Chick Wit

• The Tao of Eve May 18, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I love sleeping with dogs.

  But sleeping with a puppy is a different matter.

  Let me explain.

  You may know that I recently added a new member to my family, namely Eve, who is now a seven-month-old cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She joins my other two Cavaliers, Boone and Kit, who are almost fourteen now and differ on their opinion of her.

  Boone loves Eve.

  Kit wishes her dead.

  I’m hoping he comes around.

  Spoiler alert: He’s not going to.

  But so far he’s not trying to kill her.

  And Kit has his adorable moments with Eve. Like this morning, I took them out for a walk, and he peed on her leg.

  By the way, it was raining.

  So I actually got to watch a demonstration of “don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”

  Which is the perfect description of my second marriage.

  This is only one of the many great things about dogs.

  In any event, I love sleeping with Eve, but she’s very busy all night long.

  At this point you’re wondering why I don’t put her in a crate.

  Because I tried to in the beginning, but she cried and I’m a big softie.

  Luckily she’s never peed on the bed and told me it was raining, but she is an insanely restless sleeper.

  First, she loved to bring her toys on the bed and squeak them most of the night.

  I took away the squeaky ones, and she started playing with the ball, rolling it around the cover, then on my body.

  I took away the ball, and she would jump off the bed and find my socks on the floor, bring them up, and drop them on my face.

  Then I picked up all my socks and took away all the toys and she found a way to amuse herself, running up and down the ramp that leads to the bed.

  I couldn’t take that away because I already felt heartless.

  Plus how else do you get a dog onto a bed?

  Where she will disrupt your sleep.

  Obviously, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. The sensible thing to do would be to put the dog in a crate and a moat around the bed.

  But not all decisions are sensible.

  That’s why God made divorce.

  Meanwhile every single piece of furniture in my house has either a ramp or a set of little wooden stairs, but Eve loves to chews wood, so she makes a meal of those stairs.

  She’s on an all-wood diet.

  She eats doors and baseboards, and now my place looks like I live with a woodchuck.

  Now you’re probably asking, why don’t you spray the wood with that stuff called Bitter Apple, which is supposed to make dogs not chew wood?

  The answer is, I do, and Eve thinks it improves the taste of wood.

  It’s the dressing on her wood salad.

  She would drink Bitter Apple if I let her.

  And when she’s not eating wood, she’s running around outside, finding a rock, and chewing that, too.

  In the beginning, I started taking the rocks from her and putting them on a pile on the table. Now the table holds a pyramid of rocks, like oranges at the grocery store.

  I should sell rocks.

  Or I could spray them with Bitter Apple, then Eve would have a rock casserole.

  I took her to puppy kindergarten and puppy elementary school, and next week we start puppy middle school.

  After that, puppy Harvard.

  She learned all her lessons, including Leave It, which I now use forty-five times a day, when she finds a sock, chews wood, or eats a rock.

  And she Leaves It.

  Until she finds something else.

  This is all by way of saying, I love this puppy.

  She’s completely adorable, despite all the puppy things she does.

  Or maybe because of them.

  She’s simply an incredibly affectionate ball of fluff.

  When she finally settles down to sleep at my side, she has an adorable snore.

  She loves to snuggle and kiss, which is a job requirement for any animal I live with.

  Actually she’s a Make-out Queen, but I won’t elaborate.

  She loves people, other dogs, and fun in general.

  All the time, every minute.

  Even at night, but that’s okay.

  Life is to be savored, all the time.

  And that’s what Eve reminds me.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• Column Classic: Mommy’s Day Out May 10, 2025

  by Francesca Serritella

  

  The last time my mom came to visit, I lost her.

  It was like that movie Baby’s Day Out, except with my parent.  I turned my back for one second, and the little rascal got away from me. 

  I imagined her crawling along an I-beam at some high-rise construction site. 

  But she’s afraid of heights, so more likely she’d be in Times Square, telling The Naked Cowboy he isn’t dressed warmly enough.

