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Hey ladies, he can keep leftovers fresh

June 17, 2004|Dog Davis | Special to The Times

My friend Max, a woman, asked me, "What do you think of Tupperware?"

Being a guy, my answer was, "I think of it as little as possible."

"I'm hosting my first Tupperware party this Saturday," said Max, "and I want to throw it at your place. It's bigger than mine."

Yeah, right. A Tupperware party was the last thing I wanted to sit through.

Then she added, "I'll be bringing some women."

OK, she had me. Getting women into my Bungalow of Love is half the battle. If Max brought some, I could certainly set up a few folding chairs to accommodate them.

The next day Max sent me a copy of the invitation. It said I was making soup.

"Who said I was making soup?"

"Don't you always make soup for your parties?"

True, I had been host of some parties at which I had delighted guests with my incredible soup-making prowess. But those were soup parties, not Tupperware parties. I put my foot down. "No soup!"

"Fine," said Max, "I just figured the girls would love to know what a wonderful cook you are."

She had me again. But only two pots! I had to draw the line.

Saturday arrived. Max showed up with a cute, young Tupperware Lady, who, strangely, was also named Max. My friend Max explained that Tupperware Max would lead the demonstrations while she, Friend-Max, would do the hosting. I was already confused, so I excused myself to the kitchen to pour soup.

The guests arrived and I got a rude awakening. Besides the two Maxes, there were only two other women. The rest were men. Men? I didn't sign on for this -- Friend-Max misled me. I switched from pouring soup to drinking beer.

Then Tupper-Max began to do her thing. I was lured in by her Tupper testimonial. Personal tales of salad staying crisp for days. Humorous anecdotes about durability. By the time she mentioned ABS -- the Automatic Burping System -- I was hooked.

She made a chocolate-coconut cake in my microwave using a silicone bundt pan. I had never baked a cake in my life, but after a few bites, I was ready to become a dessert chef. Microwave cake making was not only doable, but desirable.

Then it hit me: I had agreed to this party to bring women into my world, but somehow I had been drawn into theirs. As much as I liked the melon-baller and citrus-peeler they gave me, it was time to let my testosterone kick in.

There were women in my living room in a blissful soup-sated state, and it was time to make my move.

Sadly, of the two female guests, one lived in San Francisco and the other had a boyfriend whom she brought with her.

That left the two Maxes. They're both attractive, smart women with fun, interesting lives, but I just couldn't make my move. Why? Because I know they sell Tupperware on weekends.

As much as I try to deny it, I can never get close to a Tupperware Lady.

Deep down, I'm a Rubbermaid Man.


Dog Davis can be reached at

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