If you think crack cocaine is the most addictive substance on the planet, you have never heard of Tupperware.
The GM Finance held her very own Tupperware Party last night to earn points and support an innocent, young niece who has now been infected with the T-bug.
While there are similarities between crack addiction and Tupperware addiction, there are some major differences.
For example, if you run a crack house, it’s just fine for dead bodies and rats and furniture to be piled up all over the place. Occasional gun fights and stabbings are also acceptable. The only requirement is that you have cash money to pay for your crack.
Tupperware party requirements are much stricter.
To have a Tupperware Party you have to have muffins. Lots and lots of muffins. And finger food. And drinks in cute little glasses. And the host has to STRESS ALL DAY LONG about getting the house JUST perfect for the 7 p.m. party.
In addition to the heavenly smells of muffins, a T-house also has two unmistakable odors that, in the beginning, are faint, but nearer to show time, would choke a bull moose.
These are the scent of estrogen and man-hate.
About mid-afternoon, while hiding in my office, minding my own business, I heard a soft knocking at my door.
I opened it to find hundreds of basketball-sized, pastel-colored estrogen molecules happily bouncing down the hall.
I glanced at the kitchen table. Just perfect. Set for the Queen.
I then did what any man would do.
I grabbed my car keys and cellphone and ran for my life.
I knew it was only a matter of time before the Tupperware junkies filled my home, and the levels of estrogen and Tupperware would be incinerate any many on contact, leaving only the lovely smell of pot potpourri.
So I drove to one mall and had dinner.
Then another mall to have a coffee, read the paper, and people watch.
Then I stopped by the church to get down on my knees to pray before venturing home.
But, at 11p.m., lady cars still filled the street outside my house, so I put the pedal to the metal.
Back to the church for more bracing prayer.
As I approached my house the next time, I saw car headlights pointing in all directions.
I had a split second to react, else I would be captured by a gaggle of glassy-eyed, Tupperwared-up women, including the TUPPERWARE LADY, who was driving off in the biggest Ford (10 million quart, totally resealable, and in a variety of springtime colors) Explorer I have ever seen.
And, Mister, she drove that beast with authority and $700 in her pocket.
When I finally returned home, after FIVE HOUSE of female T-addiction, everything was EXACTLY where it should be.
The odor of happy hormones and money well spent filled the air.
Thankfully, there were enough muffins left to get me through the G.M Finance’s mandatory play-by-play of the hugely successful party.
- Most of these women (over 50) were at another T-Party one week ago, yet they still spent over $700!!
- I am not sure what Tupperware is made of, but it must be gold or titanium or magic unicorn horn
- The GM Finance explained how the buying stampede began when she opened her fridge and whipped out a Tupperware container holding celery that was TWO WEEKS OLD yet still crisp and fresh. I can confirm this is true. She made me look and touch it.
- Then, she did the same thing with the mushrooms. Despite a week, or a month, or a year in the fridge, I forget which, though it DOES NOT MATTER WITH TUPPERWARE, the mushrooms are still mushroom perfection.
- Because my wife hosted this Tupperware party, she got, OMG, POINTS AND FREE GIFTS!!!
- To my untrained eye, the gifts were three strainer-looking things, a lid, and a string, all with the TUPPERWARE LIFETIME WARRANTY!!
Now, dear reader, I have stood side-by-side with Texas lawmen at 2 a.m. as they handcuffed a doped-up, double murderer, and I showed that man my obvious contempt.
But, last night, you can bet that I smiled and nodded and said, “That’s great dear” until the G.M. Finance lost her Tupperware Buzz about 4 a.m.
And, even though I had an overpowering male need to walk through the house, smoking a cigar, drinking beer and scratching myself — to rebalance the male-female hormonal balance in my home — I did not for two reasons.
First, I do not have a death wish. And until residual Tupperware molecules are flushed from the G.M. Finance’s system, such an act would lead to my painful death.
Second, to achieve the rebalancing, I need to spent this afternoon eating bean nachos, drinking beer and watching the Oklahoma Sooners hand Johnny Football his ass in his little Aggie helmet (or possibly not, stupid Aggies).
Then and only then will I be prepared to do what has to be done.
To walk from room to room, smoking, drinking, crop-dusting, and rebalancing the universe.