I got your friend request on Wednesday, and even though I barely remembered you from high school, I accepted. Approximately 19 seconds later, I got the notification that I had been added to your “Super Special Essentially Sensual Scented Thirty-One Thrive Jamberry Jamboree!” Facebook group.
Yeah, me, along with 400 of your other
hapless victims close friends.
Here’s the thing —
You seem nice, or rather you did nineteen seconds ago, so I’m going to cut right to the chase: I’m not buying any of the crap you’re peddling. The jewelry, the nails, the skincare, the candles, the LIFESTYLE. Now, before you get your $75 CAbi panties in a twist, let me explain: I’ve done my time. I’ve given my money. I used to be nice, too, and I used to say “yes” to the buying of all the stuff. But you know what happens after that? It. Never. Stops. I’m done. I don’t even buy from people I ACTUALLY KNOW and LOVE anymore, so get out of here with that. Listen, I get it! You want independence; a way to make your own money from home. I’m super happy that you’ve found a “sisterhood,” as you call it. Sounds like you’ve discovered an amazing cult, er…company you love. Really. Just leave me and my wallet out of it, please.
I will lose my shit if I am added to one more damn Facebook group. What is with all these groups? Am I a friend or a prospect? No means no. I don’t want to go to yet another party in my neighborhood to make small talk with a woman I’m pretty sure I flipped off in the carpool line earlier today. All while you guilt me into buying yet another purse I will never use, just because I stress binged all your spicy Buffalo chicken dip. Again. Telling me there will be “plenty of booze” is not an incentive. I can drink at home, believe me, and I don’t have to put on pants. I bet you want me to wear a bra and everything. Not happening.
You know who never asks me to put on pants? Amazon Prime.
No. I don’t want to “just try” your free samples. I don’t want to buy a fajita pan, much less turquoise from your kitchen island. No one wears that much turquoise unless they are planning retirement in Santa Fe. I really don’t want to try on clothes using your hall closet as a dressing room. A large gathering of chatty women combined with 30 varieties of smelly candles makes me want to hurl. You lost 30 pounds on Shakeology? That’s awesome. Good for you. You know damn well those shakes taste like vegan sadness. Rubbing oil on my neck is not going to magically fix my thyroid. Oh, are you a doctor now, too? And the trunk of your Ford Escape is your office? Seems legit.
Also? I don’t want 3-D lashes. Your face looks like a tarantula exhibit. There, I said it. Someone had to. “It Works!” Does it? If one body wrap works for you, that’s great. You know what else works? Spanx. Just bought some online. Pantsless. Boom.
I’m not going to try the skincare. I’m not giving it 30 days. I could put Elmer’s glue on my face for thirty days, then take a picture and see a major difference. I have Photoshop, too. I’m sticking with my Olay from the grocery store, thanks — only now I have to shop like a freaking ninja, in case you are lurking one aisle over in feminine care, ready to pounce with an “amazing opportunity” to host one of these shit-shows. Please, for the love, just STFU about your MLM, k?
But the real thing that chaps me (there’s an oil for that!!) is not the parties or products themselves. Some are very good, I’m sure. The products are secondary. It’s the exploiting of friendships to gain new recruits that really squicks me out. You are selling your friends, period. The whole thing reeks of a coconut-scented pyramid scheme, no matter how pretty the package. This is just my opinion, of course; I could be wrong. Heh. In fact, TELL me I’m wrong! I’d love to hear the success stories, and how the dolla dolla bills, y’all are rolling in. Also, just wondering… how much money has gone out? Hmm? Tell me how happy you are, how you are a super successful MOMTREPRENEUR, and I’ll try to control my eye twitch every time you use the word “momtrepreneur.”
No rush — you can call me when you get back from your all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.
In closing, to sum up and come full circle on this…
If you send me one more Jamberry party invite, imma Jamberry my foot up your ass.
So, OK then — good talk. Buh bye.
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