francesca Archives – Lisa Scottoline

By Lisa Scottoline

For Christmas, I got broken pipes.

Again.

Let me explain.

Just before the holidays, I went down to the basement.

First mistake, right?

Going down to the basement is asking for trouble.

There was water all over the basement floor. It didn’t take a plumber to figure out that one of the overhead pipes was leaking.

Correction. Actually, it did. It took four different workmen to figure out what was leaking, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I called my plumbing and heating company, and they sent over a plumber, who said I needed a heating guy instead, and next a heating guy came over and said I needed a plumbing guy instead, and then a third guy came over who could do both and told me it would take four thousand dollars to fix my problem, which was a combination of plumbing and heating problems.

That’s all I understood, as I stopped listening after the four-thousand-dollar part.

But it had to be fixed, so I said yes, and they put me “on the schedule.”

This was two days before Christmas. I stayed home and waited for the plumber/heater guy to come, though I had three zillion things to do, among them buying last-minute gifts and turkey for Christmas dinner. When no one showed up, I called the company, and they said I wasn’t “on the schedule,” after all.

Oops.

No problem, any other week but Christmas. I had no gifts and no turkey. Time was running out. The company said they’d send somebody as soon as possible, which was Christmas Eve day. This was a problem, because it was the last shopping day until you-know-what, and all I had for the holiday dinner was cereal. Also, the tree had to be decorated, so never let it be said that I leave some things until the last minute.

Because I leave everything until the last minute.

Also, if you recall, my last Christmas Eve was spent with plumbers and heating guys. If it’s a federal holiday, I’m spending it with plumbing and heating guys.

So, I said to the company, no thanks, don’t send the plumbers on Christmas Eve. Send the plumbers on Monday, after the weekend.

What could go wrong?

You’ll see.

Francesca and I enjoyed Christmas Eve day, picked up our turkey and fixings, and stopped by the mall, where we were interviewed by a TV reporter as one of those crazy last-minute shoppers. I blamed it on Francesca. On camera. That’s the kind of mother I am.

So we came home all happy, but as we were decorating the tree, we noticed it was getting cooler in the house. And long story short, on Christmas morning, we opened our presents in fifty-five degree weather.

Inside.

Whatever had gone wrong in the basement had knocked out our heat, but no worries, we were warmed by tidings of comfort and joy.

Until the house temperature dipped to fifty-two.

Hmm.

We had put shopping ahead of heating, and now we’re going to pay for it.

Still, no worries. We remained calm. We would tough it out for the weekend, then the plumber/heater guy would come on Monday.

But a snowstorm came instead.

And the plumber/ heating guy couldn’t.

So, you know where this is going.

We have no heat, for five days now. Francesca keeps a fire burning in the fireplace in the family room, and I keep the hot chocolate coming. We sleep on couches, huddled with the dogs, in the flickering light of the fire.

So, I asked her if we should have done the prudent thing and let the plumber come, instead of having Christmas Eve.

“Nah,” she answered, with a smile.

Good girl.

by Lisa Scottoline

Some call this time of year autumn.

I call it spider-and-mouse season.

It’s a time of basic vermin and moral complexity.

Let me explain.

It’s turning cold in my neck of the woods, and I’m lucky enough to have a nice warm house.

Spiders know this.

They have my number.

And my address.

This time of year, if I open the front door, spiders are waiting in my entrance hall, idling like Formula One racecars. As soon as I appear, they hit the gas, gunning for me.

Actually, gunning for my house but I’m in the way.

I can deal with most insect life, even spiders, in the summer. I scoop them up with a plastic glass and trusty postcard, then put them outside.

But these are not summertime spiders.

These are autumn spiders, as big as Ferraris.

They go from 0 to 60 in a second, and the finish line is my threshold.

But I can’t bring myself to kill them.

That’s the moral complexity part.

I respect their individual creatureness, and most of them are smarter than I am.

I mean, I can’t spin a web.

Can you?

Nor do I have the patience to sit outside somebody’s door all night and wait for them to open it.

This would be the exact feeling of my marriage to Thing Two.

God bless divorce.

To return to point, even though I can’t kill the spiders, I don’t want them inside.

Because they’re scary.

So as soon as they start running for me, I chase them around with my glass and postcard, trying to trap them and take them outside.

If two race in, I can get one.

If four race in, I can get two.

So, you see this isn’t working.

I spend the rest of the morning trying to find the ones who got in, amazed at how they flatten themselves to get under the baseboard or how fast they scoot to reach the floor vent.

I actually admire the ones who get away.

I decide they deserve to live in my nice warm house with me.

Just so they stay out of bed.

I have the same problem with mice. The other night I walked into my entrance hall and there was one little mouse curled up in a corner.

Daughter Francesca happened to be home, so I called her.

Okay, I’ll be real. I screamed to her.

Then the mouse started running around and Francesca tried to catch it with a box lid, then somehow, I slipped on the kitchen floor and started laughing so hard that the mouse got away.

Basically, a cartoon.

We searched but couldn’t find the mouse.

Meanwhile, our cats Mimi and Vivi were nowhere in sight.

They’re both seventeen years old, so I forgive them.

They were probably reading AARP magazine.

So now there’s a mouse in my house.

I’m trying to be scrupulous about cleaning up, but the dry cat food is down all day, so I’m sure I’m feeding both cats and mice.

I have a friend who found a mouse in her kitchen, then a stash of dry dog food that the mouse had been storing in the oven.

That’s one smart mouse.

I bet it can spin a web.

I keep looking for my mouse, but I have yet to find it, and It’s driving me crazy.

It’s living rent-free in my house and my head.

The only solution?

Stop thinking about it.

Pretend it’s not happening.

It just wants a roof over its head.

So do I.

Column Classic: ‘Twas The Night Before

Scary Season

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