During my first pregnancy, I was a Body Shop at Home Consultant. Somehow, I ended up getting parties way, way out of my area. After work, I had my kit already packed up and ready to go.
The kit for the foot soak parties are extensive, and this particular party had about 18 or so guests, which meant: 18 foot tubs, in addition to all the body creams, face cream line, foot care line, catalogs, order sheets and so on…very heavy and lots of it.
I arrived on time (just barely) and was already exhausted just from being 8 months pregnant.
I looked around for the exact street number and, wouldn’t you know? The house is up on a hill, no garage, and stairs that amounted to more than a flight to get to their front door.
I called up to let the host know I was outside and was sort of hoping for a little help with my bags, or maybe an outside light and a propped door; none of which occurred. I lugged 3 bags, 3 separate trips up this towering stair walkway and still was not greeted. The Hostess just stared at me. I asked where she’d like me to set up and she said, "Well, where ever, I guess."
"Which room, I say?" She says, "I don’t know." Excellent. I made do, and it was fine, but seriously, the getting in and out of the house was completely awful. After the party, as I brought my bags down to the car, one by one, her husband kindly held the house door open for me. Not once did he offer to maybe carry a bag down. Did I mention it was December, frigid outside and everything was lined with snow and ice? Nice. I guess it sounds kind of crappy, because I was the Consultant...but really, not even a little sympathy for the roly-poly pregnant girl?
B., New Hampshire