, you can be as good as I am.

  All you have to do is take your glasses off and leave them on your couch, chair, or even in bed, where you can roll on them and break a stem.

  Voila!

  Or they drop off the night table and you forgot that on your way to the bathroom and stepped on them in the dark and broke them in half.

  Way to go, Lisa!

  There are lots of ways to destroy a pair of glasses.

  Just improvise.

  Have fun with it!

  But now I have a new thing.

  Last week I ran over my glasses with my car.

  I did a great job!

  And just for good measure, I also ran over an empty glasses case.

  As I always say, if you want something done right, do it yourself.

  They were actually prescription sunglasses that cost a fair amount because I was trying to be fashionable. But somehow they must have fallen out of my pocket when I got in or out of the car, and when I came home, lying on the floor of the garage was a highly costly pancake.

  I took them in to get them replaced, and we all had a good laugh at the optician’s office. I’m there so often, we’re friends.

  It’s like a bar, where I’m a regular.

  Cheers!

  Then the next bad thing I did to my glasses was get a puppy.

  Her name is Eve but when it comes to eyeglasses, she is Evil.

  Because I leave my glasses everywhere, all of a sudden I’ll find them in her dog bed.

  Glasses are the most expensive chew toy ever.

  For a while I wore them with gnawed-on stems, but they kept scratching behind my ears so I had the stems replaced. Then she chewed off the little rubber tips on my remaining pair of prescription sunglasses, so I had to get them fixed. And yesterday I got a plastic nosepiece out of her mouth, but I have no idea where that came from.

  Maybe she has a glasses drawer, too.

  Also when I reorganized my drawer, I realized I had three billion pairs of readers.

  I’m making a vow never to buy more reading glasses.

  I buy them compulsively because they’re not that expensive and they come in a lot of pretty colors.

  Pretty colors are my siren song.

  And if they’re at the counter in pink, forget it.

  I own them.

  But now that I see that I have too many, I’m going to stop.

  And I’m going to take better care of them and all of my glasses.

  I have to.

  It’s 30 years until I clean the drawer again.

  Copyright © 2026 Lisa Scottoline