Have a nice guilt trip

Review by Booklist Review

The dynamic mother-daughter team returns for another poignant yet hilarious collection of essays (following Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim, 2012). Several of the essays concern Scottoline's struggles to find appropriate care for her mother (Mother Mary), whose feisty spirit both amuses and sometimes irritates both Sottoline and her brother. (Mother Mary twerking at a book-club party is naturally a highlight.) Meanwhile, Serritella recovers from hearing about her ex-boyfriend's marriage only to enter the murky waters of a new relationship with questions about gifts, vacations, and more with the new man. Both Scottoline and Serritella skillfully evoke emotion amid the humor, as seen especially in the last piece, describing Mother Mary's changed reaction to the old family favorite eggplant parmigiana. In between family concerns, bulldozers in the front lawn, and commentary on social issues, the authors show that they inherited Mother Mary's indomitable spirit. Women readers will find much to relate to and laugh about in these appealing essays.--Alessio, Amy Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This mother-daughter literary team quip their way through life's ups and downs with witty, wisecracking humor in a series of delightfully random vignettes. Scottoline declares that "someone has to write about the simple things in life," while reminiscing about vapor rub and radiators and obsessing over furniture arranging. Love, marriages, and divorces provide the predictable zingers of Scottoline's contributions; her own mother, "Mother Mary," is lovingly portrayed as feisty and old-school; and their six dogs also inspire a great deal of material. Scottoline covers both the banalities of middle age (gray hair, glasses, vitamins) and the sadness suffered following the loss of a beloved dog: "Life contains the bitter and the sweet." She sounds sincerely impassioned about politics, women's self-esteem, and Hurricane Sandy. Serritella's voice is crisp and pleasant as she likens jury duty to high school-a spot-on, funny analogy. She refers frequently to her boyfriend and her dog Pip. Rollerblading and being a dog's stage mom call for Seritella's lightness of tone, while she becomes more intimate about milestones, such as coping with the reality of a newly married ex-boyfriend. Lively, clever, and absolutely relatable, this audio is a winner. A St. Martin's hardcover. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

