Groupon

by Harley

Remember how last month I blogged about doing a 9-day detox, because I had a coupon? Completely inaccurate. That was no coupon. That was a groupon.

Groupon. Before I knew the word, I thought of it as "the addiction that dares not speak its name." But now that I know it for what it is, I must share my cautionary tale, and perhaps start a support group.

Groupon, for the uninitiated, is a company that began in Chicago in 2008, offering customers a half-price pizza. Last November, Google offered to buy it for 6 billion dollars. How could such growth happen?

I'm afraid I'm responsible.

Here's how it works. Every day I check my e-mail and there, in my in-box, are 2 or 3 deal-a-day offers. I call them all Groupons, but I'm using the term generically. Mine are from local competitors, faux Groupons, all using the same principle. A business—say, a hairdresser, or piano tuner or Mongolian barbecue offers me a product or service at a spectacular discount. 75, 80, 90%—serious savings, the kind that turns a casual shopper into an obsessed nutjob. The catch is, I have 24 hours to click on the link and pay for it. The next day, that deal's gone.

If I and a minimum number of fellow shoppers buy it, a certificate appears in my in-box. I print it out, and take it to the drycleaners, the yoga studio, the sushi bar, and hand it over. No money changes hands.

Plus which, my local "groupon" site gives a portion of the proceeds to my kids' elementary school. I can get my air conditioner filter changed, and educate our young.

But here's the rub. I was listening to NPR  last week and learned that the merchants offering these huge discounts—let's say 80%—split their measly take with Groupon. Now, I'm no Warren Buffett, but if a merchant's getting 10% of her usual fee, I'm guessing she's losing money on the deal. Still, it's worth it to her if I become a lifelong customer and pay full price from now until the end of time.

Ah, but will I?

If it's the piano tuner, yes. The drycleaner, no, because it's not geographically convenient. Yoga studio, yes. Detox, no. (I regained the weight I lost within 7 minutes.) Laser hair removal, no, because there's a finite amount of body hair I want to part with. It's for this reason that you're unlikely to find a Groupon for funeral services, wedding cakes, or vasectomies.

So now I feel morally obligated to skip any groupon service I can't really commit to.

And that "one-night-stand" mentality is only one of the risks the merchant takes. Another is that Groupon clients forget to tip. Another is that too many customers sign up, and swamp a small business. On the buyer's side, there are, tragically, expiration dates. I know because I was late by one week for a manicure/pedicure. The horror. The horror.

I am genetically predisposed to be a Groupon junkie. My Aunt Olga was a champion coupon clipper, hitting 3-4 stores a day to save 7 cents on a case of ketchup, whether or not she liked ketchup. I feel her spirit egging me on. True, I don't really need a dog trainer that makes housecalls, but at least I have dogs. And what, you may ask, does a Man Friday do? I don't know, but I'll keep you posted, because I bought $120 worth of his services for $30. And four hypnotherapy sessions so cheap they were practically free. I can use them to cure me of my Groupon habit.

But not yet. Because I'm waiting for the big score, one of my Groupon dreams, at 90% off:

            Summer in the Italian Alps for one adult and 3 children

            A week at Canyon Ranch, for everyone at TLC

            A new boyfriend (or even an old one, in good condition)

            World Peace

Got a Groupon fantasy of your own?

Happy Monday!

~Harley