On Lightheartedness and Tupperware...

I've been a blog grouch lately and feel it's time for some lighter fare.

On Tupperware…

There exists an unfortunate misconception that women actually enjoy Tupperware parties; or any “product-parties” for that matter. A woman can attend a “party” for anything: lingerie, candles, baby toys, small tropical lizards—it doesn’t matter—someone, somewhere, is giving a “party” for it and women are blindly ordering a half-dozen mauve geckos with a matching service tray.

Though these almost ritualistic gatherings carry the “party” moniker, they are frankly little more fun than experimenting with that home liposuction system you ordered from Candi of the shop-at-home network after staying up way too late eating Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby…that’s just really fun to say… Chubby Hubby.

Theoretically, someone—a man—decided the word “party” would convince people—women—to crowd onto someone’s lumpy sectional, drink generic coffee, purchase overpriced plastic gizmos (all major credit cards accepted) and have “fun.” Though it worked for the first Tupperware fete; those pioneering women quickly realized, from the ditzy Tupperware Lady’s first ice-breaker torture activity, that they were in for hours of unadulterated hell.

Given that these gatherings are unpleasant, one might wonder why this method of marketing prevails. The primary reason is free stuff. When you attend these “parties” you are told that, if you then host a “party,” you’ll receive free stuff when your guests order products. This is how the product “party” survives. Other women, who want free stuff, sign up to be a future hostess in the hopes she’ll score piles of free stuff; or at least obtain the miniature sandwich saver keychain, offered by the desperate Tupperware Lady, to anyone who’ll agree to have a party--whether she has a home or not.

Now the gullible new hostess inherits the problem of coercing women (who have just incidentally attended the previous party) to attend her “party.” Several major research institutions have studied the process by which women are enticed to attend these events, but they could never pin it down; likely because men conducted the research and there’s no way a man could possibly understand this phenomenon.

Allow me to explain. Predictably, the first invitees are a hostess’s close friends and relatives because they are compelled to attend by an ancient sacred Code. Prehistoric women developed The Code long ago when a Rocks-That-Happen-To-Be-Shaped-Like-Bowls “Party” ended in a riot because the hostess’s sister no-showed (with some pathetic excuse like having her arm torn off by a saber-toothed tiger, or something). Somewhere near Duluth, one can visit the historical landmark where blood and coffee stains forever grace the cave walls.

The new hostess also invites some lesser-friends. While these women do not fall under The Code, they will likely attend to “be nice,” get away from the kids, and pick up that Effortless Egg-Cracker, introduced last month. Ms. Hostess knows the lesser-friends will invite their own close friends, or relatives—relying on The Code—to go to the shindig with them so they don’t have to be at a “party” where they “don’t know anyone.” Now, 10 to 100 women have agreed to gather in someone’s living room for an event from which everyone will leave with a headache the approximate size of Guatemala.

To be fair, I must note that one positive thing did transpire from my attendance at a “party.” I won a serrated grapefruit spoon in a drawing and it is excellent for eating kiwi fruits. Thus goes the first basic law of Tupperware: You never use the items for what they were originally intended. Like, if it is a Deviled Egg Caddy, you’ll use it to knead bread.

The second law is: Food will taste better if it is removed from its original container and stored in expensive plastic gizmos that’ll give your cupboard or fridge and “elegant yet functional sense of style.” For example, a Pickle-Keeper is offered in an attempt to keep you from making the grave mistake of leaving your sweet gherkins in the obsolete glass jar, whereby you may have to use a time-consuming fork to get them out.

The third basic law, and likely the most vital, is that Tupperware must be burped so that it doesn’t spit up before you put it down for a nap.

The sellers of Tupperware claim that it will restore order to your kitchen. In reality, everyone has one cupboard dedicated to the renegade polymer containers, where they are organized carefully via chaos theory. No one wants to venture into the recesses of the cabinet, so the most available unit is used for everything. A juice pitcher may serve as both an Egg Scrambler and a Chip-n-Dip tray. The other Tupperware is quite happy with this arrangement because it can hang out, play poker, and taunt the Rubbermaid.

