Spit up and the Suburbs

How to proceed with her systematic takedown of the PMS Club was almost too obvious. Because if there was anyone who deserved a tune-up among the most hyper-obnoxious members, it was Mia Devlin-Reed. Shiver. Even the mention of her name conjured up extremely unpleasant feelings inside of Alyssa.

As she drove Luke to preschool later that morning, a song about (what else?) poop tinkling through the Cadillac’s speaker system, her boys bopping happily along, she conjured up an image of Mia Devlin-Reed, whom she’d not-so-affectionately nicknamed MDR (like murder—you get it), in her head: nails always perfectly manicured with the latest trend—like just the ring finger embellished with glitter and a gemstone—stupidly long hair extensions always styled in beach waves (How do moms find the time? Can someone explain this please?), lash extensions raging to the point of ridiculousity, wearing boutique jeans that showed off her hard-earned thigh gap (thanks Ozempic), an embellished tee that would have been more appropriate on a teenager, paired with a trendy statement necklace obviously, and Lululemon sneakers. If only her latest dermawhatever treatment could have disguised her aging face—or the ugliness inside of her.

MDR had not one nice thing to say about anyone, ever. Take the time Alyssa ran into MDR at (where else?) the nail salon. Their oldests were in the same grade, so they’d talked many times over the years since the Keadons moved into Almería. On this occasion, MDR loudly sipped on a Venti iced something from Starbucks (we’ll assume the beverage involved at least five modifications from the menu, and cost no less than $11, and was ordered with a chip on her shoulder the size of her light therapy face mask), a non-bemused expression on her extremely heavily made-up face. “I’ve been here forever,” she stage-whispered to Alyssa as a woman furiously worked on her mani. Then came her trademark move: an overexaggerated eye roll that left her lash extensions tangled together like a tortured spider, fighting for its life. 

Today’s victim of an MDR-style takedown, other than the timid nail technician, would be her cleaning woman. Alyssa mistakenly led the horse to water by simply trying to make conversation as the two sat side-by-side at their respective manicure stations. Knowing that one of MDR’s better qualities was how fastidiously she cared for her appearance and her home, Alyssa asked her enviably-coiffed, but tragically over-mascaraed acquaintance—who today had tucked her hair extensions into a trucker hat emblazoned with the word “Milf” (not kidding)—if she had a cleaner to recommend.

“I’ve had the same cleaner for a while now,” MDR informed Alyssa with maximum drama, as if she were imparting some major, state secret that Alyssa didn’t have clearance to hear. “But I’ll tell you, she’s not what I’m used to.”

Before Alyssa could ask for details, they were quickly supplied. “Our old cleaning woman got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the grout in our shower with a toothbrush,” MDR relayed with sickening entitlement that made Alyssa’s breakfast bar turn over in her stomach. “This one just sprays some stuff on the tile and rinses it off. I prefer mopping by hand as well.”

Admiring her manicure, MDR continued. “I told Christine what I expected up front. She asked me to try her way but I’m not thrilled.” Then an eye roll to end all eye rolls, and this: “The result leaves something to be desired.” And then another, “It’s just not what I’m used to.”

Alyssa was attempting to think of anything she could reply that wouldn’t offend MDR without sacrificing her own sense of right and wrong, when another Burchbot, whose name Alyssa couldn’t recall, but was probably Jen, or Heather, or Amy, burst into the nail salon and announced (loudly) that she was here for her appointment. MDR waved her over and the two identically-dressed and tressed women began conspiratorially talking about something else that was likely awful and offensive, without even attempting to include Alyssa in the conversation—not that she would have had anything to contribute anyway.

Now, back in the comfort of her own kitchen, with that gross memory and so many more off-putting incidents that involved MDR swirling around in her head (like when she told Alyssa her other daughter Skyler was cutting herself as if she were discussing chicken recipes, then moved on to a completely different topic), she plotted the next battle in her war against the Perfect Moms Social Club. 

First, she’d have to ask her neighbor and one of MDR’s BFFs Donna Kraut for the contact info of the cleaning woman she used, since she knew the two friends shared virtually everything, from recipes, to service providers, to babysitters, to nasty attitudes. 

But would Donna help Alyssa? Much like with her ask of Steph Bush, she couldn’t know unless she asked.