Daughter Francesca Archives – Lisa Scottoline

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.

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!

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.

Mayor Barney

March 23, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I have sad news to report, in the passing of our beloved barn cat, Barney.

He was a beautiful chunky tabbycat with bright green eyes, who wandered onto my backyard one day and decided to stay for ten years, until he passed away.

He died suddenly of kidney failure, and all of us are in heart failure.

I say us because I live on a horse farm, and I don’t run it myself. I have a wonderful assistant, Nan, and a wonderful barn manager, Katie, and all of us loved Barney. Daughter Francesca loved him, too, giving him extra hugs whenever she came home, and my friend Laura adored him and so did my friend Franca, who brought over her grandkids and even they loved him.

I love cats, and amazingly, I still have Vivi, my house cat who is now eighteen years old and going strong, thank God.

The loss of any cat, or any pet, is heartbreaking.

But Barney’s passing made me realize that there’s something unique about a barn cat.

I don’t know how much time you spend in barns or around horses, but the way it sometimes goes is that there’s a random cat that sticks around to catch mice, or maybe he doesn’t stick around but drops in from time to time. And sometimes he’s given a name and sometimes he isn’t. He’s a cat with a job, which is to catch mice, and more often than not, he’s nobody’s cat.

But Barney was everybody’s cat.

That sentiment was expressed by Katie’s husband Sean, and he was exactly right.

Barney got his name because he lived in the barn, but he had a personality as big as any barn. He was unbelievably affectionate, purring on contact, greeting everybody who came over, then following all of us around, including any plumber, electrician, or carpenter.

We had to tell contractors to close the windows and doors on their trucks because Barney would inevitably find his way in, pilfer their lunch or make himself comfy.

He wasn’t a cat, he was a mayor.

We lived and worked in his city.

The only rules he followed were his own.

He hung with the horses and drank from their buckets.

He curled up on their backs and they didn’t even mind.

He caught mice and arranged them like a serial killer.

He left pawprints on all our cars.

He had 243 nicknames and came to all of them.

He was a total character and of course he was a rescue who rescued us.

It was Nan who spotted him first in the yard, and she went to him immediately, noticing that he had infected abscesses around his neck. He wore no tag or identification, but she took him to the vet that day, and we got him antibiotics and plenty of canned food.

He healed in two weeks and never left.

He was always free to roam but never did.

We heated the tack room so he’d be warm year ‘round, and made him a cat door, so in no time it was his palace. He had all the wet food he wanted, plenty of treats, and lots and lots of love.

He faced down any neighboring cats who trespassed on his property.

All of the dogs here were afraid of him, even though they’re bigger.

He protected the farm, us, and democracy in general.

Because he was so much a part of all of our lives, we all feel a hole in our hearts at his loss.

We can still see him walk across the pasture.

We can still hear him purr in our ear.

We can feel him making biscuits on our laps.

We know his meow, strong and insistent, or chirpy and cheery.

Barney was much more than a barn cat.

He was an everywhere everything everybody’s cat.

And we all loved him very very much.

Rest in peace, Barnstable.

Heavy Petting

February 2, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I was in New York and something great happened!

Let me explain.

I was there last weekend visiting Daughter Francesca, and we did a million things, including go to the Javitz Center to Meet the Breeds, a dog show where you can see dogs of all varieties, and pet them and kiss them.

Of course, we have dogs at home that we can pet and kiss.

So God knows why we paid thirty bucks to pet and kiss other peoples’ dogs, but there you have it.

We love dogs.

It was a great time, then afterwards Francesca had somewhere else to go and I went back to the apartment to watch the Eagles in the NFC playoffs, which I did with Flat Bradley, a cardboard cutout of Bradley Cooper.

It’s way more fun than it sounds.

And we won!

I mean the Eagles.

I also won, because Flat Bradley is the perfect man for me.

He doesn’t expect dinner and he doesn’t want my money.

And the sex is great.

You can follow along on my social media, where I post all the pix.

Except for the ones that are NSFW.

Back to the story.

The whole weekend, I was taking cabs and whipping out my credit card left and right. The day I packed to leave, I was missing my American Express card.

I had no idea where I lost it.

Before I go further, let me tell you that the last time I lost a credit card, I was also visiting Francesca in New York City. It was my Visa card and it dropped out of my pocket as I walked along the Hudson River. I cancelled the card, but later that day, a woman emailed me through my website to say she’d found it!

I love New York!

After that I vowed to never carry a credit card in my pocket.

Now I carry my credit card in my wallet.

But I manage to lose it anyway.

I know.

I’m amazing, right?

I’m Queen of Unforced Errors.

