Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [48]
I once made the error of joining in on the game.
“Hey, Cartman,” I said. “Kenny wants to know if this wine is the same vintage as the Pinot Noir that Kyle uncorked for Stan’s birthday party.”
They looked at me as if I were a three-hundred-pound party-crashing crack whore who had just cannonballed into the Soho House swimming pool in an ass-flossing bikini. I didn’t make the same mistake twice.
The MILFs are stay-at-home moms (SAHMs) by choice. They can all afford to outsource the very best in child care, but take great pride in favoring occasional (and often blood-related) babysitters over full-time nannies. The four MILFs have produced six kids in all, two singletons (Marin and Driver) and two sets of twins (Pierson/Lene and Seamus/Maura). The children range in age from twenty-four months to four years old and are all remarkably poised and polite, yet not preternaturally perfect by any means. They are all capable of whining, bullying, and other bratty or downright brutish behavior, and I’ve caught the quick flash of relief crossing the faces of three of the MILFs when the fourth’s kid is “having a moment.”
When I arrived today, none of the kids was “having a moment.” All six were being happily entertained by the Non-Stop Party Patrol, a popular troupe consisting of a half-dozen Broadway-level performers who are also certified child-care professionals. Despite this 1:1 ratio for a party that will last four, maybe five hours at most, the MILFs don’t see themselves as outrageously decadent by New York City standards. No, they have made a very conscious decision not to be “one of those mommies.” This is a group effort. There’s no indisputable definition of what it means to be “one of those mommies,” and certainly no trustworthy authority on how to avoid being one. So like all successful cliques, the MILFs have designated themselves experts on all subjects of importance, eschewing conventional wisdom in favor of their own. They live by their own specific and ever-changing set of rules, which as a childless outsider I am totally incapable of following.
I’m sure they must be grateful to have other mommies to turn to in times of maternal crisis, but I can’t help but think that the MILFs have all become co—or rather, quad—dependent, shunting common sense for the sake of the group. To sustain their utopist microcosm of mommy-hood, one MILF cannot make a decision without consulting the others: Soy milk versus organic cow’s milk? Tory Burch Kids versus Gap Kids? Looney Louie versus the Non-Stop Party Patrol? And once a decision is made, the option that meets the MILF stamp of approval is deemed OTB, short for “only the best.” As used in a sentence: Bethany hired the Non-Stop Party Patrol. They’re OTB!
OTB isn’t restricted to the realm of child-rearing. I’ve overheard Bethany on the phone seeking the MILFs’ taste-making OTB approval in great debates such as: Quinoa versus couscous? Pointy toe versus round? Restalyne versus your own ass fat? It reminds me so much of the Clueless Crew at the height of their persuasive powers in middle school, when one wouldn’t so much as put a butterfly clip in her hair without making a three-way conference call first. It must be exhausting to keep up with OTB. No wonder Bethany needs me to give her a two-hour break every day.
Today Bethany was soliciting opinions on something far more substantive than usual: her new business idea.
“Jessie! I was just telling everyone about my plans for the Be You Tea Shoppe!”
My sister hopes this will be the next moneymaker for Wally D’s/ Papa D’s Retailtainment Corp., and the first in which she will play more than a peripheral role. The Be You Tea Shoppe, as Bethany imagines it, will be a one-stop destination for grandmothers, mothers, and daughters to get makeovers and mani-pedis while consuming teeny-tiny sandwiches and sipping hot beverages with their pinkies up. It would also be very, very pink. Some visionaries get their ideas from great works of literature or music.