If I’m going to be self-employed, aka poor, I suppose I should get the coupon situation figured out.
I’ve been clipping them lately, but that’s about as far as I get. I keep forgetting to bring them with me to the grocery store. Hell, I keep forgetting to go to the grocery store. I end up having to buy things one at a time, in the order in which my supply is depleted, at gas-station convenience marts and such, where it costs five bucks for a box of Cheerios.
Then I come home, where the coupons litter my floor like confetti, and I kick myself for paying full price for underarm deodorant when right there, floating in the dog’s water dish, is a coupon that could have saved me 50 cents.
I hear it adds up, 50 cents here and there, to the point where people become jillionaires just by pinching pennies, able to retire and buy the best motor homes on the market, in which they camp out and cook coupon-bought Hamburger Helper, so content and safe they are in the cushion of their personal savings.
My own personal savings have been depleted into the less-than-zero range. I haven’t been this poor since college. I handled it then by eating free appetizers at happy hour. One dollar bought you a margarita and the right to attack the buffet like it was your own personal trough. Sometimes, if happy hour ended and I wasn’t finished being hungry, I’d sidle onto the end stool and eat all the fruit and cocktail olives out of the bartender’s garnish caddy.
I can’t do that now. For one, they don’t really allow babies in bars. It’s true that Mae is growing super fast even for a toddler, but I doubt there’s a fake ID in existence that can fool a bartender into thinking she’s over 21. So I’ve taken to clipping coupons, even though I have yet to wield one at the checkout line. Still, it’s kind of reassuring to see all the money I could save if I did. On Sunday mornings, I sit and clip and marvel at the all products. One dollar off on two cans of potted meat product, I think, comforted.