Christmas 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

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: ‘Twas The Night Before

Holiday Big

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