Chick Wit

• Report Card October 26, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I used to get good grades.

  Until now.

  Because I just got a notice from my electric company, which, in the Philadelphia area, is PECO.

  I’m pretty sure PECO stands for Pricey Electric Company.

  I say this because PECO just sent me a notice that says, How You Compare to Your Neighbors.

  First off, stop there.

  I try not to compare myself to my neighbors.

  Keeping up with the Joneses is never a good idea.

  Somebody smart once said, Comparison is the thief of joy.

  So I try not to notice when my neighbors throw big parties that I’m not invited to, or their front lawns look greener, or their husbands are very handsome and also they have one.

  But here comes PECO, giving me bad news.

  I’m doing terrible compared with my neighbors.

  Specifically, with regard to electrical use.

  Let me explain.

  According to PECO, I have so-called “efficient neighbors” are using 276 kWh.

  Let’s pretend we know what kWh is.

  Kilowatt Hours?

  Pulled that right out of my ass.

  Didn’t even have to Google it.

  Because that would use electricity.

  Pretty good for somebody who sucks, according to their Efficient Neighbors.

  And it turns out that my “average neighbors” are using 574 kWh.

  Okay, so far, so good. I’m anything but average.

  I’m adorable.

  But according to PECO, I am using the most of all, 1034 kWh.

  Wait, what, how?

  In other words, as the notice told me, Your Energy Use Was Higher Than Average Neighbors by 80%.

  Ruh-roh.

  I have no idea how this happened.

  I’m one woman and I live in a household by myself.

  I turn off the lights when I leave the room.

  I don’t turn the heat on unless I absolutely need it.

  I don’t turn on air conditioning unless somebody makes me.

  Usually I have the TV on and a single computer.

  Before I go to the movies on a Saturday night, I blow-dry my hair.

  I even unplug the blow dryer when I’m done because I know that uses something called phantom electricity.

  Bottom line, I live like a nun.

  But somehow, I am still using 80% more electricity than my high-achieving neighbors.

  Where did I go wrong?

  What are they doing that I’m not?

  Is it because they have husbands?

  None of this makes sense to me, but the notice even went on to grade Your Electricity Use at a Glance. The grades were:

  Great, Good, or Fair.

  Guess what, I got a fair.

  Even though I studied!

  To me, a Fair is a C.

  And the last C I got was in trigonometry.

  But I think they graded on a curve.

  Because if you’re doing 80% worse than everybody else, that’s not a C.

  It’s an F -.

  So I’m flunking electricity.

  I hope it doesn’t go on my Permanent Record Card.

  I won’t even get into my safety school.

  Except at my age, my safety school is a retirement home.

  But I’ve been an A student my whole life.

  I even got an A in divorce.

  I’m the best divorcer ever.

  Twice even.

  It takes practice.

  The PECO notice ended with, What could have caused your energy use to increase?

  You’re reading my mind, girl.

  It suggested “heavy appliance use.”

  Come on.

  I use my dishwasher once a day.

  And my washer once a week.

  Okay, once every two weeks.

  Okay, once every three weeks.

  But maybe what’s happening is that PECO is charging too much for electricity and they’re trying to make it seem like my fault.

  I’m susceptible to this argument.

  I carry around a lot of guilt.

  This would be the Catholic part.

  Original sin is my origin story.

  Or maybe PECO is gaslighting me.

  Unless that’s up to the gas company.

  Now that’s a report I don’t want to see.

  I bet I have more gas than my neighbors, too.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• Keeping it Real October 19, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I need to get a Real ID.

  And it’s giving me an identity crisis.

  Let me explain.

  I don’t know who made this decision or why, but we can no longer use a driver’s license to fly or do God-knows-what-else.

  By the way, I just looked it up and God-knows-what else includes entering a nuclear power plant.

  So keep that in mind, the next time you stop by your local nuclear power plant.

  Bring your real ID and your last will and testament.

  Leave your ovaries at home.

