Chick Wit

• 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

• Column Classic: Shades of Gray April 13, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  What’s the difference between accepting yourself and giving up?

  I’m talking of course, about going gray. 

  Because that’s what’s happening. 

  I’ve had glimmers of gray hair before, but it was concentrated on the right and left sides of my head, which gave me a nice Bride-of-Frankenstein look.

  But I’ve been working so hard over the winter that I haven’t bothered to get my hair highlighted, and today I noticed that there’s a lot more gray than there used to be.

  And you know what?

  It doesn’t look terrible.

  Also the world did not come to an end.

  In fact, nothing happened, one way or the other. 

  But before we start talking about going gray, we have to talk about going brown.  I seem to remember that brown is my natural hair color, but I forget.  In any event, sometime in the Jurassic, I started highlighting my hair.  It was long enough ago that highlights didn’t require a second mortgage.

  But no matter, some women are vain enough to pay anything to look good, and she would be me.  I figured my highlights were a cost of doing business.  In fact, I named my company Smart Blonde, so highlights were practically a job requirement, if not a uniform. 

  In fact, maybe highlights are deductible.

  Just kidding, IRS.

  (I know they’ll really laugh at that one.  They have a great sense of humor.)

  Anyway, my hair appointment for new highlights is tomorrow, but I’m really wondering if it’s worth it.  Not because of the money, or even the time, but because I’m starting to accept the fact that my hair is not only secretly brown, it’s secretly gray.

  And so I’m thinking, maybe I should just let it go.  Accept that I’m not only going gray, but I’m going brown, which I used to think was worse.  And that maybe I should just accept myself as I am.

  Or, in other words, give up.

  Now, before I start getting nasty letters, let me just say that I love silvery gray hair on people.  I know women who look terrific with all-over gray hair, but mine isn’t all-over yet.  It’s coming only in patches, which looks like somebody spilled Clorox on my head.

  You know you’re in trouble when your hair matches your laundry.

  Also, my gray hair is growing in stiff and oddly straight, so it looks like it’s raising its hand.

  But that might be my imagination.

  And before you weigh in on this question, let me add the following:

  I’m also deciding whether to start wearing my glasses, instead of contacts.  Yes, if you check out the sparkly-eyed picture of me on the book, you’ll see me in contacts.  Actually, I took them out right after the photo, because they’re annoying.  Fast forward to being middle-aged, where any time you’re wearing your contacts, you have to wear your reading glasses, and so one way or the other, glasses are going to get you.

  And I’m starting to think that’s okay, too.  In other words, I may be accepting myself for the myopic beastie that I am. 

  Which is good.

  Or I may merely be getting so lazy that I cannot be bothered to look my best.

  Which is not so good. 

  Because in addition to gray hair and nearsightedness, I also accept that I don’t have the answers to many things.  For example, I just drove home from NYC and I don’t know the difference between the EZ-Pass lane and the Express EZ-Pass lane.

  Life isn’t always EZ.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Perking Up April 6, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Mommy has a new wish.

  Besides Bradley Cooper.

  We’re talking coffee.

  And I’m on a quest.

  I know, some people climb Everest.

  Others cure cancer.

  But all I want is a delicious cup of coffee that I can make myself, at home.

  Is that so much to ask?

  Evidently.

  Right out front, I have to confess that I love Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

  Sometimes I’ll have Starbucks and other times Wawa, but my coffee soulmate is Dunkin’.

  We’ve been together longer than either of my marriages combined.

  Daughter Francesca likes to tell the story of the time we were watching television and a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial came on, and I whispered, “I love you, Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  Okay, that’s embarrassing enough.

  But then Francesca tweeted that to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Dunkin’ Donuts tweeted back:

  “We love you too, Lisa!”

  OMG!!!!!

  Anyway, you get the idea. 

  So I stop by Dunkin’ Donuts whenever I can and I also pick up a lottery ticket.  When I lose the lottery, at least I’ve had a great cup of coffee, which makes me almost as happy.

  You’re supposed to be able to make Dunkin’ Donuts at home, and I have a Keurig coffeemaker, so I bought the Dunkin’ Donuts K-Cups and did the whole Keurig thing, but it wasn’t the same as the real thing. 

  And unfortunately, I developed almost a superstitious belief that a cup of great coffee is essential to my writing process.  I’m not the first writer to believe that a beverage is essential to great fiction.  Ernest Hemingway had booze, but I have caffeine.  And when my good luck charm is on shaky ground, I fear my books will start to suck, and Mrs. Bradley Cooper can’t have that. 

  So I decided that I would give up on making Dunkin’ Donuts at home and try different types of coffee.  I understand this is called being flexible, but it’s not something that comes easily to me.

  Nor should it. 

  One of the great things about being single is that you never have to compromise anything, and I wasn’t looking forward to compromising my one and only vice. 

  Nevertheless, I decided I should go back to basics, namely percolated coffee.  I admit this was probably nostalgia-driven, because I remember the days when Mother Mary perked coffee on the stovetop, brewing Maxwell House from a can, but I couldn’t find a stovetop percolator and had to settle for a plug-in, and I thought I could beat Maxwell House, so I got myself to the grocery store, where I stood before a dizzying array of types of coffee, coming from everywhere around the globe, including Africa, Arabia, and the Pacific.

  This was coffee with frequent-flier mileage.

  Likewise there were different kinds of roasts – light, dark, French, Italian, and Extra Dark French, which sounded vaguely racist. 

  I went with medium Italian, because that’s basically what I am.

  Then I had to choose the “body” of the coffee, which evidently meant “the weight of the coffee on your tongue.”

  Everywhere you look, body issues.

  Again I chose the light-to-medium bodied, ground it at the store, brought it home, perked it, and it sucked.  I persevered for another week, but I couldn’t do it.  I decided to throw out the baby with the coffee water and went back further to my roots to buy a little Italian Bialetti espresso maker, perked on the stovetop.  But that meant I had to go back to the grocery store and start all over again, since the new coffeemaker required the moka grind, which is not even a word. 

  I brought the coffee home, perked it, and took a sip.

  It sucked, too.

  Or maybe I suck at flexibility.

  So now I don’t know what to do.

  I’m taking any and all suggestions. 

  And I have a novel to finish.

  Tell me how to make a great cup of coffee.

  The future of literature depends upon it.

  Also my job. I’ll split the Powerball with you.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Sniff Test March 30, 2025

  by Francesca Serritella

  Here is a Column Classic by Francesca. You can find Francesca on Facebook @FrancescaSerritellaauthor or on Instagram @fserritella.

  My passion for perfume started long before it became the inspiration for my new novel FULL BLOOM, out August 5th and available for preorder now! Consider this Classic Column “Sniff Test” a certificate of authenticity for my fragrance obsession. Maybe some of you can relate…or I hope it makes you laugh!

  ---

  

  Every woman has one department at the shopping mall that calls to them, nay, sings to them, like a choir of angels, radiating a warm, golden light from the top of the escalator. 

  For me, it’s fragrance.

  I’m hypnotized by those glittering little bottles on glass countertops, each one with a secret inside, winking at me from across the room.

  I’ve always loved perfume, ever since I was a little girl, when the crystal bottles on my mother’s dresser seemed like magical potions. 

  And whenever I smelled them on her, I knew she was going somewhere glamorous, mysterious, and as-yet-off-limits to me.

  Douleur exquise!

  Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

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