On Black Gold and HP...

There is an icon blinking in my systray. It sounds like a personal problem and it is one, but there is a solution. It’s time to change my printer’s colored ink cartridge (uh…ink cartridge of color). However, I have not done so, though it’s been blinking for three weeks.

I’ve grown sort of attached to it; like it’s a little friend, or hostage. It flashes from miniature picture of printer to miniature picture of the earth-next-to-a-yellow-caution-triangle. Who comes up with these icons? It’s hungry…hungry for color, and I deny it every day. No color, no color for you. Mwahahahaha! (evil laugh).

I’m procrastinating because printers are obnoxious. First of all, the ink is priced like it’s some sort of rare, non-renewable resource. It is excruciatingly painful to purchase an ink cartridge, especially one of color, because I can’t begin to imagine how ink can possibly be worth that much money. So I’ve become a printing miser; only allowing my friends and family to print using the “fast draft” option. They are only allowed to print when it’s absolutely necessary, and multiple paged documents must be printed 4 to a page. Hey, they can read it with a magnifying glass, ok? They’ll live.

Besides, when you go to the local Officey Mega-Depot-Max-Mart, the ink is kept behind the customer service desk. So you can’t shoplift it. If it wasn’t so expensive, nobody would even think of shoplifting ink. Instead, you have to grovel with the clerk to get just the right number for your particular printer and, HP forbid, you neglect to remember your printer name and number (which is usually something like the 45983D-Z~Printpro 500x.2 SuPerPhoToMax G12-1972abceasyas123.), because you’ll never figure out which cartridge number goes with it. The clerk gets all flustered and won’t share the look-up book with you, even though you know you could probably figure it out if you could only spend a moment flipping through the pictures to locate your bad-boy. The clerk gets all haughty, “Well is it a PrintPro or a Photopro? Jet or lazer? Did you read the instruction manual? Do you know anything?” And then I say something like, “I went to college minimum-wage boy, and if you’d hand over the stupid guide book, I’d be able to throw it at you.”

Eventually, I get the ink ingot home and it’s time to put it into my printer. However, I open up the font and it starts to have seizures; buzzing back and forth, blinking lights, the display reprimands “CAUTION PRINTER HOOD OPEN! MISSILES WILL LAUNCH IN 10 SECONDS, 9, 8, 7…” I reach for the empty unit, unlatch it and remove it, carefully, like I’m performing internal surgery. An attractive nurse dabs my forehead. I transplant the new cartridge in and all appears fine, until I close the hatch. Now the thing hums, stops and beeps long and hard. In the display it says, “PRINT CARTRIDGE INSERTED IMPROPERLY YOU MORON. WHY DON’T YOU READ THE MANUAL, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE.” So, I open the hood, remove the cartridge, shove it back in a few times, and close it up. It whimpers, but otherwise appears to be satisfied.

My computer pipes up next with an ultra helpful utility window that proudly announces, “A new printer cartridge has been installed!!” No, really? You don’t say! Then it asks, “Align printer cartridges?” It all seems so innocent and meaningful and I think, “Sure, I can see how that’s important;” but when I click OK the printer once again freaks out and then, to my horror, starts PRINTING! Printing a lot. Printing page after page of high quality colored dots, squares, Mona Lisa’s, numbers, letters, tildes, punctuation cussing….It won’t stop, it’s using all the ink I just bought for it…cancel, cancel, cancel…I’m frantically mousing the cancel button on my computer. I try the cancel button on the printer but it laughs at me…beep ha ha, beep ha ha. I turn it off, which stops it, but when I turn it on again, it keeps going! Ahhhhhhhhh. Then suddenly, it stops. I now have a booklet of fresh photo-quality colored gibberish and all is quiet. I cry.

So go ahead and blink at me. I know what you’re up to ambiguous icon, and I’m not falling for it, you ink vampire. I’ll change you when I’m darned tootin’ ready and not a minute sooner. Beep, ha ha.

mln