Mommy Mummies
Photo credit: New Africa | Adobe Stock
Who knew that throwing back three espresso martinis in the hotel bar this morning would lead me into this Hilton conference room. I overheard someone talking about this life-changing event, and decided it’s about time I change my life. It’s packed with women in athleisure who look like they know what they’re doing with their existence. I need that kind of certainty.
The gal ushering us into the door doesn’t ask for my reservation or any fee, just takes down my name on a clipboard. She acts like I must belong here, so I act like I do too. I hope this isn’t a fitness class. As she presses a nametag sticker to my shirt, she says, “Welcome to the inaugural BABYBOD retreat! How did you hear about BABYBOD?”
“About what?” I ask. Maybe I’m more drunk than I thought.
“Nevermind,” she says and smiles. “Just come on in!”
I walk into a sea of pink leggings, gathered around a stage. I guess we’re all waiting for a presentation, and I suddenly worry that this will be about a timeshare. Then the presenter appears wearing a cheetah leotard paired with a blazer, and has just introduced herself as Karen. People cheer. She seems important. I stare at her absurd outfit choice, but instead of my knee-jerk reaction to judge, I realize this is clearly working for her. I wonder if anyone will ever revere me in this way.
She adjusts her microphone and waves to us. “Welcome, Babes!” Karen begins. “Let’s get started with our introduction video!” She points a remote at a large television behind her and smiles a mouth full of veneers at the audience.
A shoddy promotional video starts playing. Jesus, was this filmed in a garage? A twenty-something thin woman rambles enthusiastically, looking directly into the camera. The tone feels less salesy than I expect, and more urgent, like a hostage victim discussing terms.
“Want to be younger? Thinner?” the video-woman asks. “Want to reverse the hands of time on your neck jowls? Join us at BABYBOD to transform your life.”
Karen whoops and claps enthusiastically at the screen, encouraging us in the audience to join in applause. The video plays on as several new BABYBOD Babes spout more of the same, telling their success stories, each face getting progressively younger.
“My secret? I just snort the shake powder straight from the packet,” a different Babe says. “A quick line in the morning, and another before my son’s naptime. It’s like magic, I have so much energy!” Her left eye twitches and a line of blood runs down one of her nostrils. She wipes it away quickly. “On our nutritionist-backed regimen of no solid foods and subsisting solely on BABYBOD, I lost 25 pounds in two weeks! I can feel the years melting off!”
The next Babe on screen is a child, with an eerie resemblance to the first woman. “You won’t regret drinking these shakes,” the child says. “It’ll make you younger. It’ll make you lose weight—like, a lot of weight. When I started, I weighed 145 pounds, now I weigh 35. Yes, you heard that right. With a few more months of hard work, I’ll be at my goal. I’m almost down to six years old now, from 42, and my body is so young, so light. Pretty soon, I’ll be dead. I can’t even imagine how much I won’t weigh then! It’s not easy to get where I am at almost Platinum Black level, but with tenacity, you can do this too. All you have to do is sign up more Babes, preferably new moms.”
The audience erupts into a chorus of cheers and clapping.
I raise my hand. “Why new moms? Because they’re strong?” I hear myself blurt out to the room. I realize I’m being weird. Why did I ask this?
“No!” Karen snaps into the microphone, pausing the television to scold me. “Because they’re vulnerable! And what does a vulnerable-yes mean? It means more BABYBOD.” Something darker than cutthroat business savvy glistens in Karen’s eyes. She’s charismatic, which somehow passes her tone off as stern instead of cruel.
“These moms are sleep deprived,” Karen goes on. “Fighting postpartum depression, stuck in relationships they’re calculating how the hell they’re going to afford to get out of one day. When we offer them hope, they’ll do anything, even sell BABYBOD on the internet. How better than to promise they’ll be lighter, younger, richer! The point is, success is up to you,” she points at everyone in the audience gravely.