The mother-daughter duo of Scottoline and Serritella (Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim) are back in their fifth collaboration of humorous autobiographical essays in the tradition of Erma Bombeck. The short chapters, each only a few minutes in length, alternate between observances from fiftysomething Scottoline and twentysomething Serritella. Romantic relationships-or the lack thereof-are a common topic, along with aging, pets, family relationships, and the challenges of being a modern woman. Listening to this book is like catching up with your funniest friend over a long lunch; women of all ages will relate. The authors' narration is unpolished but enhances the gossipy subject matter. VERDICT Short track lengths and an episodic structure make this ideal for commuters looking for a fun, escapist listen.-Julie Judkins, Univ. of North Texas, Denton (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The Italian mother-daughter team is back with another series of amusing commentaries on life.Readers familiar with the Scottoline-Serritella (Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim, 2012, etc.) duo are in for another mostly entertaining ride. Ping-ponging back and forth, using mostly one-paragraph sentences, the two writers converse on such diverse topics as the therapeutic benefits of rearranging the furniture on a regular basis, what happens when one forgets to pay bills on time, and why it's best to let your mother buy her own sheets, preferably whiteon white sheets, she "can see the bugs better." The authors cover nearly all subjects in 50 narratives, with nothing too personal or taboo receiving scrutiny. Chapter titles include "The Married-Ex Milestone," "Third Month's the Charm," "Rolling Without Homies" and "Call of Jury Duty." Scottoline on gardening: "perennials are supposed to be automatic, in that they come back every summer. Like a yeast infection." On nature: "Let's just say that we're frenemies. Because it turns out that Mother Nature is the ultimate mean girl." Serritella on wish lists: "I love using wish lists, because then the [website] notifies me if the price of my chosen items gets discounted from totally-ridiculously-expensive to get-real-you-still-can't-afford-it." Throughout, the conversations are sarcastic and often snarky, and the short essays revel in the ridiculous and hit the heart of life in a boisterous Italian family. For many singles, Valentine's Day might mean moping, "depression, shame, and chocolate cake," but for Scottoline, it was a day to receive a beautiful engagement ring from herself. A fascination with an electric toothbrush led to the purchase of an electronic face washer. The authors also discuss the pros and cons of twerking and dancing on tabletops.Short and snappy, these comic essays are best read in small doses. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Homely Remedies By Lisa I hate it when Mother Mary is right, which is always. We begin a zillion years ago, when I'm a little kid with a bad cold, and Mother Mary goes instantly for the Vicks VapoRub. As a child, I had more Vicks Vapo rubbed on me than most consumptives. My chest was as shiny as a stripper's and even more fragrant. Camphor is still my favorite perfume. Which could be why I'm single. Another favorite home remedy of hers was the do-it-yourself humidifier. By this I mean she placed a Pyrex baking dish full of water on every radiator in the house. I never knew why, and neither did my friends. None of them had radiators, because they had nicer houses. They had something called forced air, which sounded vaguely scary to us. The Flying Scottolines never forced anything, especially something you needed to breathe. And in the summer, those same people had central air, which was something else we didn't have. Our air lacked centralization. The only central thing in our house was Mother Mary, and that was how she liked it. But back to the do-it-yourself humidifiers, which sat like an open-air fishbowl on every radiator. As a child, I understood that this would cure something dreadful called Dry Air, which we had in spades. I didn't really understand why Uncle Mikey had to move to Arizona for the Dry Air, when he could've just moved to our house, but be that as it may, I was grateful that I had an all-knowing mother, who understood that air came in forced, central, and dry, and that everything could be cured by Pyrex. The only time this was a problem was on Sundays, when Mother Mary actually wanted to bake ziti or eggplant parm, and there were no dishes available except for the ones cooking water on the radiators. She would dispatch me to get a Pyrex dish off the radiator and wash it out, and I would do so happily, if the end result was eggplant parm. I will still do anything for eggplant parm. Make a note, should we meet. But back to the story, cleaning the baking dishes was a yucky job. Often the water in the dishes would have dried up, leaving a scummy residue, and even if there was some water left, it wasn't a pretty sight. Dog and cat hair would be floating on the surface, or ash from a passing cigarette. According to Mother Mary, smoking was fine for air quality. You win some, you lose some. So fast-forward to when I become a mother myself, and baby Francesca gets sick, and of course Mother Mary advocates Vicks and Pyrex, but I reject these ideas as old-fashioned. I am Modern. Enter antibiotics. I had that kid so pumped up with amoxicillin she could've grown mold. In fact, I had her on them prophylactically, so she'd never get another ear infection, and if I could have her on them now, I would, so she'd never get pregnant. I'm kidding. It's a joke, okay? But then recently, I got the worst cold ever, and I called the doctor, who told me that antibiotics weren't such a hot idea and what I really needed was Vicks VapoRub and a humidifier. I couldn't believe my ears. I wanted the magic pill to make it all better but he says that it's a virus and all that, and no. I didn't tell this to Mother Mary. Don't you, either. I suppose I could just get a Pyrex dish and put it on the radiator, but I am still Modern and I refuse. Also the doctor says I need a cool-mist humidifier, and not a warm-mist humidifier, and once again, I feel lucky to learn more about the mysteries of air, which now comes in mist. Who knew oxygen could be so complicated? So I go to the drugstore, buy the requisite cool-mist humidifier, and bring it home. I spend exactly one night with this thing and want to shoot myself. It's thirty degrees outside, and in my bedroom, it's twenty. An Arctic chill blasts from the cool-mist humidifier, and I'm up all night. So I go back to the drugstore and buy a warm-mist humidifier. I take it home, and it frizzes my hair, but you can't have everything. Also, it comes with a little slot for a stick that's impregnated with Vicks VapoRub, and you know what I'm thinking. This is the revenge of Mother Mary. Copyright © 2014 by Smart Blonde, LLC, and Francesca Scottoline Serritella Excerpted from Have a Nice Guilt Trip by Lisa Scottoline, Francesca Serritella All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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