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Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Dear Home Consultant

I am writing to voluntarily withdraw myself from any and all future home parties.
Direct sales ventures contain a toxic quality which inadvertently and uncontrollably render me incapable of basic party etiquette.

For example.
When you tell me that your products are bought by celebrities (!), you've actually triggered my defense against this culturally accepted obsession of imitating starving Hollywood women.

After that, I just need you to pass me the cheese tray.
I definitely don't want your bangles; your charms.

When you tell me that your product is electroplated seven times (!) I want to pressure you into admitting that the fancy rhetoric is supposed to make me feel like I'm buying Lady Di's jewels. I smell a rat. Electrocuted.

Pushing these themes further, you've indicated that purchasing jewellery in the kitchen of my cousin is actually investing in my future. If I were less irritable, this may have captured my full attention. I worry about the future. With words like "rhodium"; "top-selling"; and "exciting"; I wish I was ready to become the next hostess; nay, the next consultant!! This just might be that investment into the future that will pay my children's tuition; their travels to the four corners of the world; my retirement; his retirement; the roof on the house!

But, alas. Cynicism rears her bullish head.
I could never be a team player.
Quitting my gritty day job to peddle rhodiums in strangers living rooms while sipping their sangria. Insidious.
Promoting a lifetime of hoarding semi-costume jewels.

I should be happy that you're able to give up your monotonous day job performing laser eye surgery in order to loaf about balancing grapes and wine on tiny cocktail napkins in the homes of unsuspecting strangers.

Instead I offer you a simple truce: ban me from your parties; your wares; your catchy ice breaker games and your free prizes (with the purchase of twenty four earrings, bracelets, and hangy bits that you don't really like) and I promise not to become a consultant. I won't rise to unit leader. I won't rob you of potential sales. And just to prove to you my sincerity, I won't even buy a single bangle out of your glossy catalogue.

I guess I'm just gracious that way.


janice said...

I believe multilevel marketing is the work of the devil - and I don't even believe in the devil.

You said this so much more articulately.

Word verification: Cackato. Cackato to all home MLM schemes. Double cackato to 'self-improvement' schemes that use 'graduates' for slave labour and call them volunteers.

janice said...

Dear Home child-care consultant;

Adding that hyphenatated word makes all the difference, and you are a saint, in my humble opinion. I just got word from a colleague that she had to run across the street (we are working from home, Alberta snow wusses) and watch the kids because her home child-care consultant (aka saint) had to be rushed to the hospital. If I was rushed to the hospital, nobody would have to run anywhere and it would take days before anybody at work noticed.

To all the saints out there who care for short people, us mothers appreciate you greatly. Whether you care for them in school, home, church, camp . . . you are underpaid and under recognized. THANK YOU. You helped grow my short person into a tall wonderful semi-adult.

Brandy said...

Love it!

mmichele said...

i was just about to invite you to a tupperware party.

well then, i shan't.

but what if it was a home thrift store party? would you come then!?

(oh i suppose that's a garage sale...)


joyce said...

Well. You've got me there.
I couldn't quite weave it into the blog post, but you've offered a segue.

"Our jewellery has a lifetime guarantee- if it falls apart or you lose a lid, we'll replace it-- JUST LIKE TUPPERWARE!!" were roughly her precise words.

I know this. Because i took notes.

I'll come to your thrift store party. I'll even become a consultant! I'll start my training immediately.

cackato to all else, I say! CaCKa too!

You're all invited to a party at my house where we all try to sell each other things. All at the same time, so whoever throws the catchiest party game or the biggest jprizes or the loudest voice will win.

Then we'll drown our sorrows.
In the wine
that you'll have to buy

Anonymous said...


The Naked Chef

Anonymous said...

ha ha ha ha ha ha, this is SO great. I just wanna be a unit leader. AND I wanna have jewelery just like the chicks in Hollywood. Big thanks to our friend, the party hostess for providing SO much fun on a Tuesday night!

Valerie Ruth said...

oh my word, i'm cracking up at 5 AM even though i'm insanely uncomfortable. i've always silently rebelled against parties such as these by just not attending. early in our marriage someone tried to get us into amway. tricked us into a "movie night" of their choice in MY house. i walked out.

Mary KG said...

Hey, wanna come to an epicure party at my house? Celebreties eat these dips, AND you get to eat crackers and cheese DIPS!! Sold by my own beautiful Amanda!

Anonymous said...

Oh girl....hate them dang home it :) L-lew

joyce said...

and here I was worried I'd have an army of consultants banging down my door.... It seems I've rather touched a nerve, my irritable friends?!

VR- I would have bought A TONNE of Amway from you too. Ah well, your loss.....

epicure we can eat. That's one of my favourite love languages.
How about wine parties? now that's just sensible. Or affordable casserole parties? Or here's a clever idea; Let's just invite our friends over to ENJOY THEM!!


Roo said...