  To return to point, you can still use a passport to fly, but that worries me because I had my passport pickpocketed in Sicily and it was a pain in the neck to replace.

  On second thought, it wasn’t that bad to replace. I had to make a side trip to Naples and rewarded myself with the best pizza in the world.

  You know the old saying: Just a spoonful of carbohydrates makes the medicine go down.

  For what it’s worth, I understand why it’s not a great idea to link identity to a driver’s license, because not everybody drives or can afford a car.

  But I don’t know why we can’t have an either/or system, so you can fly with a driver’s license or Real ID.

  But lately we’re not a country that deals with nuance.

  We’re all-or-nothing now.

  And lately it looks we’re in a lot of All.

  But I digress.

  So I looked up to see what I need to get a Real ID, and one thing was my Social Security card.

  Ruh-roh.

  I have no idea where that is.

  I seem to remember it was a little piece of white paper even smaller than a credit card, which was its first problem. If it were plastic like a credit card, I would have kept it. I still have credit cards from stores that went bankrupt decades ago.

  If Wanamakers comes back to life, I’m ready.

  That was a joke for Philly people.

  Everyone else will have to insert their own defunct-but-beloved department store.

  By the way, department stores were something that existed before Amazon.

  Try to play along, young people.

  Humor us olds.

  The rules for Real ID say that you can use your tax form for your social security number but my tax form has my number redacted, evidently to protect my identity.

  Great idea, every week I get a notice that my online identity has been compromised by one website or another.

  Hackers have my Social Security card, but I don’t.

  The notices I get all ask me if I want to reset my passwords.

  Answer, no.

  I’m taking my chances.

  There are few things worse than resetting all your passwords.

  Maybe wearing a bra.

  Which resets your breasts.

  But I would rather wear a bra 24/7 than reset my passwords.

  But I did luck out in my document search because by some incredible miracle, I found my original birth certificate.

  Wow!

  I have no idea why I saved it because it’s a piece of paper and not a credit card. But it is supercute, and actually filled out in something called a fountain pen.

  Pens are something that existed before keyboards.

  I know, this is the old-timiest column ever.

  Because I was born seventy years ago, and my birth certificate is a seventy-year-old document.

  Which makes it the oldest document in my house.

  It’s on yellowed paper and measures 5 by 7, which may be why it survived in the bottom drawer of my jewelry box, with Daughter Francesca’s baby teeth.

   Please tell me I’m not the only mother who keeps baby teeth.

  Or has a jewelry box of biohazards.

  Look, if I’m not throwing away a Wanamaker’s card, you know I’m hanging on to those teeth.

  Plus the Tooth Fairy bought them, fair and square.

  I think Francesca got a buck a tooth.

  More for buck teeth.

  Sorry.

  I keep them wrapped in ancient Kleenex with a rubber band, like a do-it-yourself mummy.

  Or Mommy.

  And I have to tell you, when I found my daughter’s baby teeth, it reminded me of who I am.

  Francesca’s mother.

  That’s my Real ID.

  By the way, I also save two dog teeth and several cat toenails.

  So pet mothers count as mommies, too.

  That’s called nuance.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline

• Mileage October 12, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  Well, the weather has turned cold, and I’m back to my old habits.

  I’m sleeping in my clothes.

  I don’t regard this as a bad habit.

  I actually think it’s a good habit.

  Hear me out.

  It’s fall now so that means I’m in a long sleeve T-shirt, a sweater, and sweatpants.

  Francesca calls them my teddybear clothes.

  You cannot imagine how happy I am to be a teddybear.

  I walk around feeling huggable.

  And even hugged.

  Who knew clothes could do such good?

  At night I’m nice and warm in bed, and the next morning when I wake up, I’m ready for the day.

  Obviously, no bras are involved.

  I’m not braless, I’m bra-free.

  If I have to go out for some reason, whether to walk the dogs or ride a pony, I put on a bra then take it off as soon as I get in.

  As we all know, home is where you hang your bra.

  You’re probably wondering how often I change my clothes/pajamas.

