The Great Ground Beef Heist

I should have known it was going to be one of those trips the moment I decided to plan a joint birthday bash for my three daughters — all born within a month of each other in September and October. (Apparently, I was very romantic one winter long ago.)

Anyway, one of the main dishes on the menu is my famous meatballs. So, I headed to the supermarket in search of ground beef. Normally, I’ve got plenty stocked in the freezer, but this time I was out — a crisis on par with running out of coffee.

Now, I’m the kind of guy who refuses to pay $5.99 or $6.99 a pound for ground beef. Not because I can’t, but because I won’t. It’s a matter of principle. Paying full price feels like losing a game I didn’t even know I was playing.

You would think that for someone who spent his entire life in retail, I’d be an expert in sale promotions. But here’s the thing — after being in the secondhand business for over twenty years, I buy most of what I need at food outlets, flea markets, and farmers’ markets. I rarely set foot in big-box grocery chains anymore. So when I do, it feels like I’ve stepped into a new world — one that now requires a smartphone, a password, and possibly a prayer just to buy a pack of hamburger meat.

After circling the meat case like a vulture over roadkill, I finally spotted a bright yellow “SALE” tag — $3.49 a pound! Victory! Except… not so fast. The fine print said: “With Digital Coupon.”

Okay, I thought, how hard could this be?

Turns out, it’s a full-time job.

First, I had to download the store’s app — which required me to create an account, verify my email, and agree to more terms and conditions than my mortgage. Then I had to “clip” the digital coupon (which is just modern talk for “we’re tracking your every move but pretending you’re saving money”).

But wait — there was more! To get the “bonus savings,” I had to scan another code from the shelf using my phone’s camera, which promptly asked me to log in again. By this point, I felt like I was trying to hack into the Pentagon just to buy a pound of chuck.

Defeated, I went to the service desk for help. The young woman there smiled politely — the kind of smile reserved for people who still write checks. I asked why stores make customers go through all this just to save a dollar or two.

She leaned in and said — and I swear I’m not making this up —“Because rich people don’t bother.”

Apparently, the wealthier the zip code, the fewer people download these digital coupons, and the more profit the store makes. It’s genius, in a devious sort of way. Like those old mail-in rebates from the ’80s and ’90s — you remember them. You’d buy something “on sale after rebate,” fill out three forms, cut out the barcode, mail it in, and six months later get a postcard saying you forgot to include a photocopy of your left elbow.

Most people gave up. The company kept the money.

Fast forward to 2025, and the scam’s gone digital. Now you just surrender your data, your time, and your sanity.

After 20 minutes of swiping, scanning, logging in, and re-logging in, I finally got my “discounted” ground beef. I felt like I’d earned it. I half expected the manager to come out and pin a medal on my chest.

I used to just cut coupons from the flyer, toss them in my shirt pocket, and hand them to the cashier. Simple. Now I need Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and possibly a college minor in computer science just to make spaghetti and meatballs.

When I got home, Marmee asked how it went.
I told her, “Good news — I got the meat for $3.49 a pound. Bad news — I accidentally joined a rewards program, entered a sweepstakes, and now the store app keeps telling me how many steps I’ve taken today.”

Before leaving the store, I apologized to the young woman at the service desk for having so much trouble. She smiled and said, “No worries — you’re good!”
That’s an expression I absolutely hate. I wanted to say, No, I’m not good. I’m exhausted, frustrated, and all I wanted was some ground beef.
But I stayed calm, smiled politely, and let it go — just trying to get out of there before the app asked me for a survey.

But hey, at least the meatballs will be delicious — assuming I can remember my password.