Spit up and the Suburbs

It was years ago, but Alyssa still recalled how this particular MNO was organized at a local restaurant and bar called Smokeys, known for its delicious barbecue and craft cocktails, should you want to try it. 

This was back when she first moved to the neighborhood, and the PMS Club was likely trying her on for size, thus the summons. Possibly on the other ladies’ minds as they sized up Almería’s new addition: Would Alyssa’s care-o-meter light up when the neighborhood OGs talked about the upcoming school fundraiser to sell wrapping paper? Did she too believe the new “no left turn” sign in front of the school was worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize? And, equally as important, did Alyssa feel it was mandatory to get sloshed on a school night, too? Because one or two drinks was so not enough for any of her compatriots, as she would soon learn.

She clearly hadn’t passed their tests, because that was the night Alyssa went home knowing she’d always be referred to as the woman who “lived in Trish’s old house,” instead of Alyssa, who has five kids, or Alyssa who loves coffee, Mexican food, yoga, football, and has owned three beagles. They didn’t try to get to know her that night. And, another invitation to a MNO never came.

Now, looking back, Alyssa fantasized about what would have happened if she’d shared a little story with the group at the end of the evening. Her titillating tale surely would have burned that bridge forever—if it wasn’t already. 

In her reverie of shocking and awing these eyelash transplant victims right into their margaritas, she revealed how one night after the Keadons moved into “Trish’s old house,” her husband Will found a small tin filled with edible underwear, sex dice, and The Rabbit, in two different colors no less. There was also a joint, if you must know. 

Clearly the owner of the tin’s contents had been trying to hide these items, as it’d been pushed all the way back on a high shelf in the primary bedroom closet, forgotten in the move to the newer, more-upgraded, flashier, and all-around-better house. Would this fun little anecdote have broken the seemingly impenetrable ice with the room mom brigade? Alyssa would probably have snorted out her modest pour of Sauvignon Blanc at these ladies’ jaws dropped past their boob lifts.

In reality, that evening at Smokeys, even a diner at another nearby table could have used context clues to surmise that Alyssa was the odd mom out. Sure, she tried her best to smile and make idle chatter about the PMS Club ladies’ most pressing topics of conversation, like the Bologna family’s recent proposal to add two parking spaces at the school designated for electric vehicles only. What a great idea for a couple who both drove Teslas! Alyssa meanwhile looked out over a sea of carbon copy going-out tops and ripped, faded jeans, and felt a million miles away, as if she was watching a “Real Housewives” episode on TV, and her remote was broken so she couldn’t change the channel, or fast forward to a more interesting part of the episode.

Instead, she was stuck there, in limbo between having arrived recently enough that leaving already would have too easily conveyed that she was miserable, and staying just long enough to feign intrigue in the PMS Club.

While one mom shared a passionate retelling about how traumatized she was when a band of teens flipped her Grand Wagoneer the double bird from their e-bikes, Alyssa found herself contemplating how exactly every invitee at the MNO gathering had known to pair their uber-pricey denim with equally, if not more expensive Tory Burch sandals? They clearly also understood the prerequisite of carrying a purse that cost as much as a minivan payment. Alyssa’s only purse? Her diaper bag. So, she’d shoved her debit card, driver license, and a lip gloss into the pockets of the same jeans she would wear years later to the back-to-school night that planted the seed that started everything that happened next. 

On that night long ago, she’d also missed the memo on another key element of the MNO uniform: a giant diamond ring. We’re talking distractingly large. Like, purchased for the sole purpose of making others jealous and maybe even hate their lives. Meanwhile, hers was certainly big enough to make her feel special, yes, but no contest for the heavy lifting these ladies were doing every time they raised their wine glasses to their artificially plumped puckers painted with lip gloss they’d no doubt borrowed from their preteen daughters’ Sephora collections.

Beach waves through each mom’s uniformly bottle blonde and mysteriously devoid of any gray hair completed the look (Did they visit their colorists every other week?). Alyssa meanwhile hadn’t had time to pull off waves, but rather, felt a huge sense of accomplishment for washing and blow drying her hair while her sons pretended to be puppies at her feet.

Sadly, around these women, she always felt badly about herself, and as the agonizing evening dragged on, that nagging sensation only grew in magnitude. Back when she’d left the house, and her husband Will grabbed her around the waist, pulling her closer to him, and telling her how beautiful she looked, well, that moment felt like light years ago now. Sure, Alyssa walked out the front door with a strut in her step, and was, as her teens said, “feeling herself” while she blasted “American Country Love Song” by Jake Owen on the way to the restaurant. 