  When I feel shame.

  Shame is key to my life.

  Or when I take a shower, which is also shame-based.

  Mainly three days.

  This was a good system until last weekend, because I went to Boston for work and also saw my old friend Sandy, whom I’ve known since tenth grade.

  That makes it a 55-year friendship.

  Do you have any friends for 55 years?

  If you do, you’re very lucky.

  Sandy and I don’t see each other as much as we did in French II. She lives in Vermont and I live in Pennsylvania, so we stay in light touch through text and zooms, but when we see each other, we finish each other sentences.

  Except Sandy is a psychiatrist so she’s a better listener than I am.

  So, you know who gets to finish her sentences.

  When I first saw Sandy, she looked terrific in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans with a leopard print, and matching sneakers.

  When I told her how cute she looked, she told me something remarkable: “I made this whole outfit, even the sneakers.”

  Now, I don’t know what to tell you.

  Sandy and I are a lot alike, but 55 years has changed us.

  She makes sneakers, and I can’t be bothered to make dinner.

  I don’t know how this happened.

  It struck me that having a girlfriend is something of a miracle, especially when you’ve had one for a long time.

  Even if you don’t see them or talk to them, very often, they are a constant throughline in your life. And if you have lived long enough, you know that there are precious few throughlines in life.

  I myself have had two divorces, several different cars, and even more dogs. I’ve changed careers. As an author, I’ve even written different types of novels. My weight has gone up and down. My hair has gone from mousy brown to fictional blonde.

  That is the only thing that will never change on me.

  My fake hair color.

  But a girlfriend like Sandy is a constant, like an operating system on a computer. Like any good support system, she makes things run, but invisibly so. I just know she’s there for me, and I will always be there for her.

  We sat down over lunch and talked about our parents, because I knew her wonderful mother and father the way she knew Mother Mary and my father. We talked about our siblings, our children, and our dogs because she is as big a dog lover as I am.

  And we walked all over Boston, where I did plenty of shopping and she did none, and she taught me what upcycling is, which means making old clothes into new clothes instead of throwing them away.

  I thought that we were upcycling ourselves.

  Sandy is my own personal history on two homemade sneakers, and I am hers, in Hokas.

  And when I spend time with her, I feel it fulfilling my soul, in a way that being with someone who knows you completely and loved you even when you had braces, glasses, and hair that was still its natural color.

  Because that stuff is just superficial, like the clothes we put on and take off.

  And we shared a hotel room, in which she slept in actual pajamas while I slept in the same outfit that I had worn that day.

  She didn’t say anything.

  There’s no judgment in an old friend.

  There’s no shame with an old friend.

  There’s only love.

  And the miles you put on the relationship, no matter what shoes you wear.

  Or make.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• What’s A Girl To Do? October 5, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I’m powerless.

  Literally.

  Not because I’m living in a country roiled by crazy politics, climate change, or agita in general.

  I mean I got no electricity.

  And I can’t get no satisfaction.

  Tell you why.

  I lose power all the time in my house, maybe twenty times a year.

  No joke.

  I also get power surges, which is like the evil twin of a power outage.

  Listen, I’m no physicist.

  I don’t know enough about electricity to tell you what either of these things are.

  All I can tell you is that they’re engaged in a conspiracy against me.

  I’ve had power outages and surges that fried my dishwasher, a dryer, and several computers.

  My power goes out or surges during any thunderstorm, snowstorm, and even on a sunny day that happens to be windy.

  Give me a break.

  Snow and thunder are good excuses, but wind?

  Sack up, power grid.

  When did you get so delicate?

  They tell me wind is a problem because trees get knocked down, and that causes a power outage. But I look outside and none of my trees are knocked down. I drive around the neighborhood and no other trees are knocked down. It’s a beautiful sunny day with a slight breeze, like a blow dryer on cool.

  But somewhere, someplace, a downed tree is frying my appliances.

  It’s like a butterfly effect for housewares.

