Amanda ' s husband has just traded her in for an affair with a teenybopper. Brooke is a trophy wife collecting dust. And Candace (Don ' t call me Candy) has had too many husbands and too little love. What do these three unlikely accomplices have in common besides a Little League team called the Mudhens A plot to reclaim a little r ' e ' s ' p ' e ' c ' t. And they ' re going to do it with a mop and a bucket.
Maid for You starts as a way for Amanda to make enough money to keep the roof over her kids ' heads after her husband splits for his midlife crisis. But when Candace and Brooke join her, it becomes much more. Donning disguises, they enter the homes of those who once spurned them and discover more than just clutter in the closets of their neighbors ' otherwise tidy lives. But when Amanda takes on the job of cleaning the home of the town ' s most eligible hunk, someone decides to do her dirty. Now Amanda, Brooke, and Candace are on a mission to prove that being single in suburbia isn ' t a crime ' even if it does lead to some irresistible temptations ' .
Showing 1-1 of the 1 most recent reviews
1 . Things you learn about your neighbors
Posted December 14, 2009 by R Hillyer , Millington, Tenn.This book has a cute premise. What would you do if you had to find a job but had limited skills. Amanda finds a great solution and a new love interest in the process. Well-written and pretty darn funny!
June 26, 2006
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Single in Suburbia by Wendy Wax
In the car lot of life, Amanda Sheridan decided, she was a Volvo station wagon with about eighty thousand miles on it.
People said a woman should look at how a man treated his mother when deciding whether to marry him, but Amanda now knew, from painful personal experience, that a man's car-buying habits were a much better indicator.
In her family men bought good quality cars and drove them until they stopped running; they racked up the miles and bragged about their odometer readings. And in most cases, their marriages lasted just as long.
In Rob's family, which Amanda had been a part of for almost twenty years, the men traded up. Every year they chose a new car and passed the year-old vehicle down to their wives. Occasionally a car might last a little longer if there was a teenager in the family; but as a rule, if you were a Sheridan, when your car's ashtray got dirty it was time to trade that sucker in.
Which went a long way toward explaining why Rob was test-driving a BMW Z4 convertible named Tiffany while Amanda, whose bench seats were sagging, appeared headed for the used car lot.
Amanda scooped Wyatt's baseball socks out of the clean-clothes basket and tossed them on his bed then stashed a fresh stack of towels in the kids' linen closet. Pithy car metaphors notwithstanding, Amanda had no idea how she was supposed to get Rob, who appeared to be in the throes of a monumental midlife crisis at the age of forty-two, to come to his senses, and even less idea of how she'd go on alone if she failed.
It was now almost two and a half months since that morning in mid-December when her husband admitted to lubricating another woman's carburetor; two long months since he'd moved out on New Year's day to park his, er, car, in a strange garage.
Amanda had spent the first month in denial and the second in a semi-comatose state from which she roused only long enough to take care of Meghan and Wyatt. She'd steadfastly kept her chin up in public, had even managed to adopt a "men will be boys" attitude that belied the gaping hole she felt in her heart and the knife wound in her back.