  It started with tickets to see the new Larry David play.  My mom checked that she had the tickets for the third or fourth time. 

  “It says, ‘late arrivals will not be seated,’” she read, for my benefit.  My mom is early to everything.  We left with an hour to spare.

  And yet, we found ourselves in a cab crawling up Sixth Avenue for a half-hour with fifteen blocks to go.  I checked our route on my smartphone; the driving estimate to get to the theater was fifteen minutes, the walking was only ten.

  “I think we should get out,” I said.

  Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

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

• Column Classic: The Mothership May 4, 2025

  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

• Happy Mother’s Day April 27, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Mother’s Day is almost here.

  I’m already lactating.

  Why?

  Because I’m having a mommy-type moment that I wanted to share with you. Not only because it’s a cool thing that’s happening to me, but because it’s a little reminder that wonderful things can happen in a woman’s lifetime.

  We begin way back when Daughter Francesca was born, and I quit my job as a lawyer because I really enjoyed being home with her. Lawyering didn’t work for me part time, and the months after her birth made me realize that raising her was simply the most important, and fun, thing I could do.

  This all sounds great until you realize I was getting divorced and had zero money. So I decided to be a writer, and then followed five years living on credit cards while writing and getting rejected.

  But meanwhile I got to stay home with Francesca, and I remember those early days so well, because the lack of money was beside the point. I was doing something I loved, being with this curly-haired, blue-eyed, baby, and watching her grow.

  I remember after I’d put her down at night, she’d be in her crib, talking away.

  I would stand outside her bedroom, listening, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. She was just yakking up a storm, in an extremely animated way.

  This would last for hours.

  So one day, when she was about four years old, I asked her, “Who are you talking to in your room at night?”

  And she answered, “I’m telling myself my stories.”

  Fast-forward a couple of decades later, when she actually becomes an author, and this summer, something remarkable is happening. Namely, my storyteller daughter has a novel coming out in August, entitled Full Bloom.

  Plus I have a novel coming out in July, entitled The Unraveling of Julia.

  This is a harmonic convergence for our tiny two-person family.

  This summer, mother and daughter will be blooming and unraveling together.

  You can pre-order our books now, and we’d be delighted if you would!

  We’re even doing events together, and I can only imagine how proud my mother would be. She would curse with happiness, her highest form of self-expression.

  For what it’s worth, I never pushed Francesca to be an author.

  I pushed her to become a veterinarian.

  I need a vet very badly.

  Nor do I take any credit for her becoming an author, because the best storyteller in our family was Mother Mary. She could turn anything into a story, and she knew to keep it short, punchy and funny, just like her.

  The day of her funeral, there was such a heavy rainstorm that my entrance hall flooded for the first and the last time ever. Francesca was sure it was a sign from her, and I agree.

  Somehow, I know that my mother will show up at one of our signings this summer, heckle us, and/or do something vaguely obscene.

  I can’t wait.

  It reminds me of the saying that everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright yet, then it’s not the end.

  Well, this might be the end because everything’s alright.

  And this author’s getting her own happy ending.

  Thanks, Mom.

  And thanks, Francesca

  Happy Mother’s Day!

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• Column Classic: Mother Mary Grounds 4000 Flights April 20, 2025

  by Lisa Scottoline

  

  A column classic in honor of Mother Mary, who passed eleven years ago, but whose memory lives on. Thanks to all of you who continue to celebrate her and read about her.

  ---

  I believe in science.

  Except when it comes to Mother Mary.

  I always think of her this time of year, because she passed away 5 years ago, on Palm Sunday.

  Yes, I’m aware that the date of Palm Sunday moves, so that it’s not the actual day she passed, which was April 13.  But it’s so Mother Mary to remember her on the holiday, and I’ll explain why.

  She was only 4’11”, but her personality was ten times her size.

