In between trying to convince our IT department that I am not a massive pervert or trying to fix my desperately lonely cat-filled existence during work hours by looking up dodgy dating sites, primarily by whining “I need access to this website for a story. I’m writing a story on this. I need you to unblock this site. This is actually my job. No, really it is” I occasionally (during what could be termed a “lunch break”, hi bosses) clear out my gmail account before it explodes in my face.
And it makes me sad. What happened coupon land? You were all brave and new and fantastic and cheap and amazing. We all knew the bubble would burst eventually, but seriously – WTF?
There was a time, long ago when I’d happily part with my last few dollars and rack up my credit card buying your outrageously bargain-esque deals, day after day. Now you just make me sad. Once upon a time I bought a dustbuster, a manicure and pedicure at a reputable salon and still had change for High Tea at the Burnleigh (including champagne) but now? Not so much.
I do not want to purchase a game of Laser Tag for 10 people.I do not want a mirco-derma-face-burn-roller-laser-mask-blasting session at an impossibly low price at a salon 25km away which no one has heard of.
I’ve seen the stories on 60 Minutes goddamit. Some barely-qualified teenager with funky hair fires shit at your face or tries to IPL your lady bits and your face/lady bits are ruined. Probably Forever.
I do not want a “premier non-surgical nose job with derma filler” (what IS this?) nor an improbably named “NASA-developed skin treatment”. I do not want two regular fish and chips for the price of one. I do not want “on-trend” scatter cushions that cost me $15 per piece to have posted. I do not want a one-month boot camp voucher, nor a one-day digital photography course. I especially Do Not want the $10 “mystery gift”.
I want cool stuff that gives me the endorphin rush you’d usually get during sex or bungee jumping or whatever else floats your boat. In fairness, you’ve eventually saved me from myself, just as having bought too many dreadfully awful items from ASOS has (shut up – I make terrible decisions, and regularly).
Science and people who know about science have said there is a special feeling (mostly for the ladies, sorry) that comes along with purchasing things. Particularly things we have convinced we need/must/have/want/will make our lives better. I can’t be bothered finding the evidence – I do that all the time at work and now I’m not at work – but trust me, it’s there.
So apart from ordering clothes from the delightful Birdsnest Girls (who package up everything in a lovely way and include a handwritten note – I’m such a sucker) I like to fill up my imaginary trolley with shitloads of stuff I think I need/want/can’t live without and then go to the imaginary checkout and look at the price (briefly, as if I care) and then delete the whole lot. It’s almost as if I bought them! I couldn’t even tell you what I almost bought! It feels heady and special.
Occasionally now, if I do buy something, it’s like Christmas. But not buying books on Kindle. No, that’s instant gratification, like opening the presents your mother sent you for Christmas three weeks early – god you’re a terrible person.
So coupon/bargain websites? Good if you want to buy a cheap-as case of wine you discover you hate because it says SSB but it’s clearly some kind of fucked up mistake or late harvest reisling but hey! you make bad decisions, or two dozen Alkeline batteries (or course you’re not going to, that’s boring, stop being so goddam practical) or really really like laser tag or crazy golf (I hate you) or a “deal” package of the makeup brand you use which has a colour of lipstick not to have been used since the 90s and some kind of blue/brown mascara and a blusher so red you look like a 18th century prostitute, then fine. Be my guest.
Because I’ve moved on. I seemed to have inadvertently bought a second steam cleaner (no really, this looks better than the other one which was shit) off a late night infomercial. Part of me hopes I was too pissed to give over the correct credit card number. The other part of me knows I wasn’t. Fuck.