The proof is that I got married a second time.

Anyway to return to the story, I was walking to get a coffee before I called the credit card company, and I walked in the door of the coffee shop, it struck me that I had been here two days ago.

So I took a chance and asked the barista, “By any chance, did I leave an American Express card here?”

And the barista asked, “What’s your name?”

I did not answer Mrs. Bradley Cooper, even though I have the mug that says so.

I answered, and he said, “Yes, you left your card!”

And he handed it to me!

What?

Amazingly, I’ve lost a credit card in New York on two occasions and both times, New York gave me the card back!

What a city!

And that morning I walked to the car, carrying my coffee and Flat Bradley.

You think New York has seen everything?

It’s hasn’t.

On the sidewalk, every head turned.

Drivers in cars pointed and laughed.

Yes, I had a walk of shame with a cardboard celebrity.

And we’ll be watching the Super Bowl together, me and my corrugated man.

Go Birds!

Holiday Big

January 3, 2025December 22, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Well, it’s that time of year again.

I mean, it’s time to meet with my accountant.

I do this every year around Christmas.

Usually, after Christmas shopping.

It would make sense to talk to the accountant before Christmas shopping, but that would be no fun.

You don’t want to have a conversation with your accountant before the holidays.

It’s like having a conversation with your dietitian.

Not that I have one, but like many women, I am one.

My four basic food groups are pasta.

Is that okay?

But nobody likes holiday presents more than I do.

I get more excited than most five-year olds.

I think a gift is a way to show people you love them and you’re grateful to them, every day of the year.

It doesn’t have to cost a lot of money.

So my accountant reminds me.

He meets with me to tell me when I can retire, given my current rate of spending.

I tell him I’m not interested in retiring, I’m interested in spending.

He says he just wants me to make an informed decision.

Where was he before I got married?

The second time.

Okay, the first, too.

The bottom line is, I’m trying to make better mistakes.

In any event, I don’t feel like retiring anytime soon. In fact, today I announced the new book coming out this summer, my first psychological thriller. I’ve never written one before, but between politics and the news, I’ve never felt so psychological.

Its entitled The Unraveling of Julia because I’m feeling vaguely unraveled.

I changed the name so you wouldn’t know it was me.

That’s the fiction part.

I love telling stories for a living. It’s totally fun and even though it’s hard work, you get to do it in your teddybear clothes, as Daughter Francesca calls them.

I write as an excuse to dress like a teddybear.

And I know retirement is a great thing and most of my friends are retired and doing a lot of fun things. They hike, bike, ski, volunteer, take classes, and play pickle ball.

I might be the only person my age who doesn’t play pickleball.

That said, I’m also a person who just got a puppy.

At my age, that took some calculating. I hope I’ll be around for the length of this dog’s life.

That means I have to live a long time.

Or the puppy dies PDQ.

You know you’re old if after you get a puppy, you have to revise your will.

But I want this puppy provided for. She’s accustomed to toys and treats.

Every girl should be.

So my puppy’s also my beneficiary.

I know it sounds silly, but it isn’t. I was a good friend of my late neighbor Harry, who passed away, leaving his very old cat Spunky. There were no provisions in his will for Spunky, so I took the cat in and he tottered around my second floor, safe from my rambunctious dogs, and basically Spunky lived the life of Riley.

I thought he had a month left to live.

Five years later, he was playing pickleball.

Anyway, I think the holidays are for life, and love.

Not accountants or dietitians or estates lawyers.

I say, Love big, and live big.

And thanks big, to all of you.

Column Classic: Giving Thanks

January 3, 2025December 1, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

Happy Thanksgiving! Rerunning this column with love and gratitude for all the family and friends at our Thanksgiving tables, and in memory of those who also have empty chairs.

Information is like turkey and stuffing.

It’s hard to tell when you’ve had enough.

And the more you get, the more you want.

At least that’s how I feel. I’m bad at portion control, whether it’s Thanksgiving dinner or information.

Obviously, I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too much information. If you read this column, you know about my bunions, fleas, cellulite, and Mother Mary.

One of these is to be avoided at all costs.

Not the one you think.

I love information. I always want more. When I look back at my life, I regret the things I wouldn’t have done if I’d had more information. I’m talking Thing One, Thing Two, and Amway products.

But it turns out you can get more information than ever before, and I am giving thanks.

Because I heard about this kit you can buy, test yourself, and find out your DNA.

I went to the website to learn about it, astounded. You order the kit, test your saliva, and send it back to the company.

Yes, you mail them your spit.

I’m wondering if I can mail them my cellulite, too.

Plus a few fleas.

Anyway, I am excited about this, and I ordered one for Daughter Francesca and one for me.

