Pink Caddy Nightmares

I hope that all the Mary Kay, Avon and other cosmetic salespeople are not offended when I say that you could not make me sell make-up even if you hung me up upside-down on a meat hook by my bootstraps and tickle-tortured me.

Let alone not wanting to sell make-up, I honestly believe I really couldn't sell make-up. You wouldn't ask Pavarotti for weight-loss advice. You wouldn't make Elmer Fudd your math tutor. And you wouldn't want me to do your make-up. Especially since I take the all-or-nothing approach to getting gussied up. It's either pet-haired sweatpants, Alice Cooper tee shirt, unshaved legs, bandanna in my slightly-unkempt and moderately-Nick Nolte-looking hair ...OR... Tammy Faye Baker make-up, ironed-smooth hair, skirt, uncomfortable shoes that have been described as “tarted up”and only seventy-five percent of the pet hair that is with me on less tarted up days.

Nevertheless, the only people who would buy make-up from me would be either those who feel too guilty to say no or those who just want me to leave them alone already because I have hounded them relentlessly to make a purchase. I realized, however, that this is a relatively large number of people, or so I thought. I've done a lot of favors for people... Talked them out of unfortunate-looking body art. Burned them sweet mix CDs. Scooped their cats' litter while they were out of town. The least they could do is allow me to sell them cosmetics. Right?

Now, I have no interest in becoming a consultant. I know the consultants will tell you differently, but that all seems like an awful lot of w-o-r-k to me. No matter to me how rewarding it supposedly is.

However, one of my former teachers, Kristin, recently decided to become one, and so I was all for hosting her first party. She was more than just a teacher to me. She was my coach, confidant and cheerleader through all of my high schooling. She did a lot to mend the pieces of self-esteem that had been inevitably shattered by the junior high years. As junior high years just seem to do. So, in a small way, I hoped that hosting her party would somehow reciprocate the encouragement and get me some sweet make-up.

I invited over 30 guests via Facebook. I had every intention of making this the most make-up sellingist party that Kristin would ever have so that subsequent parties would seem like mere disappointments.

Alas, intentions were good. Results were not. I have never hosted a party with such an unintentionally-low attendance before. My mom made up fifty percent of my non-soliciting guests. Not even her delicious home-made brownies could reverse my disappointment and ultimate fear that I have, apparently, become a drag to be around. A party only a mother could love.

I checked my armpits. Not that stinky. I looked at the invitation. Clear directions were given. I don't think people dislike me as a person. And while hectic summer work schedules plague many of my friends, I think my low attendance boils down to the fact that cosmetics is a tough gig that many avoid.

Kristin, me, my mom, Susie and my cat seemed to have fun, even if I didn't make Kristin any sales. But I learned my lesson: cosmetic parties are for other people to host. Not me. Now, would anyone like to hear about the new line of Tupperware?