Do not forget your checkbook

Most men probably have never been to a home party, but I’ll bet their wives have. It’s one of the necessary evils of suburban life.
At a home party, women gather in a friend’s home to view a presentation by a product consultant who will make them wonder how they’ve lived this long without that product.
Since I moved here 17 years ago, I’ve been to most every kind of party there is, beginning with a Longaberger basket party the first year I was married. These baskets are intricately made, which means “expensive.”
In that budget-conscious newlywed year, I forever ruined my husband’s view of home parties by purchasing what is still known in our house as “THE $65 basket.”
The key to a successful home party is the consultant, who, if she knows what she is doing, will suck you in with stories of how the company founder built his fortune one odd job at a time. She will impress you with tales of how, with a quick change of the machine-washable liner, one basket can serve as an ice bucket or, say, a baby cradle, and you suddenly think you need three of them.
Since then, I’ve enjoyed eating snacks and looking over products ranging from jewelry to developmental toys, books, candles, oil paintings and kitchen gadgets.
Which brings me to the Pampered Chef party. If you ever are invited to one, you should go because the consultant prepares food. The samples are worth enduring your husband’s eye roll.
Working as a consultant enables stay-home moms to make money, and the parties give us another reason to get together and talk. As if we needed one.
Not everyone loves them, though. I have a friend who once announced to our group, “Please do not ever invite me to a home party. It will not hurt my feelings, but I will not come, so save yourself the postage.” What a refreshing, straightforward approach.
Like baby showers, I haven't been invited to as many home parties lately. I'm mostly in the graduation gift-buying market.
Husbands usually speak derisively of home parties, probably because a) they either have to clear out of the house for 2 hours or entertain the kids and b) they’re jealous because there aren’t any home parties geared toward men.
I can just see my husband and his friends munching tomato-basil pizza squares and chatting up the merchandise the way we do.
“Dude, you should so get that Weed Eater. It would be perfect for that tight spot between your mailbox and the curb.”
“Yes, and those UT floormats you picked really bring out the brown fleck in your car upholstery.”
Copyright 2004