Merry Christmas, Francesca!

I don’t know if Francesca wants a DNA kit for Christmas. If she doesn’t, I’ll take the test twice. Maybe my score will improve, like the SATs.

I didn’t get a DNA kit for Mother Mary. I can find out what’s in her DNA by looking in the mirror.

Also, can you imagine asking Mother Mary for a saliva sample?

“Here!” she’d say, and spit in my face.

So why do I want to do this? The test can let you know tons of things about yourself. For example, if you’re a carrier of 53 different diseases, including Maple Syrup Urine Disease.

I bet you didn’t even know that existed.

Neither did I.

Maybe Mrs. Butterworth had it.

I’m not sure what Maple Syrup Urine Disease is, but I’m guessing it’s a disease that makes your urine look like maple syrup.

In that case, my medical advice would be simple.

Don’t pee on your pancakes.

It may look right, but it won’t taste right.

The test also lets you know if you’re at risk for 122 diseases, including back pain.

Okay, maybe I already know that one.

And the test can determine 60 of my genetic traits, but I already know a lot of those, too. For example:

Eye Color: Bloodshot Blue.

Hair Color: Fake.

Height: Stumpy.

Breast Morphology: Presently Morphing Due to Gravity and Unfairness of Life in General.

Memory: Huh?

Earwax Type: Johnson’s.

Eating Behavior: Rapid and Unattractive.

Food Preference: Yes.

Caffeine Consumption: Dunkin Donuts.

Odor Detection: How dare you.

Pain response. Ouchy.

Muscle Performance: Slack and Wasting.

Response to exercise: Procrastination.

Response to Diet: Not Applicable.

The test can even tell you whether you’re a carrier or at risk of a disease based on whether you originate from Europe, East Asia, or sub-Saharan Africa. Sadly, there are no separate categories for those of us who originate in South Philly.

Yo!

Interestingly, the kit can also tell you about your own ancestry. Both my mother and father were Italian-American, so I always assumed I was a purebred.

But maybe not.

And if I’m not Italian, somebody has to explain my nose.

The test can even determine what percent of my DNA comes from Neanderthals, which the website calls a Neanderthal Percentage,

I thought we all came from Neanderthals, but maybe not. Maybe there are other kinds of Thals.

The website says that Neanderthals have a bigger skull, which sounds exactly like me. Mother Mary always said I have a hard head, and now I have an excuse.

It’s in my DNA.

In fact, it’s her fault.

But will you be the one to tell her?

Column Classic: Can’t Start A Fire Without A…

January 3, 2025November 3, 2024

By Lisa Scottoline

You may have heard that I’m single, and I like being single, because after two marriages and two divorces, I’m finally the boss of me.

What a great boss I am!

And what a great employee!

In both capacities, I’m easy and fun to work with. I never dock my pay and I always do my best. I give myself great performance reviews, and now I’m thinking about eliminating performance reviews altogether. Who’s to stop me?

Nobody!

Yay!

And going along my merry single way, I’ve learned to do many of the tasks that Thing One and Thing Two used to do.

There weren’t that many.

And to tell the truth, there was something that both Thing One and Thing Two could do very well.

Make a fire.

Whether it was in the fireplace or the grill, they were good at fire.

I’m not.

I try not to think that this is gender-related, but men have made fire since caveman days, while women stayed inside, swept the cave, and plotted divorce.

Anyway, since I’ve gotten single, I’ve cleaned gutters, taken out trash, painted walls and windowsills, and even hammered something.

I pretty sure I did that, once.

Or, again, to tell the truth, I’ve hired somebody to do all of the above. So I have all the same things I had before, except the fire part, which I have done without, to date.

But now, ages later, I’m missing fire.

Not the barbeque. I’m single enough without smelling like lighter fluid.

But I do miss a fire in the fireplace. I liked having a homey family hearth, even though I’m a family of one.

I count!

That’s the trick to single living. Don’t do less for yourself just because you’re the only one around. Don’t discount yourself. It’s no way to live, with the idea that your wishes don’t matter.

And this is true, whether you’re married or not.

I think it happens a lot around the holidays. We go on discount, selling ourselves cheap, like a January white sale. It might happen because we do Norman Rockwell math, namely that ten people around the table = family.

But family can be you, alone.

After all, this is a country founded on the notion that one person matters. Think of one man, one vote. If you matter on Election Day, you matter the rest of the year. So make yourself a nice lasagna and pour yourself a glass of Chianti.

You get the leftovers, too.

Back to the story. I was missing a fire in the fireplace, but I’d never done it myself and I found it mystifying. Again, the caveman thing. Ooga booga. Fire is magic!