  Okay, I’m not stupid, so I tried to protect myself.

  I bought a generator.

  And last month, I got a power surge that fried the generator.

  I was actually sitting in the kitchen when all the lights flickered, then went black, and in the next moment I heard a large popping noise, which was my checkbook.

  Just kidding, it was my generator.

  I talked to the electrician, and he told me that I should install a power surge protection system in the house, which would prevent this sort of thing.

  So I reached for my checkbook, and they installed the power surge protection system.

  And last week I got another power surge which fried the power surge protection system.

  I’m not even kidding.

  And it also fried my burglar alarm system, which is another thing I put in to protect myself.

  I await the estimate. I’m going to tell them to put it on my tab.

  The alarm company suggested that I put in a claim for all of these damages on my homeowners’ insurance.

   And I do have homeowners insurance, to protect myself.

  But we all know that if I put in a claim, my rates will go up, because that’s the way insurance works.

  So bottom line, how do I protect myself when all of my self-protection fails?

  At this point I have installed four backup systems, none of which are backing up.

  Do you know what is backing up?

  My agita, in general.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025

• Get In, Losers September 28, 2025

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I’m not in menopause.

  I’m in adolescence.

  I realized this the other day, when it occurred to me that I was turning into a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Because of videogames.

  By way of background, I never played a videogame in my life.

  I’m more of a book person.

  Also a dog person.

  And a carbohydrates person.

  But I got interested in F1 racing from a Netflix show entitled Drive to Survive.

  Even though my idea of driving to survive is going to the cardiologist.

  Nevertheless I got completely sucked into the show, which follows the stories of superhot men driving fast cars.

  Evidently I’m not dead below the waist.

  Who knew?

  Anyway this led to me actually buying a sports car, which is a thing of beauty, even though I never go above the speed limit.

  I don’t drive fast, I drive beautiful.

  Then I started imagining myself behind the wheel of a real F1 race car.

  No, I didn’t buy one.

  But it turns out that there’s an F1 videogame and I thought that would be really fun, so when my bestie Laura asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I told her:

  A superhot F1 driver.

  Just kidding.

  I told her, an F1 videogame.

  I knew she would know the game because her husband and sons are also F1 fans. I was imagining some kind of game that I played on my computer and used my headphones for. It didn’t occur to me that I would need a joystick or anything else.

  In other words, I didn’t think it through.

  Which is so like teenage me.

  And what happened next was that Laura and her amazing sons came through with flying colors, and gave me not only a videogame but some kind of F1 race simulator, which comes with a real car seat, an actual steering wheel, cushy headphones, and a wraparound screen.

  It even has seatbelts.

  I might need to increase my collision insurance.

  Her family came over and built the whole damn thing, which was incredibly nice of them.

  Yes, I feel totally guilty.

  But also totally excited.

  It’s like a racecar that goes nowhere.

  Except in my imagination.

  We put it in my office next to my computer, which is also a machine that doesn’t work without imagination.

  So maybe a race simulator is perfect for an author?

  Who cares, I love it!

  I just got off deadline for my next book, and I can’t wait to get in the driver’s seat, learn how to play, and waste tons of time.

  I’m about to become a videogamer.

  Sorry, I mean gamer.

  That’s what we call us, for short.

  I feel pretty sure that I won’t be the only fossil gamer.

  I wonder how many of us there are.

  I’m about to find out.

  I logged on to pick a gamer name, which took me way too long.

  I rejected Superhot1.

  Also ReadingIsFundamental.

  And AgeIsJustANumber.

  I eventually settled on a name that matches my vanity license plate, which I can’t tell you because it’s too embarrassing.

  But if you log on to the F1 game, you’ll know it’s me because I’ll be the one going 35 miles an hour on the straightaway.

  I intend to be a virtual traffic hazard.

  You might call this a midlife crisis.

  Or, more accurately, an end-of-life crisis.

  But I call it a let’s-live-life crisis.

  And I’m buckling up.

  Copyright © 2025 Lisa Scottoline