  I love talking about her, which I just did, on book tour.  I’m supposed to talk about my new book, Someone Knows, but I always end up telling funny stories about her, and oddly, they all involve the weather.

  I tell the story about how she was the only person in South Florida who felt an earthquake that had occurred in Tampa, a fact proved by a call she had made to the Miami Herald to report same.  When the TV newsvan went to her house, they called her Earthquake Mary.

  Which she loved.

  I tell a story about how I made her fly north to get out of the path of a hurricane, and when she was interviewed about it at the airport, she said, “I’m not afraid of a hurricane, I am a hurricane.”

  I tell a story about the day of her memorial service, when it rained so hard that my entrance hall flooded, which has never happened before or since. 

  And then this Palm Sunday, she sent me another weather-related sign.

  I was sitting on a plane in St. Louis and heading for Chicago, when we heard that there was a sudden snowstorm blowing into Chicago.

  In the middle of April.

  I know it snows a lot in Chicago, but not that much in April, and this storm was unexpected.  My flight and others were delayed because the Chicago airport was putting a ground hold on all flights, so we sat on the plane and waited.

  And waited.

  It turned out that 4000 flights were canceled that day, and mine was one of them.

  Unfortunately, I missed my book signing in Chicago.

  My apologies.

  And I thought of my mother, which is when I wondered if, in fact, that was what she’d wanted all along. 

  Mother Mary was the youngest of nineteen children, so we can guess she didn’t get much attention.  Even now, I think she’s saying, Look at me.

  Think of me.

  Remember me.

  Of course, I need no reminder, nor do you, to remember those you loved and lost.

  Holidays are bittersweet for those who have lost people on or around them, but there’s a part of me that thinks Mother Mary likes being remembered on Palm Sunday.

  An extraordinary day for an extraordinary woman.

  She loved whenever Francesca and I wrote about her.  You may remember when Philadelphia magazine published its Best of Philadelphia awards and gave Chick Wit an award.  For Worst of Philadelphia.

  Thanks, Philly mag.

  I’m still laughing.

  Last.

  Mother Mary happened to be visiting when I got that award and she was very disappointed.

  Because it didn’t mention her.

  Thanks to all of you who like the stories about her.  Many of you have been to my house for our Big Book Club Party and were as loving to her as if she were your own mother.

  With profanity added. 

  Mother Mary bathed in your affection and talked about you readers all the time.  You gave her a gift that she didn’t even know she needed.

  A spotlight.

  In my opinion, every mother deserves one.

  Mother’s Day may be around the corner, but honestly, I don’t think we give mothers the credit they deserve.

  They were the invisible force of nature behind all of us, and if we were lucky, it was a fair wind, not an ill one.

  I was lucky, and so was my brother Frank. 

  Mother Mary was the most loving of mothers and adored being a grandmother, too.  I love when Francesca writes about her, because though we know how much grandparents adore their grandchildren, it’s not often you get to hear how much a grandchild loves a grandparent. 

  Even more.

  We call Francesca The Grandmother Whisperer, because my mother would do anything if Francesca asked.

  But not if I did. 

  Because Francesca asked, Mother Mary even went to the fireworks on July 4, and you haven’t lived until you’ve sat under an exploding sky with your vaguely combustible mother.         

  When Mother Mary was in hospice at our house, Francesca was at her side, caring for her, talking with her, and doing my mother’s nails, a loving act made more poignant by its circumstances.

  Mother Mary used to joke that when she passed, she wanted a mausoleum.

  At least I think it was a joke.

  She was proud of herself.

  She stood up for herself.

  She tried to get the best for herself and her family.

  She loved people.  She could not walk into an Acme without greeting the produce guys, whom she knew by name. 

  She struck up conversations with every shopper.   

  She played peekaboo with every baby.

  She made life fun.

  If Mother Mary grounded 4000 flights, she had a good laugh over it.

  So did I.

  Happy Easter, Mom.

  We love you.

  Copyright © 2019 Lisa Scottoline