In honor of my fellow Scary Mommy contributor Rachael Pavlik's post "3-D Lashes, Jamberry, & Other Ways to Lose Facebook Friends" going wildly viral this week, I'm re-posting an old favorite that I wrote about an experience I had at a Tupperware party a couple of years ago. My Tupperware post has gotten about 5,000 hits so far, so even if the Tupperware lady did win in the end, I'm glad because I got a pretty fun post out of it.
Recently, I went to a Tupperware party.
Recently, I went to a Tupperware party.
Let’s be clear, here. Normally, my friends know not to invite me to these things, because they all know my stance: Don’t invite me to “parties” where you’re trying to sell me shit. Why? Because I am a cheap tightwad bastard mother-effer, and if I can’t find it at Wal-Mart or Dollar General—or, when I’m feeling really fancy, Big Lots—well then dammit, I don’t need it.
And Tupperware—I’m even more adamantly opposed to those parties than any of them. Because I already have Tupperware. It’s called lunchmeat packaging, empty Starbucks cups, and all of the actual Tupperware I’ve stolen from my dad’s house with the ruse of taking leftovers home after family gatherings.
But this party was different. It was being held by my chef friend who really knows how to throw a party. I gladly accepted her invitation because I knew there would be delicious homemade sushi; potent, dark homebrewed beer; and all sorts of other fancy shit that I won’t find for cheap—much less for free—anywhere else.
I was there with bells on, bitches.
Most of my friends are as bad as I am, and we all knew that we wouldn’t buy anything. I think the hostess with the mostess did, too, but she owed her friend, the Tupperware consultant, a favor, so she felt like if she had the party, she’d be all paid up.
After my friends and I had filled up our plates with the fancy hors d'oeuvres and refilled our beer mugs, we sat and acted like we were going to listen to the consultant’s presentation.
As we waited, we began flipping through the catalogues that were strategically placed around the living room, looking for the cheapest shit that was sold so that we could at least try to be good attendees and buy a little something.
“You know,” I said to the friend sitting next to me on the couch as I showed her the page to which I’d just flipped, “the kids could actually use some new sippy cups—and these aren’t even that expensive.”
“You’re right,” she said, popping a cheese-stuffed olive into her mouth. “I might get a couple of those, too.”
The consultant, sensing a sale, sidled up next to us. “Have you found something you’re interested in, girls?”
I puffed out my chest, proud that I was behaving like the grown-up that I always pretend to be by investing in some Tupperware—a sensible item for a responsible, mature mother to have. “Yes, I do believe I have,” I said grandly.
“What is it?” she asked, smiling kindly.
“These sippy cups. And only $5.00 each. What a steal!” I said excitedly as I pointed them out to her.
“Oh, yes, those are definitely a great buy. And the lids that go along with them are only an additional $5 each!” she said brightly.
“What?” I asked, lifting my eyes to the consultant.
“Of course, the lids are sold separately,” the consultant said stiffly, forcing a smile onto her face as she sensed the sudden tension in the room. Her sale was about to go to shit, my peeps.
“But by definition, a sippy cup has a lid,” I insisted. “Otherwise, it’s just a cup that spills like any other cup.” I have absolutely no clue what the definition of a sippy cup is—or if a definition for a damned sippy cup even exists. But I know what I know, my peeps, and effective sippy cups have a lid.
Try telling that to a Tupperware consultant.
“Well, you can make it into a virtually spill-proof sippy cup by purchasing the lid…for an extra $5,” she responded through clenched teeth.
“Virtually spill-proof? What the hell does that mean? It’s either spill-proof or it’s not,” I said, now getting angry. Who the hell were these Tupperware assholes trying to fool?
The consultant double-checked the catalogue, now a bit flustered. “Well, that’s what the description says…virtually spill-proof.”
“But what does that mean? Does that mean I’m going to pay $10 for a sippy cup with a lid that’s going to spill either way?”
“I-I don’t—“ she stammered.
“Never mind,” I sighed. “I’m sure I’ll find something else.”
Luckily, our conversation never escalated into an all-out brawl. Good thing, too, as the friend who was sitting next to me on the couch and should have been throwing practice punches into the air in case she had been called upon to defend my honor was busily sipping her beer, flipping through her own catalogue to find something cheap enough to buy since sippies were now out of the question.
“Oh, here’s something!” she said, holding the catalogue up to the consultant and me. She had stuck to the cup theme by finding a set of cute little multi-colored cups topped with lids and straws.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I would buy a fun container to hold the occasional rum and Coke!”
The Tupperware lady was still mad at me. “Um, I think they call that a flask,” she snapped.
“And Tupperware sells those?” I asked, eyes lighting up as I lunged for another catalogue. I had to fight all of my other friends, though, who had jumped up from their perches throughout the house and run for the pile of catalogues when they’d heard the word “flask.”
Seriously, what the hell kind of drunken losers do I hang out with? I had picked them because I thought they made me look better. It’s like the lady I once saw on Dr. Phil who told him that he was ugly, but his wife was pretty and seemed cool, so she’d probably hang out with them if they lived in the same neighborhood.
I used a similar method when I picked my friends. I might be a huge bag of skank, but my friends all have professional jobs and don’t live in tents, so obviously if they hang out with me, I must be okay.
And now my dream had been flushed down the toilet with only one whispered word: “Flask.”
As I was pondering my new sad life realization, my friend decided to make a joke. “Are the straws included?” she asked, jabbing me in the elbow with her side. It was a cute joke and got a good chuckle. I mean, obviously the hard plastic straws featured in the picture would come with the cups through which they were jabbed. DUH.
“Um, no, actually they aren't,” answered the consultant hesitantly. “But that’s an easy fix! You just go to the store and buy straws. Any size will fit!”
We had to hand it to her, though. When she did her cooking presentation, she featured a hand-spun food processor disguised as a bowl that whipped up easy salsas and dip in two spins—all while she held her own glass of homebrew.
Throw a bunch of shit in a bowl, give it two hand cranks while you’re drinking your beer, and dinner’s served, bitches?
“We’ll all take one of those!” we shouted in unison. We made a toast to our efficiency as mothers as we grabbed order forms. “How much do we owe you?” we asked, bent over our forms, pens poised.
“Only 69 dollars! Plus 7.00 shipping and handling.”
We all stopped. Our jaws dropped, followed quickly by the pens that we had been holding, and then, just after that because they were so much harder to let go of, the dreams of making dinner in two spins while guzzling a bottle of wine.
I sighed and dropped my shoulders, defeated. I was the first one to speak (if you can believe that): “I’d like to order one virtually spill-proof sippy cup, please. With a lid.”
My friend quickly followed suit. “And I’ll have a cup…no straw.”
She had won. That godforsaken Tupperware consultant had won. But my friend and I—you can bet your asses we didn’t leave that party without raiding our chef friend’s cupboards for straws. And we found a brand spanking new box of them that we bet she’ll never even miss.
So screw you, Tupperware lady, and the straw you rode in on.