Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim
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"A warm, lively collection of narrative vignettes chronicling the day-to-day relationship of two women who also happen to be part of a successful mother-daughter writing team." ―Kirkus Reviews
Love and guilt are thick in the Scottoline/Serritella household, and Lisa and Francesca's mother-daughter-turned-best-friends bond will strike a familiar note to many. But now that Lisa is a suburban empty-nester and Francesca is an independent twenty-something in the big city, they have to learn how to stay close while living apart. How does a mother's love translate across state lines and over any semblance of personal boundaries? You'll laugh out loud as they face-off over the proper technique for packing dishes, the importance of bringing a coat in the summertime, and the dos and don'ts of dating at any age. Add feisty octogenarian Mother Mary to the mix, and you have a Molotov cocktail of estrogen, opinions, and fun.
The stories in Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim will make you laugh, cry, and call your mother, daughter, and all your girlfriends.
been feeling pretty nauseous for a while,” said the third. “I don’t know why anyone does this for fun.” I thought they were kidding. “Ha, ha, very funny.” The three of them sat silently on my couch, looking green. “You cannot be serious,” I said. “You just convinced me to eat this!” But they were all too baked to appreciate the irony or my indignation. Somehow, the very moment that I succumbed to their peer pressure was the same instant the high hit them, hard. Suddenly the mood was serious
snowthrower. I have never blown or thrown snow. I have only shoveled it, scraped it, swept it, and cursed it. I’ve gotten excellent at cursing it, and done correctly, it won’t sprain your back. Only your middle finger. I bet you curse snow, too. It rarely responds. I suspect its feelings are hurt. It’s used to being wished for, around Christmastime, then oohed and aahed at, even photographed. It remembers when we loved it and called it our winter wonderland. Then regret sets in, and we regret
make a note in my BlackBerry, since I’m not sure imaginary board members own PDAs and I’m not taking any chances. That’s the kind of monarch I am. Next, the Head of the Home Department reports that we might need a TV in my office, since the old one stopped working two weeks ago and I’m paying for a cable box with no TV. I consider this carefully because, between us, the Head of the Home Department spends money like crazy. She wants everything—new rugs, new sheets, more curtains, and a nicer
full of gadgets I bought on impulse, or was given as wedding gifts in my ex-life. Yes, after my divorces, I kept the juicer and waffle iron. Snowfall before Lisa bought a snowblower Lisa finally breaks down and buys a shiny new snowblower. Because I got squeezed and burnt. Then there are gadgets that are aspirational. I want to be the kind of woman who makes her own pasta, so I bought a pasta machine. I have never used it. Because I’m not that kind of woman. Mother Mary used it to make
need to shut up. You don’t need me to carry your raincoat to the movies anymore. In fact, you don’t need me to mother you anymore. You’re an adult, and you don’t need me to raise you. You need me to support you, as you raise yourself. And so, in this curious and ironic way, I will do more, and less, as we go forward on our little journey together. You’re driving now. And I’ll pack the car with the things we need as we shuttle back and forth for visits; the summer clothes I’m storing at my