“How bad do you want it? Do you want to work ten hours a week, from home, and help other Babes like I do? Of course you do. That’s why you need to recruit. Because that won’t happen unless you really want it. If I can do it, and this video of a smiling lady drinking straight from the blender on her bus commute to her two other jobs can do it, you can too. You can do it overnight! Tonight, even! All you have to do right now, this second, is sign up just a few more.”
I think Karen’s growling enthusiasm, to the untrained ear, might resemble aggression.
“How many of you here are new moms? Raise your hands. Ha! That’s pffft,” Karen blows a raspberry. “Ten, twenty, hell, at least forty! I got you all here in a single hour! See what I’m saying? Here’s the thing, I’m helping you, do you see that?” Karen blinks her false eyelashes at the audience. “Think of all the weight you’ll lose. Think of that smooth skin. The bliss of your new, beautiful body. Now imagine giving that gift to other Babes.”
She clicks the remote again to continue playing the video.
“BABYBOD is the best way to lose weight since sticking fingers down your throat! I love my new body. No surgery. No torture diets. No botox. No growing old. Old people scare me. Sign up now, Babe! By the way, this is totally not a cult!” the Babe in the video affirms.
The video-Babe gives two thumbs up and the camera pans to her answering her front door, where a smiling delivery person holds up a box with the BABYBOD logo. Unboxing it, she smiles longingly at her shake packets. The camera follows her around her home as she fills trash bags with clothes and skincare products. She opens another box labeled GOAL OUTFITS, displaying them for the camera, each item progressively smaller, until she holds up garments made for infants.
Karen pauses the television to begin her speech. “All I can say is, wow!” she says delightedly, reacting to the video. “Now, who’s ready to be a coach? Just for starting today, you’ll receive a discount bundle for the first low payment of $179.99, then monthly, indefinitely, with a clause for no cancellation without a blood sacrifice, and BABYBOD is delivered right to your door. We have special new flavors too. Vanilla Violence. Flesh of My Facebook Friends. Ground Bones of the Girl you Pretended to be Chummy with at this Starbucks so You Could Recruit Her Into This Pyramid Scheme Cult.”
I burst into laughter, but I’m the only one finding this funny. What the hell is this? When a few faces turn to stare at me, I look down. Maybe I’m being mean. Everyone here is quite beautiful. And they seem happy, most importantly. Maybe it’s just dark humor, like all these weird outfits, like the marketing is meant to be deadpan to keep non-serious coaches out. The women here seem determined about this, so maybe I’m the problem.
Karen presses play again but clicks the volume down low and brings the microphone back up to her face.
“Join our team—Mommy Mummies—because we are not a pyramid scheme. Get it?” She cackles, but the room waits. “I mean honestly, if I say it 500 times in a row, that makes it fact! It’s not sketchy whatsoever that I keep bringing it up. NOT A PYRAMID SCHEME!” she screams again.
When no one in the audience responds, she says calmly, “You are going to listen to the sound of my voice, you are getting very sleepy,” and she gently waves a hand back and forth in a pendulum motion. “Just kidding! Once again, since we are not doing anything predatory, fraudulent, or illegal, you will have no second thoughts about joining us. Here’s some stickers I had printed of the team logo: our cute little sarcophagi!”
Karen throws stacks of pink sarcophagi stickers to the crowd with the gusto of tossing a frisbee. They flutter to the ground not three feet in front of her at the base of the steps below the stage. A few enthusiastic members of the audience rush over like this is pre-internet Black Friday, trampling each other to scoop the stickers up as if they were hundred-dollar-bills.
What the fuck? I think, questioning if these are actually valuable, if I should be rushing to grab one too so I can try to sell it on eBay.
The promotional video still plays in the background, now showing a Babe leading a dance workout to mild techno music that softly pulsates throughout the room.
