wabby's picture

    How I Ruined A Saturday Afternoon

    I went to a garden party.
    Rick Nelson wasn’t there.

    There was no music of any kind.
    Just mounds of Tupperware.

    My hostess was a woman,
    A stranger to me I’m afraid.
    I was dragged to this thing by my cousin’s wife
    To benefit her Lady’s Aid

    A fundraiser to generate money
    We give till we can’t give no more
    The cash is for widows and orphans
    To keep them from banging at your door.

    So, I said I would go to the stupid thing
    I’m sorry now I spoke up
    ‘Cause the very last thing I needed to buy
    Was an indestructible plastic cup.

    I asked, “Can’t I just give them money?”
    “Must I really buy some of this crap?”
    Jenny gave me a look that spoke volumes.
    ”Well, I can tell you’ve done missed yer nap.”

    She told me to go look at the flowers
    On the tables decorated so nice
    There were pumpkins and gourds and harvesty things
    There was no need to tell me twice.

    A perky young woman with freckles
    Offered me something to drink
    It was orange and had things floating in it
    I poured it down the sink.

    I don’t drink things festooned with floaters
    I’ve always been funny like that
    Unless, of course, it’s got alcohol
    To kill germs that would want to attack

    So I filled a wee plate with fresh veggies
    I knew they would give me the gas
    But I hoped I’d be far away from this place
    When it was time to let the gas pass.

    I sat down at one of the tables
    And made conversation bland and polite
    With a woman adorned by a hairdo
    Better worn on a Halloween night.

    Then I went and looked at the plastic
    And debated on what I should buy
    A thing that holds pickles and olives?
    Or containers in endless supply?

    I didn’t need or want either one
    And though the displays were appealing
    There was nothing there that took my fancy
    The choices sent me reeling.

    I looked for Jenny and found her
    To ask her if it was time to go.
    But she said, “Are you nuts?  Are you kidding?
    “There’s games to play, don’t cha know!”

    “Oh, shit!”  I said to myself.
    No one said a thing about games before.
    Just how much longer am I expected to suffer
    Before I escape through the door?

    “I’m not playing,” I said and sat down with a plop
    Next to the lady with the scary hairdo.
    “I don’t blame you,” the woman mumbled.
    “I don’t play those damn games, too.”

    So we sat and we talked about gardens
    And how crappy the weather had been
    While all the other ladies in the room
    Passed an orange from chin to chin.

    Finally, it was time to go.
    I bought no Tupperware.
    But left a donation with the Lady’s Aid
    I was glad to get out of there!

    Jenny was grumpy all the way home.
    I was a Tupperware party pooper.
    “This is the last time I’m bringing you!” she said.
    “Woo hoo!” I thought, “ That’s super!”

    You’d think that folks would know by now,
    I’m not the afternoon tea party sort.
    These attempts to try and civilize me
    Have become somewhat of a sport.

    They’ll always fail; they’ll never win
    I like the way I am.
    I like that I don’t play those games
    Or buy things because I can.

    I’m a Tupperware party pooper
    But, please, don’t get me wrong
    I’m not so anti-social
    If the right party comes along.

    If you’re gonna have a party
    And invite me to join in
    For cripe’s sake…play some music!
    And pass around the gin.


    This piece of bad poetry was the result of me being determined to have a bad time and succeeding. I will contend that I was tricked. I was told it was a fundraiser for a local women's shelter. Nobody said a damn word about Tupperware. I only learned the truth on the drive there.

    So, yeah.... I was little grumpy. It's not that I hate Mr. Tupper or his over priced ware, it's just a principle I have that if an entity needs donated funds, just ask. Please don't try to entice me with 'incentives'.



    I hate those things and loved your poem.  I've never understood fund-raising parties.  Do they really get more money that way?  I can tolerate certain fund raising gatherings, but never, ever try to get me to play games.  It won't be pretty.

    They money they receive is miniscule. After everyone gets their cut from a $30 plastic tub, if they make a dollar off the sale to go towards whatever they are fundraising for, I'd be surprised. These things are more of an afternoon social event than an actual fundraiser. That's why I'd just rather give a monetary donation.

    I haven't been to any kind of a party like that since the mid 1980's.  I only have 4 pieces of tupperware left from the 1970's.  I use the green lettuce crisper all the time.  It is close to being 50 years old. I had to look up tupperware to see what their products look like now.  The guy who invented it died in the late 80's.  

    Nice poem.  

    I honestly didn't think Tupperware parties were even being held anymore! It was the 80's for me, too. But, by golly, they are still going strong especially in the rural Midwest. Those church ladies will use any excuse to have a 'hot dish' get together.

    I still have a mixer bowl with a spout and a handle that used to belong to my grandmother. It's got to be from the mid sixties. I use it all the time for pancake batter.

    You may poop at the tupperware, but do not poo-poo your poem.  It is funny and wonderful!   Our idiosyncrasies become endearing when turned into Art.  So thank you for the laughs and the funny poem. And don't ever stop going to parties that give you such great material.

    It's difficult for me to call it Art with a capital A, but you know Mr. Smith, the older I get the more comfortable I am with idiosyncrasies. Mine and everyone else's.


    I love Flower's poem.

    But damn.

    There is something about tupperware. hahHHh

    Too wonderful! This is the poetry I grew up writing - lyrical and expressive. But I never attained the level of conversational tone or genuine humor that you have here. It's a relaxed read that's so hard to manage within a poetic structure, while also creating a complete story ... my hat's off to you, flower!

    (Is there such a thing as a good "purpose" party? Either it's erstwhile with a purpose or it's a good party - never to be confused.)

    Any poetry I wrote when I was young was absolutely horrible in its earnestness. So I stopped. Then, when I hit my mid 50's I just said screw it and started writing bad poetry that made me happy.

    Returning to my roots, I guess, when my Dad taught me this little gem:

    I eat my peas with honey.

    I've done it all my life.

    It makes the peas taste funny.

    But, it keeps them on the knife.


    To stoop to low-brow humor

    Just to keep myself entertained

    Is the height of conceit and madness

    But it tickles me all the same

    I know there's no rhyme or reason

    That would justify how I act

    You'll just have to take my word for it

    It's either this or a heart attack

    Some defuse situations with humor

    I dispense permutations of rhyme

    It's easy to jest

    But I'm doing my best

    To keep my behavior from getting out of line

    It's all right there

    I learned my Tupper wear

    You can't plead every synth

    That goes on your kitchen shelf

    Yes! I became Tupperworn!

    What's past is past, what's done is done. I feel torn in two, nothing to do. I wish I'd never been born.

    Very nice, Flower.

    You will always be my Tupperwoman.


    don't lend Tupperware.

    what was leftover soup now's

    bone of contention.


    A grueling ordeal or thin soup..

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