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