In the back of an old Ford truck

In the bar just lookin’ for luck

In a pair of oh my blue eyes

Let them fireworks start

That American country love song

Later, however, out among the rich and famous ladies of Almería, somehow her outfit soon started feeling like a “before.” Her hair? Lacking. Makeup? Why bother? It’s not as if she’d invested in a skin peel or laser treatment to create the right canvas anyway, right? 

If these women were Bravolebrities, she was a CW Network castoff; “The Real Housewives of Almería” meets some reboot of a 1990s show starring her as the replacement for Katie Holmes that no one had ever heard of.

Indeed, Alyssa’s confidence had gone from a 10 out of 10, to a 2 or 3, and it probably showed in her posture—or at least she felt like she’d begun sinking down lower into her seat further and further every mind-numbing moment. Was she becoming part of the chair? Maybe that’s why no one was even bothering to include Alyssa in their conversations about Italian vacation plans and how much they’d donated to the booster club this year (and who hadn’t gotten “as involved”/given enough money to be considered among their ranks) amid the dimly lit haze of the restaurant. 

Mercilessly, the night seemed to just be getting started though. After a few more cocktails (did any of these increasingly-intoxicated moms of the year have designated drivers?), the MNO regulars proceeded to order apps to share, since they were all somehow craving the same “naughty” snack: spicy wings! The good news was that they’d all been to CrossFit that day (coincidence that all the trainers were men younger than their husbands?), so it was fine to order the dynamite shrimp and beef sliders, too. Hefty rounds of Chardonnay or spicy margaritas completed the order.

Needless to say, Alyssa—with her traitorous single glass of Sauvignon Blanc that she wouldn’t even finish before mercifully finding her exit after what felt like decades later—didn’t make forever friends that evening, for reasons she would never fully understand. 

It’s not as if the group handed her a scorecard at the end of the evening, grading the newcomer on how naturally curious she felt about what Beth Grundy’s husband did for a living. He’s an orthodontist, in case you care more than Alyssa did. And every family in Almería goes to him, if you were even considering for 20 seconds that another practice located more conveniently to the community and that accepts your insurance might better fit your family. Was Alyssa the only one who saw Beth laugh off another mom’s joke about calling Dr. Haz for a second opinion, then send her a look of death?

Oh and did anyone else find the irony in how Beth mentioned she’s writing a children’s book about treating others as you want to be treated? “Cheeks” was bound to be a bestseller, of course. Look for it in your local Barnes & Noble if you want a lesson from a social climber on how to teach your kids to be kind and inclusive. 

As the banal banter went on around her in a seemingly-endless loop, Alyssa smiled tightly, and tried to make sense of the multiple conversations about people in Almería she didn’t know yet, at one point accepting a fellow mom’s kind offer to try the shrimp. It was rather good, but she barely noticed the shellfish popping with flavor in her mouth. Nursing another sip of her now room temperature glass of wine, Alyssa began to wish she could just go home and be with Will and the kids. They’d be off to bed soon, and she’d miss those kisses goodnight and requests for water, and to tell her “one more thing,” which was usually that they loved her.

Could the mom mafia have sensed how her mind was miles away, her apathetic feelings about the evening they were so clearly reveling in? Were they taking notes when she quite obviously had an underwhelming reaction to Hannah Jones recounting how her son’s soccer game ended with his winning goal? Maybe Alyssa should have stood up on her chair, right there in the middle of Smokeys, raised her glass, and yelled out so every diner in the restaurant could hear her toast: “Cheers to Dixon Jones! A win to go down in history for sure!” That gesture might have secured her an invite to every exhilarating MNO for the rest of eternity, a prize so clearly coveted by every other over-tanned-and-perfumed kiss asser in the group.

But, perhaps given that she passed on congratulating Dixon and his soccer success for the entire Smokeys dining room to hear, or that she didn’t have a contribution to an emotional conversation about how good Hannah’s cheesecake recipe is (yours would never come close to being as delicious so don’t even try), Alyssa was not invited to any of their future titillating gatherings after that night. In fact, you’d probably forget she was even there had her face not been barely perceptible in the background of a group photo posted to Facebook and tagged with dozens of names, hers not included. She couldn’t quite remember the caption but it was probably something like, “Smokeys MNO! Love these ladies!”

Flash forward to the third grade back-to-school night, and Alyssa mindlessly accepted a flier about joining the PTO. As if. Her thoughts were once again miles away; or more accurately, several towns away in the community where the Keadons had lived before moving to Almería. Not that she’d ever go back there.