I feel like I’m glowing today. As though my face is radiant, my hair is perfect, shiny and curled, and my nails have a perfect French polish finish.
I should be wearing a poodle skirt and pumps.
In short - I feel vaguely dirty.
Because last night, I went to a Tupperware Party.
wind’s from the east, mist comin’ in
I should have known something was off when I had the urge to bake biscuits yesterday afternoon, I didn’t know it would lead to harder things.
In the evening I received a call from Kat, asking me to come along to a party her sister was throwing, a Tupperware Party, I tried to say No but I bowed under peer pressure. And, the pressure of not actually having a good reason to say No.
It ended up being Kat and I sat in a room with 7 other women, one of whom stood in front of us talking about dating gifts, about bowls that extend when you move them just the right way, your mini stuffables, and which vegetables were the heavy breathers (I always suspected Broccoli) .
There was a demonstration of cookware and a game was played – I won a melon baller and had to put up with my mind repeating Balla Baby for the rest of the night (damn you Chingy).
Needless to say, the engaged and interested face I kept plastered on was to cover the smirking, about-to-laugh-my-arse-off underneath.
Kat and I decided that to recover, we’re going to throw a D.Vice party – much more our scene.
No Mum, you’re not invited. I might die.
Oh, not only did I come home with my very own melon baller, but the kind of headache only incessant selling can give you.
While I may not be Tupperware material, I did come home and fashion a pillowcase from an old petticoat so maybe, just maybe I can eligible for the pearls? … anyone? … anyone? … Martha?
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