Monday, May 10, 2010
COME ON OVER
Sometimes, for kicks, I go to friends houses where a thinly veiled invitation to a “party” has been issued. These parties usually involve passive aggressive women trying to flog overpriced plastic kitchen wares to me.
The thing is, I always feel like the third wheel at these things. Often times, it is a good friend hosting the party and I have that whole obligation thing going on and often I go with the resolution I will not be buying. I have all the kitchen or cleaning, or beauty stuff I need. Plus, as this stuff costs a fricken fortune, it goes against my bargain hunting, grain.
But, like any good red blooded woman, the pressure, and the hype, get to me and I buy something I really don’t fecking well need. As displayed on Friday night. Not only am I victim of peer pressure, clearly I am a gambler because I bought 2 lucky dip, Mystery Boxes for $25 each, guaranteed to be full of stuff worth $75. Now I’m home, I predict a lot of melon ballers and avocado keepers in my booty. Why didn’t I just go with the ice cube trays as per my original plan. Oh, that’s right, because they were 30 fricken dollars each.
My very first experience with a muli-level marketing party was when I was about eight. All I remember was that I was super excited about seeing my cousins. I distinctly remember Mum on the telephone asking my Aunty “This isn’t Amway is it?” I could hear my Aunty screeching down the line “nooooo, of course not Betty, just a new opportunity. Gullible Mum, gullible. So we get to their house, I nick off to play with my cousins Barbie Townhouse which I coveted, and left mum to it. About 10 minutes in, just when I had Barbie and Ken chowing down on their delicious dinner, Mum came in and reefed me out of the house. “C’mon, we are going home”. Above my protests, were my Auntys ones. “Betty – just wait and see, it’s so easy, it’s a goldmine!!”. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother so angry. Oh, except for the time she caught my brother lighting matches near the mango tree. Whole other story.
I do believe it is a certain type of woman who gets into the mult-level-marketing gig and make it their career. I mean, it doesn’t come without being a very social being. You would have to know people. Your business depends on it. And it also depends on you hitting up the new girl you just met at the park or Vera at the local shop to host a party at their own home.
And then, then, when you actually attend a party, the pressure is on the party host and her guests, to secure 2 more future party bookings then and there. If not, her first born is sold off to Craig McLaughlin and Check 1-2. Well, perhaps not that drastic, but she will definitely miss out on a delectable freezer container at the very least.
And look, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to a few of these parties where “Enjo” was actually code for piss up, just not this one. I knew practically no-one which doesn’t bother me, but I guess, coming up against the pre-ordained masters of the Tupperware Party squad, caught me off guard.
There were two ladies in particular, who were referred to often by the presenter about how good the rice cooker/clear plastic container/roasting dish was. Look, by the sounds of it, they had all the plastic crap they could handle so clearly they were just there for the free organic coconut bread and Tim Tams.
At one stage, my friend showed all the women her incredibly organised, yet Tupperwareless cupboards. One of the chicks piped up with “Now, imagine how much better your cupboard would look if you had all of that in Modular Mates”. Standing off to the side, I replied, “Yeah but that would mean she’d have to marry a Packer”. Crickets. I got nothing. They had a mole in their midst, in more ways than one.
And what about the “fun” games they play? We played a very fun game called Indian Giver. Well not, but may as well have been. We all had our names put twice into a bowl and then the host picks out a whole heap of random shit she can’t offload and puts it on the prize table. If your name gets called out, you pick a prize. The next person who gets called out, can either take something off the prize table, or, alternatively, take the item you just chose, off you. And so it goes, until everyone’s names has been called twice and items have been stolen off one another. So, aim of the game, be called last. Anyhoo, one chick, who was a neighbour, had to leave half way through the game as her child got upset. At this stage she had a container in her possession. By the end of the game, it was gone. She came back and was spewing. “So what happened when my second name got called out? How did you make a decision on my behalf on what I would have wanted?” Um. Fuck. Off. It’s a game. Of Tupperware.
And all I could think when playing was, thank god they don’t play this game with a bunch of toddlers. Imagine the apocalyptic style meltdowns those kids would have when little Billy nicked Katies newly claimed Polly Pocket. Actually, come to think of it, that would be more tolerable. At least two year olds are meant to be immature.
So I stayed for the obligatory hour or so and to the chorus of talk about school cupcake decorating and debates over the merits of Baby monitors, I slunk off home. Next time, if there is a next time, I hope at least they get a decent game of Duck, Duck Goose going.