But I decided to give it a whirl. I remembered something about kindling, so I went outside and picked up sticks, then I remembered something about rolled up newspapers, so I did that, too. Next, I found some old logs and stacked them up in some sensible manner. And thanks to Bruce Springsteen, I knew I needed a spark.

Then I lit the mess.

Well.

You know the expression, where there’s smoke, there’s fire?

It’s not true.

I had smoke, but no fire. And furthermore, I had a family room full of thick gray clouds, smoke alarms blaring, dogs barking, cats scooting, then phones ringing, and burglar alarm people calling, which ended in me giving them my password.

Which is HELP!

I called Daughter Francesca and told her what happened, and she said: “I’ll be home next week. I’ll teach you how to make a fire. It can be done, and by a girl.”

And one week later, she came home, piled the kindling, rolled the newspaper, stacked the logs, and made a perfect fire. The cats, dogs, and I stood in an awed and happy circle.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“You gotta warm the chimney first. Hold the roll of newspaper up, like this.” Francesca hoisted a flaming torch of newspaper, like the Statue of Liberty. “See? You can do this.”

“Sure I can,” I said, inspired.

I count!

I vote!

I’m American!

So I can be the Statue of Liberty.

She’s a girl, too.

Column Classic: Purse Quest

January 3, 2025October 13, 2024

Let’s talk about a decision that women have to make every morning:

Big purse or little purse?

I know it’s not life or death, but it makes you nuts if you choose the wrong one as consistently as I do.

If you carry a big purse for the day, it’s guaranteed that you’ll end up never needing anything you’re lugging around like a pack animal. And if you carry a little purse for the day, you’ll invariably end up tucking things under your armpit or asking your husband to carry them.

It’s Purse Lotto, and there are winners and losers, every day.

I lose, almost always. I keep track, and if I choose the right purse four days out of seven, I’m Purse Diva. Most weeks, I choose correctly only one day.

Purse Geek.

Now I can already hear you menfolk, thinking that the problem can be solved by a medium-size purse. That seems sensible, but it doesn’t work.

Not your fault, gentlemen. How would you know? Unless you carry a man purse, in which case, play along.

In reality, a medium purse is the worst of both worlds. It’s not big enough to carry everything you need, and it’s not small enough to let you feel footloose and fancy free. And besides, medium defeats the purpose of adding fun to your life by gambling with handbags.

So I say, live dangerously. Choose big or little. Pick your poison. See if, by the end of the day, you’re a Purse Hero or a Purse Loser.

Use me as your inspiration. You couldn’t do worse.

Just the other day, I chose a big purse and ended up walking all over NYC with daughter Francesca, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulder. I didn’t need the hardback book, full makeup case, or water bottle.

Turns out they have water in New York, too.

So the next day, I carried a cute little purse, but wrong again. I couldn’t zip it up after I bought a pack of gum, so I walked everywhere worried that my keys would fall out or I’d get pick-pocketed. And Francesca had to carry our umbrella, newspaper, and everything else in her nice big purse.

It goes without saying that the day you choose the wrong purse, your daughter will choose the right one. Last week, Francesca was six for seven.

Purse Diva.

It was the same week I got so frustrated that I opted out of Purse Lotto altogether. Francesca and I went to a movie, and I carried only my wallet.

Whoa. I threw caution to the summer wind. I went free and easy, like July itself.

Francesca looked over. “Why no purse?”

“Traveling light.”

“You should carry a purse, Mom.”

“Don’t need one.”

We settled into our seats at the movie, and Francesca gestured at my wallet. “Where are you gonna put that?”

I blinked. The seat to the right of me was taken, and my cupholder held a Diet Coke and Raisinets. I couldn’t admit defeat and ask her to put my wallet in her big purse, so I set the wallet under my chair, on the sticky floor. Yuck.

“See?” I said, hiding my distaste. “No problem.”

It worked out perfectly until we left the theater, got several blocks away, and I remembered that my wallet was still on the floor. We hurried back, and it was still there, probably because even felons couldn’t unstick it. Then we went out to dinner.

“Now where are you gonna put the wallet?” Francesca asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Right here.” I set it down on the empty chair next to me, no problem. I didn’t forget it either. But when we had gotten a few blocks from the restaurant, I realized that I’d been so worried about my wallet, I’d left my credit card on the table. We hurried back, for the second time that day.

So now I lose at Wallet Lotto, too.

“I shoulda brought a purse,” I said, going home, after all was recovered.

“Next time.” Francesca patted me on the back. “Don’t feel bad.”

“Which purse should I have brought, oh sage one?”

“The small.”

Purse Genius.

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