The Groupon Disaster

Remember Sunday mornings as a child? When mom would slave over a hot stove to make burnt french toast and insist we all eat as a family? That’s when you’d bring in the Sunday paper and everyone would descend to rip away their favorite part first (personally, I was after the comics). Mom always ended up with the scraps, or what we felt were the boring parts: the coupons. That didn’t phase her though! She’d pore over those for most of the morning neatly clipping ads for toothbrushes, steaks, and baby wipes. She would sound so happy about saving .19 cents on deodorant, it was confusing.

I remember thinking as a child: “That must be what it means to get old. You have to enjoy the coupons.”

Now that I’m older and pay my own way in life, I totally get the high that comes from saving a few pennies. It’s like you’ve won something, beat “the man” at his own game, and you’re sneaking away with the best deal ever. This is what makes Groupon so addicting. But, tell me please, have you ever found any addiction without its dark side?

Let me tell you about the recent burn I’ve received from Groupon-ing to illustrate.

I may have mentioned that I work in an entirely male environment? Boys home, male employees, men therapist-bosses? Very little estrogen. To remedy the obvious heartache this inflicts, the other estrogen related coworkers and I like to “get out”, as often as our schedule permits, to rebuild/rejuvenate/relax. As work has been extremely tense of late, we decided to take part in a manicure/pedicure “deal” found via Groupon.

What we expected:

•           A semi-swanky salon with calming décor, and maybe a little Kenny G playing in the background.
•           Those really cool massage chairs with the foot tubs. I mean, if Wal*Mart has ‘em, shouldn’t everyone?
•          A rainbow of colors to choose from as far as nail polish was concerned.
•           A little peace and quiet while we let all of our work stress seep out into the hot water at our feet.
•           Nail techs that spoke a language we understood. (I mean this last part with the least amount of prejudice, I assure you.)
•           To walk out of the salon feeling like we could pull off the last few weeks of sandal season with confidence and pride.

Not asking TOO much, right? I mean, we were willing to give a little on the Kenny G thing.

What we got:

•           A ghetto salon inside a strip mall with filthy floors, questionable utilities, and Carly Rae’s “Call Me Maybe” (radio’s newest rape victim, I mean chart topper.)
•           Office Max chairs with vibrating pillows at the back, a plastic liner placed in what looked like crock pots that nearly burned my piggies off.
•           7 Colors of nail polish.  5 of which I’m sure were part of my collection at home.
•           The entire, extremely detailed, scoop on the nail techs’ co-worker whose boyfriend just landed himself in prison (again) which was a source of huge distress for her. Same missing coworker has it tough because she has $16,000 in medical bills – THIS because the aforementioned boyfriend BROKE HER FACE.  As a BONUS we learned: What a hip piercing is, and how you get one. (Because one of the present nail-chicks was uncomfortable while her “skinny pants were munching her hip piercing”), And the other nail-chick’s husband has monkey feet.
•           Nail techs who spoke English, but made me prefer I didn’t. (See above)
•           One of the worst looking manicures/pedicures I’ve ever had.

I don’t feel like my standards are really that high either. My first ever pedicure I walked away with a flesh wound. I stepped into a hot tub with a shiv that took out part of my big toe, freaked out the Asian fellow assigned to my feet who immediately doused my toe in alcohol causing me to utter (for the first time ever) the glorious “F word”. At which point the small Asian man said “We do you manicure instead”. Even THAT manicure looked better than the paint I’m staring at in horror as I type this. One coat of copper, obviously smudged, cotton STUCK to the still sticky top coat—and I PAID FOR THIS!?! I think my co-workers 7 year old could have painted my nails better!

It was while I was browsing the Wal*Mart health and beauty section for polish remover that I really discovered I had been had. The money I thought I saved with the Groupon I was now spending to correct the error of my ways. No savings. I had actually lost. My ugly penny-copper nails were a painful reminder that sometimes saving a few pennies  just isn’t worth it.

-Mag

Cheaters never win … Ever.

I’m 27 years old. I have 3 diplomas which hang on my wall at home, I know how to budget and account for my own finances, I know how to spell words that sounded like magic spells when I was  5, and I know how to drive a car. This vast amount of knowledge would make a younger version of me stop and stare (what can I say? I was easily impressed as a child). But! Younger me and I had something in common, as far as knowledge gaps go, until just recently.

We both believed the state of Alaska was an Island... you know, completely surrounded by water. Like Australia or Hawaii. - - - I say this last bit to illustrate the fact that at least I know what an island really is, which perhaps makes the above obvious falsehood just that more tragic.

Oh, but I know the truth now. I had a conversation with a friend who plans to make a trip, by car, to Alaska in the coming months. When he told me, I just stared at him incredulously.

“What?” he said, confused my by disbelief.  

“You’re going to DRIVE to Alaska?” I said.

“It’s not THAT far. We’ve driven farther.” he said.

“Is there, like, a bridge or something?” I asked, seriously.

“What are you talking about? A bridge? I’m going up through Canada, I do have to cross the border there’s no way around that… no bridges.”

“No, I know that. But what about the water?”

“What about it?”

“How does one DRIVE to an Island?!”

“I’m going to Alaska. It’s not an Island”

“It’s not an Island. Like, at all? Seriously?” (Okay, maybe I didn’t completely understand the whole “island” thing after all)

“Seriously. It’s attached… to Canada. Are you just playing? Did you really think it was an Island?”

“Noooo. Pff, no. …… Maybe.” 

And while my friend nearly peed himself laughing at me, I tried to explain myself.

“But! All of the maps! They just have Alaska floating off in the middle of nowhere!” I nearly yelled at him.

More laughter.

“Seriously. Most people get there by boat though, that’s why they have cruises there!.. Right?!” I was pulling at straws here, I knew I was wrong. Oh so very wrong. Alaska was not the Island I always believed it to be.

“How can you really be this old and not know simple geography?” he asked between tears

And then I realized why, I was being punished by God. Because cheaters never win. Ever.

“I cheated on my geography quiz in 5^th grade.” I said sheepishly.

“What?”

“I cheated.”

“You… cheated. Well, clearly. How did you ever graduate grade school?” his tone was mildly offensive.

“Shut up. I really wanted to go on the 5^th grade campout. I had to pass the ‘50 states’ quiz to go. I had failed it once before because I just don’t study. So I just kept the study guide in my desk and peeked at it when the teacher wasn’t looking.”  (And how Mrs. Petersen never caught me is beyond me.)

“I don’t know what to say to you right now. I don’t know which is more unbelievable: The fact that you cheated or that you really thought Alaska was an island.”

It was the only time in school I ever cheated. And I really do think God is punishing me. I can just see him up there, shaking his head in disappointment, and pointing his finger downward at me. “You may never know geography now." He'd say. "You will be cursed to look like an idiot all your life, but especially when your friend wants to drive to Alaska, all because you cheated. Choice and Consequence, my child.” 

You know, I really do stink at geography. 

I wish I never would have cheated.