francesca Archives – Lisa Scottoline

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.

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.

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