“Now Babes, listen to me. Listen good,” Karen says. “You look terrible. No one loves you anymore. For some of you, no one’s ever loved you. The only love you’re going to ever know is right here in this room. The only way to make it in this world, the only way to take the pain away, is to be like me. You’ve got to be aggressive. Be a Boss. Bitch. Babe. Snatch up these future Babes on social media. Take their money. Do you hear me? Raise your voice if you can hear me!”
I cringe. I stay quiet. I’m not into prompted groupthink cheering. Almost the entire front row of the audience starts jumping and shouting. One woman starts violently shaking, then foaming at the mouth, possibly having a seizure, but it is drowned out by the soft techno from the video and the screeching of excited Babes. Someone pulls the foamy woman up and she gives a thumbs-up, so I guess she’s fine.
“Be shameless! Be proud! Plug your shakes on someone’s funeral announcement. Slide right into your mortal enemy from high school’s DMs. Friend just posted about a miscarriage? Now is the time to bring up BABYBOD! I know what you’re thinking. Wait, Karen, isn’t that psychotic? Let me tell you something, lean in close so you hear this.”
Karen pauses for effect.
“Of course it is.” Karen’s voice drops to a whisper, working the crowd like a charismatic preacher. An unnerving smile cracks across her face. She lingers for a moment of silence, making eye contact with as many faces as she can, letting the room soak it up.
“Whatever you do, don’t back down!” she shouts and then slaps the microphone, causing screeching feedback that makes my head hurt.
“They have to know that you know that you have zero dignity left, but you don’t care because you’ll do anything to get to Platinum Black. That you’ll stop at nothing, even slit their throat and steal their credit card from their bleeding corpse’s purse to get them to buy these fucking shakes! And anytime you read those two little words: pyramid, and scheme, just block it out because you don’t need that kind of negativity in your life. Those hag-trolls don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re just jealous of your success. Of your newfound beauty! I’m the one who knows because I’m the one who’s selling you this product. If BABYBOD was a pyramid scheme, could I do this?”
Karen pulls a marker out of her back pocket and starts feverishly drawing all over a whiteboard that’s suspiciously been rolled on stage behind her in perfect time.
“Look at all these levels! This is multi-levels, not one pyramid. We have tons of them! If those companies they compare us to are pyramid schemes, then we’re all of fucking Egypt!” She slaps at the board, getting a little smear of marker on her palm. “Now back to what’s important, let’s focus on getting me—I mean us, I mean…you, money.”
I could use some money, I think. She wants me to be more beautiful and have more money? I see why people like Karen.
Karen beams at the audience. “And that’s not all. Are you ready for a surprise?”
Claps echo violently throughout this Hilton meeting room.
“Not loud enough! I said, are you ready for a surprise?” she shouts.
More cheers and whistles confirm everyone’s enthusiasm until Karen is finally pleased. I remain silent. I’m still embarrassed about my laughter outburst from before. If these women know I’ve been drinking, they’ll probably kick me out.
“All of you were hand-selected to come to this retreat,” Karen continues. “A few of you are at the prestigious Headstone Grey level, some of you are new Babes at Babyshit Brown. Many of you brought along guests with limitless Babe potential to see what BABYBOD is all about, and no matter what level you’re at, everyone in this room is eligible to be a winner of our generous lottery. Round of applause, Babes!”
Soft applause begins, then a pause, waiting to find out the reveal of the lottery prize.
“Just for coming here today, each of you has been entered into a raffle to receive the biggest coach prize in BABYBOD’s history. Ten lucky winners will immediately advance to Platinum Black!”
One woman in the front row starts hysterically screaming bloody murder and then a cacophony of shrieking and crying fills the room, like the sounds of a mass casualty event. The echoes carry through the whole first floor between the paper-thin walls of the hotel and a few hotel staff members rush in to check on everyone.
Karen waves them off, still smiling, continuing her presentation. “The winners will come up to our special stage, here in Babestown,” she says and gestures behind her as two Babes wheel a huge painted banner that reads Babestown in cursive to the center of the stage. Another Babe hands Karen an envelope, and she opens it dramatically, like this is the Oscars.
