cats Archives – Lisa Scottoline

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.

And everybody’s living happily ever after.

Copyright 2024 Lisa Scottoline

By Lisa Scottoline

By the time you read this, you will have survived Valentine’s Day.

Congrats!

I spent mine with dogs and cats, but I’m not all pathetic and sad about it, and if you were in a similar position, you don’t have to be mopey, either.

Here’s why.

You’re not alone. You may feel that way, thanks to TV commercials for conversation hearts and bouquets you aren’t getting, but you’re not the only one. There’s lots of women like us, who end up manless in middle age, whether by choice or not. I know, because I get lots of heartfelt emails from widows and divorcees, as I am fast becoming the poster child for inadvertent celibacy.

By which I mean, not woe-is-me celibacy, but more like, Oh, has it really been that long?

Also, why don’t I miss it, when I used to like it well enough?

And why aren’t I on a mission to find a man?

To begin, let me tell you about a recent blind date. Most of my dates are blind, as that gives me a fighting chance.

I thought he was nice, handsome, and smart, which is three more things than I ever expect. And we were having a great time, yapping away though his first and second vodka. But by the time he got to his third vodka, his words slurred, his eyes glistened, and he blurted out the following:

“I miss my girlfriend. I don’t know why she broke up with me. The kids didn’t like her, but I did.”

Uh oh.

This would not be a happy ending. He told me the next day that it was the only time he’d ever tried to kiss somebody who was putting her car into reverse.

That would be me, and can you even believe he went in for the good-night smooch?

Could it be worse?

No.

So, take a lesson from my horrible blind date. He was bemoaning the loss of his girlfriend, when he had a perfectly fine woman sitting across from him, ready, willing, and able.

Oh, so able.

In other words, don’t miss out on the fullness of your life merely because something is missing.

A man is not a passport. Having one is nice, but not the law. And if you’re alone, you can’t go into suspended animation. You have to live your life and you can be happy. So, make yourself happy.

How?

Flip it. If you think that being on your own is the problem, turn that idea on its head. Make being alone a bonus. For example, if you’re on your own, you don’t have to ask anybody’s permission to do anything or take anyone else’s feelings into account. You can paint your kitchen orange if you want and make all manner of dumb mistakes.

You’re not single, you’re a cappella!

Which sounds a lot more fun, plus it’s Italian.

But how do you figure out what makes you happy?

Try things. Try anything. Paint. Draw. Take piano lessons. Read a book. Keep a journal. Write a story. Go to night school. Volunteer. Sing. Rearrange the furniture. Rescue animals. Join a book club or start one.

Dance!

Bottom line, any verb will do.

Do whatever you like. And since I bet you’ve spent most of your life taking care of others, take a little care of yourself. Get your hair done, and your toenails. Especially the amazing disappearing pinkie toenail.

If you can find it.

Spend a little money on yourself. Buy a new sweater and parade around.

Look at you, girl!

Here are some of the things that make me happy: Daughter Francesca, dogs, friends, work, books, reading, cats, a big TV, a pony, opera, and chocolate cake. My life and my heart are full, and though I live alone, I don’t feel lonely.

As for the occasional date, if it happens, great. Maybe I’ll meet a man who doesn’t like vodka that much, but no matter.

The point isn’t him.

It’s me, and you.

Think of yourself as an exotic sports car, like a Ferrari, that leaves its garage only occasionally.

Not everybody can drive you, and you don’t wait to be driven.

You’re not that kind of car.

And neither am I.

So hit the gas, and live.

Scary Season

Column Classic: We Are All Ferraris

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