An invite to a home party comes with obligations. If you sip the wine and try the cheese, you are expected to buy some Tupperware. But what if you just can’t?
The greatest lie a woman hears won’t come from a man.
It’s this: “Just come. It’ll be fun. You don’t have to buy anything.” This untruth comes from her closest friend, her casual work acquaintance, or her neighbour after an invitation to a home party.
My own exposure began young, when my mother brought my sisters and me along to play with the hostesses’ children while women fondled plastic containers and other kitchen aides. To Tupperware’s credit, I believe my mother still uses some of these purchases more than two decades later. But she never wanted to go. Her sense of obligation grew from all the times she’d hosted a home party of her own.
Later, in our teens, she occasionally dragged us along to fill seats. Guests cancelled last minute or simply didn’t show, and we’d be summoned from watching music videos in the basement to ooh and aah while ogling beauty products, candleholders or tracksuits.
No one expected me to buy anything; what use did I have for age-defying cream? Instead, I’d observe. I’d catch women whispering behind their paper napkins, far away from the hostess or the saleswoman.
“What are you going to buy?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll feel bad if I don’t.”
They’d cave. They always did. You’d have come to this
woman’s home on a Tuesday night, eaten her cheap cheese and crackers, and been allowed to keep your shoes on. How could you leave without buying anything?
In my 20s, home parties crept into my peer group, and so I marked a strange female milestone. It started with sex toys (the gateway drug of home parties). It seemed rebellious, like sullying something sacred to our mothers, to sit around a friend’s living room discussing the best vibrator or flavoured lube. The fact that we were essentially parodying our mothers’ Tupperware and Mary Kay parties of old made it OK. Our mothers would rather die than buy a sex toy in front of their friends (or at all), so we could do this and still be cool.
Slowly—and then suddenly—more party invites followed: jewelry, clothing and candles. There was even (gasp) a Tupperware-party invite. I dodged most, only accepting those that involved bloodlines. And then came The Big Invite.
My daughter Ava was in kindergarten, but she wasn’t making true friends. No birthday invites. No sleepover prospects. None of the other girls wanted to solidify a sister-like bond with even so much as a play date let alone matching Friends Forever pendants.
One girl came up often in our conversations at home. Let’s call her Emma. Emma was sweet and waiflike, and a gaggle of little girls clamoured for her attention, Ava included. I’d met Emma’s mom at school events, and she was like her daughter: a genteel and charming alpha female.
When Emma’s mom invited me to a Pampered Chef party I was torn. I didn’t want to go, but she said Ava should come, too, and play with all the other little girls. Then came the kicker: “It’ll be fun. You don’t need to buy anything.”
I accepted. But I really couldn’t buy anything. My financial situation at the time can only be described as white-knuckling. I’d taken a job I loved, but which represented a huge pay cut, and there was no such thing as disposable income. After I’d paid bills and bought groceries, I had $100 left to spend. I wasn’t about to make a dent in it for a potato peeler or a cookie sheet, no matter how life-changing either one might be.
My plan was to arrive early and leave early. Ava could play with Emma and the other Emma-worshippers. I would make polite conversation, drink the world’s longest glass of wine and then make a subtle exit before the order cards and the stubby golf pencils appeared. I even lined up an excuse: a date later that night.
I found an ally in a glamorous friend of the hostess. We talked about child-ren, men, and other common ground. “I suppose I’m going to buy something,” she finally whispered with a deep sigh.
“I’m not,” I said.
Her faux-horrified expression covered a devilish smile.
As my sips of wine turned to gulps, I waited for the moment to collect my daughter and dash from the party. Then, the pizza came out for a stoneware-pan demonstration. I dove into the pizza, and, like the other women, raved about it.
I began to lose my gall. The idea of waltzing out of there without buying something seemed like social suicide. I was prepared to accept that—I didn’t care about making mommy friends—but for my daughter it was another story. The girls wouldn’t put gum in her hair because her mom didn’t purchase a set of salad tongs, but her already long odds against having a play date might get longer still.
I flipped through the catalogue, looking for the cheapest item. It was filled with objects I didn’t need or want, and as predicted, I couldn’t afford them. Rather than slink out the back door, I decided to make my exit loud. And proud.
I tossed back the last swallow of wine, and made an announcement. “I have a date.” I was almost shouting, but I couldn’t stop now. The women tittered. I’d surmised from the conversations that only one other woman was single, and I hoped they’d be distracted by my oh-so-fabulous nightlife.
The hostess pulled out her best alpha moves. “Tell us about him,” she squealed.
“Oh, he’s great. Fabulous, really.” I searched for words while I rummaged for Ava’s coat.
“What’s the date plan?” Emma’s mom asked.
“Nothing really. Watching a movie. You know.”
I began shoving Ava out the door when the peddler of kitchenwares blocked my exit. “Did you have a chance to look at the catalogue?” she asked.
“I did,” I said. “I have to run, but I’ll be in touch if I want anything.”
She thrust a paper in front of me. “Would you like to host a party?”
I hadn’t expected this move. “Sure, that sounds great,” I said and scribbled down my number.
She called. It was much easier to reject her over the phone, but hearing her voice drop in disappointment put a pang in my chest. But nothing happened. No one stuck gum in Ava’s hair (at least not in relation to this). No one ostracized me at the next school function, especially not Emma’s mom.
It made me wonder if maybe I’d misinterpreted those looks as I skulked out the door. Perhaps they weren’t looks of ridicule or scorn, as if my bank balance were printed on my forehead. In fact, maybe they weren’t even looking at me at all.