“Our lucky winners are: Jasmine Santos, Tiffany Warburton, Rosalyn Jones, Sandra Chang, Cynthia Burgess, Samantha Dahl, Elizabeth O’Hare, Tara Ross, and Betty Creed!”
Betty Creed? My name pulses in my ears. She called my name.
I panic. A few women around me catch my shocked reaction, glance to read my nametag, then start hugging me, shoving me up towards the front.
“Wha—What is Platinum Black?” I mumble, and I’m ashamed that my voice slurs. But no one hears me. BABYBOD staff shuffles us to the stage area. Another winner in front of me holds my hand to lead me up the steps. Thank god for her. I’m so nervous that I know I’ll stumble without her to steady me.
“Congratulations, Babes! Come on down to Babestown!” Karen shouts and swishes her arm at the banner like this is a game show reveal for the most expensive prize waiting behind a velvet curtain. A background Babe has wheeled a table on stage, set with blenders and accompanying powder packets. She starts plugging in the blenders, getting the shakes ready.
Karen pulls out her phone to go on a live stream. “We’ve got to share this with the Babes at home! Hi Babes!” She waves to the phone and pans the room, then turns to focus on us, the winners. “These ten Babes just won our mega lottery, earning immediate advancement to Platinum Black!”
Waves of hearts and emojis flood the screen.
Karen hands off the phone to someone in the front row to document the ceremony. “Everyone, we’re live in Babestown!” a shaking, nervous voice says, reeling in complete shock. “We are about to witness ten Babes enter Platinum Black!”
The audience smiles at us, laughing, cheering, wiping away their own excited tears.
I start crying too. Why am I crying? Why do these women who I’ve never met, and who I don’t even know their names, understand everything about me? Why are they so happy for me? And they want good things for me? Not a speck of jealousy here. No cruelty. True sisterhood.
My vision blears. I don’t know if it’s because of my stage-fright, or maybe that’s happening to all of us. The other winners looked dazed, but happy, complete, a glow in their eyes like they truly belong, maybe for the first time in their lives. A fog of gratitude swells over me, one I might have once confused for doubt if I didn’t know better. We all hold hands, still silently crying, before taking our places at the table. My fellow Babe beside me looks at the shake before her with longing, knowing she will find answers for everything in the bottom of that blender.
Karen claps and cheers with the audience, the whole room a flurry of emotion. The noise shuffles to a dull applause, a single whoop, then a lull. The quiet of waiting.
The room is deathly silent, bearing witness.
When all of us at the table hesitate, Karen turns her back to the crowd, and speaks just to us. “This is an honor, Babes. Your names and legacy will be revered for all of history at Platinum Black. Everyone wants to be just like you. And we are all coming to join you,” she whispers in a statement of finality.
She steps to the first woman at the edge of the table, and gently tips the blender to her lips.
Editor’s Note
Over the past year, I have read 2,470 story submissions for Brown Hound Press. Let me tell you, it is a rare thing to find a story that has me laughing the whole way through, as was the case with Belicia Rhea’s “Mommy Mummies.” The piece is not only a great satire of multi-level marketing schemes, but it also takes a swing at contemporary society’s twisted obsession with the concept of beauty. Rhea lands her punch while still managing to get laughs on every page.
The crazy thing is, if some kind of weird Benjamin Button reverse-aging milkshake were to be invented, I have no doubt that people would line up for it. Know what I mean, Babes??
Josh Boldt, Editor
Story Track
Look, Karen, we get it. BABYBOD is not a pyramid scheme! But if it were, we would know that the presentation given by the motivational speaker in Belicia Rhea’s “Mommy Mummies” would be about only one thing: Money. The subtext of Karen’s sales pitch is epitomized in the song “Money.” And we’re going with the weirder cover version by The Flying Lizards to match the tone of the story. “Just give me money (that’s what I want).”
Yeah, yeah, Karen, we hear you.
Josh Boldt, Editor