Until I went to a scrapbooking party last week, I thought I knew what home demonstration parties were all about. I have been both guest and hostess at all kinds—jewelry, make-up, Tupperware, candles, educational toys, kitchen gadgets, you name it. They’re all pretty much all the same.
If you are a woman, chances are you’ve attended at least one of these parties. If you are a man, you probably haven’t. It’s a girl thing. A man’s only concept of a “home demonstration party” involves beer, a bachelor, and a couple of young ladies demonstrating clothing removal. So, for you guys, I’ll explain how it works.
You and the other reluctant guests attend a party at the home of your friend, the hostess, to whom you owe a favor. The party is led by a consultant, who suggests that you need her company’s superior products. If you are not convinced, she will remind you that the more money you spend, the nicer the gift you will earn for your hostess. The hostess sits modestly by her side with a “no purchase necessary” smile on her lips, but a “buy something so I can get the Deluxe Stack ‘n Serve Patio Dish Set” glare in her eyes.
Being a tightwad, I usually end up buying only the minimum: the lemon zester rather than the 30-piece carving knife set, the six-pack of votive candles rather than the leaded crystal sconces. But, to ease my guilt, I sometimes agree to host the next party at my house.
I’m happy to do this, but I warn the consultant that I run with the wrong crowd. My friends are broke, cheap, or antisocial. All I have to do is mention that I’m hosting a party and they go into hiding. A few leave town for the week. Others have their phones disconnected. One friend even went into labor the day of the party. Coincidence? Oh, sure.
I can generally get a few friends to attend, but only by telling them I don’t care if they don’t buy anything (which they know is a lie) and promising that Orlando Bloom will be stopping by to order some airtight cereal containers (which they suspect is a lie, but which they’re willing to take a chance on).
We all have a great time right up until the consultant hands out the order forms. One friend has “forgotten” her checkbook. Another excuses herself to the bathroom and then squeezes out the window. Yet another pretends to choke on a nacho, not only getting out of buying anything herself, but also creating a diversion that allows three other people to sneak out unnoticed.
At the end of the party, the consultant collects the order forms from the last two unfortunate guests. My percentage of their purchases—a measuring cup and a pack of skewers—entitles me to a free melon baller. Then the consultant hides their car keys until they agree to book parties of their own. As penance for making them come to my party, I am obligated to attend theirs. And so the cycle continues.
But the scrapbooking party was different. Scrapbooking—the hot trend of creating memory albums using all manner of stickers, stencils, and other embellishments to enhance your cherished photos—is a hobby the way smoking crack is a hobby. The guests, some of whom arrived with their scrapbook supplies in tractor trailers, couldn’t wait to buy more. (Not to judge, but if you need roadies to unload all your craft stuff, perhaps you ought to use your $30 zig-zag scissors to cut up your Visa card.) They hooted and tucked dollar bills into the consultant’s craft apron as she demonstrated a new type of paper cutter.
I hesitated to buy even one hole punch, out of fear that it might start me on a dangerously expensive path to craft addiction, until ultimately I have to rob banks to replenish my supply of acid-free papers. But in the end—partly to avoid feeling obligated to host another party, and partly because I got swept up in the scrapbook frenzy—I blew the week’s grocery budget on the beginner’s kit.
As you might expect, my husband didn’t understand. “How could anyone spend that much money at a party where no one even got naked?”
Like I said, it’s a girl thing.
