Having fun in the bargain

At 8 on a recent muggy night, a gray Colonial on the Swampscott shoreline is raucous and rowdy with the sounds of women.

There are five of them, dressed in colorful Capri pants and flip-flops.

As they nibble nachos and sip wine from glasses fizzing with lime, there's laughter, gossip, and wisecracking. They trade recipes, tell jokes about politicos, poke fun at Britney's baby blunders, and complain about the North Shore's beat-your-head-against-the-steering-wheel traffic.

Oh -- and they get some shopping out of the way, too.

Displayed on coffee tables in front of them are plastic doohickeys of all shapes and capabilities: airtight rectangles, festively blue chip-and-dip trays, and choppers that dice unsuspecting onions to bits. A consultant shows them off, one by one, occasionally steering the conversation with ``But back to Tupperware . . ."

``We do bill it as a girls' night out," Sharon Lagunilla, hawker of the famous plastic products, explained after the party dispersed. ``It's a great excuse for people to get together."

Home parties -- known more formally as direct selling -- started 70 years ago in the home of the Betty Crocker mom.

Today they've exploded into a multibillion-dollar business because they appeal to a different buyer : The multitasking, on-the-go woman. Home parties provide the tri-fold service of a night out, a time to socialize, and, most important, the opportunity to splurge.

These days, almost anything is available from the convenience of the living room couch: lingerie, candles, cookware, jewelry, golf clubs, tools, and pocketbooks.

You can also buy clothing, shoes, cosmetics, accessories for the furry pals (playfully dubbed Pupperware), skin care products, and toys -- both the G-rated and X-rated .

``It's just a different way to shop," said West Newbury native Karen Rainford, who sells PartyLite candles and accessories. ``Shop from your seat, not your feet."

Parties of the interactive variety integrate scrapbooking and crafts, makeovers, manicures, pedicures, and foot baths.

In practice, salespeople entice hostesses to invite friends and family over for a soiree.

The hostess, in turn, gets a percentage of free and discounted merchandise.

Generally, items sold at parties are not available at stores. But in some cases, people can get an intimate encounter with more mainstream products. Several well-established retail companies, such as the Body Shop, Aerosoles, Crayola, and Jockey, have integrated direct selling into their sales plans.

``It's a really dynamic industry," said Amy Robinson, spokeswoman for the Direct Sales Association, the industry's trade organization. ``It provides the kind of personal service that you have a hard time finding in a traditional retail store these days."

Direct sales started back in the 1930s, when Stanley Home Products salesmen decided to ditch door-to-door commerce for more organized affairs in living rooms, according to a piece published by pbs.org, the website of the Public Broadcasting Service. In the following decade, inventor Earl Tupper introduced his namesake Tupperware, the most notable of which was a ``wonderbowl" complete with the famous burping seal.

According to the Direct Sales Association, home parties nationwide pulled in about $29.7 billion in 2004, nearly double the 1994 total of $16.5 billion.

Salespeople have also grown by impressive numbers.

In 1994, there were 6.3 million nationwide; 10 years later, there were 13.6 million.

Generally, the gatherings include a brief demonstration of the items; consultants will also give a spiel about the benefits of becoming a seller. Games and prizes often jazz up the proceedings.

Other functions ditch the demo and instead maintain a browse-and-carouse atmosphere.

In either case, they're rarely dull.

Take a recent PartyLite candle party at Maria Carney's third-floor apartment in Salem.

After the guests mingled and chit-chatted -- some arriving fashionably late, of course -- they assembled in a tiny living room to play ``the numbers game."

How it worked: Rainford rattled off the alphabet, letter by letter, as guests retrieved items from their purses that began with corresponding characters.

The fastest rummagers were given tickets later applied to discounted merchandise.

Rainford, bouncing back and forth on bare feet and talking with her hands, announced each letter amid rustling and giggles.

As she proceeded, she lit candles -- sitting in frosted glass goblets and multi-tiered crystal structures that could have been designed by a mini-Guggenheim.

``The letter E," she said, glancing around the room.

``I've got `everything' in my purse," one woman replied as she dumped out the contents of her bag: tiny bits of scrap paper, business cards, a pink wallet, and a small cylinder of Blistex.

Finally she got her hands around a crumpled envelope.

Rainford retrieved it and continued. ``The letter P."

``I got a pen," someone else blurted out as she fished a ballpoint from her pocketbook and handed it over.

The game continued through most of the alphabet; there was much chortling of laughter, interjecting of anecdotes, and naughty conversation.

Later, the women munched on tiny sandwiches and Italian cake, facing difficult decisions as they sniffed dozens of candles with exotic names like ``teakwood and cardamom" and ``apricot basil."

``It's an excuse to come down and see everybody I know," Aileen Dodge of Dover, N.H., said as she flipped through a catalog and tallied up her total.

Carly Green of Gloucester, meanwhile, embraced the opportunity to stock up on her favorite PartyLite candles.

``Oh my God, I'm going to be in trouble," she lamented. ``I spent a lot of money."

Her total for the night? $100. But, she noted, ``it's worth it. It's a night out."

Those who attended the Swampscott Tupperware party were of a similar mind -- if it meant quality time with the girls, they were willing to dish out the dough.

``You can't go to Target, sit down, have drinks, and look at a catalog," said host Mary O'Keefe.

She has three young children, and the hurly-burly nature of raising them doesn't leave her much time to shop.

``You can be with friends, have fun, and socialize," she said. ``What more could you ask for?"

Similar raves came from guest Connie Brown. The Swampscott native works in Boston, and after the tiring, congested commute home, she's not usually in the mood to wander through store aisles. The party provided her the rare occasion to shop.

``I'll spend more than anybody else, I'll tell you that right now," she said as she surveyed the damage on her order sheet.

She passed it to Lagunilla, mumbling, ``Add it up, but don't say it out loud."

Lagunilla nodded. ``Oh, I never do."

(It was well over $100, Brown divulged later.) She shrugged. ``I'm low on Tupperware."