Cheap Shit

One of my least favorite things about myself is that I have daily fantasies about being brave enough to stop buying from Amazon …

But then five minutes later, place a Prime order for makeup remover pads. Pee pads for the dog. Sea salt Chomps. Laundry soap, toilet paper, dishwasher pods, loofahs, a new storage shelf, pens, notebooks, kitchen tongs, dish towels, bath mats, batteries, packing tape.

The list sometimes feels endless. My order history tells me it pretty much is.

Like so many people, I persistently fall into The Trap.

Amazon’s cheaper, easier, and it can be here tomorrow.

And so I try not to think about the other factors.

Like the fact that I live in Manhattan, and can walk to get all of those things myself, which would require no packing material or fuel, and would, you know, get me outside instead of waiting for UPS to do everything for me.

And then there are those Other Things we’ve heard and try to ignore, like Amazon’s reputed sketchy treatment of its workers, the broader environmental impacts, the accelerating decline of small businesses, that whole pesky monopoly thing.

And yet, if I want a new Midori grid notebook and I want it now, I am remarkably good about putting my head in the sand, or sticking my fingers my ears when it comes to the ethical implications of ordering from Amazon. Lalalala I can’t hear you!

Sort of how I generally eat well, am fully aware of the date on processed food and fast food, and yet good luck convincing me to say no to a Taco Bell chalupa.

And so I don’t say no, and then …

I feel gross after eating that chalupa.

Because it’s shit.

Much like the way I’m increasingly beginning to feel about ordering from Amazon.

Gross.

Because it’s shit.

For me, there’s something working beneath the surface, something more nuanced than listing “Amazon is problematic because…”

Increasingly I have an emotional, almost visceral reaction when I order something from Amazon. The nagging sense that something is just not right.

Frustrating me lately is my inability to put my finger on exactly why.

Why do I feel always feel like not quite looking myself in the mirror after a spontaneous click of Buy Now on Amazon. Or why do I feel ashamed of myself whenever I think about actually using that Amazon affiliate link I’ve had on the back burner for years.

Is it that Amazon knows I need to reorder tampons before I register my period is right around the corner? Or that when I add dishwasher pods to cart, I’m promptly presented with paper towels and I realize I’m almost out of those too. Convenient? Undeniably yes. But also distinctly unsettling.

Is it the way I type in a search with the exact book title and exact author name, I’m still presented with dozens of other search results that I very clearly wasn’t looking for?

Or that every book page (Amazon’s OG purpose, remember! books!) is smothered with sponsored ads to other books. Shopping on Amazon for books is like going to Barnes & Noble and picking a book off the shelf, and someone thrusting another book in front of your face because the author or publisher paid them to.

Is it the fact that Amazon has largely excused us from having to make choices. “Well, they said I got this last time, and that was fine, so …” As we shouldn’t be bothered to think or shop for ourselves because an algorithm knows better than us what we want.

Maybe it’s all of that.

All I know for sure is that there’s an instinctual unease. A sense that I lose a little something every time I choose to order from Amazon, or at least, become less the human I’m meant to be.

Anth I are dying to read Ron Chernow’s new Mark Twain. We make a point to order from Bookshop.org which supports indie book stores, or sometimes The Painted Porch, which is an indie book store. It’s always more expensive, and this is a (literal) price we’re willing to pay to ensure that when we travel to little corners of the United States, we’re able to tuck into little book stores trying to survive in Amazon’s wake.

But this latest book on Bookshop.org is $41.85.

Shipping is extra.

Woof.

We spend a lot of money on books, and this still felt like a hard punch in the face. So I couldn’t resist. I checked Amazon’s price.

On Amazon, the same format of that same book is $24.47 as I write this.

Shipping is free.

It was really hard to not just one-click buy on Amazon and have it delivered tomorrow.

And yet, I hesitate.

Maybe it’s because I’m an author myself, and know what it feels like to devote years of your life to writing a book. To 12+ hours in your chair putting words on a page in a single day. To literally ignore your family and everything around you because you’re so committed to birthing this thing.

Only to learn that Amazon is going to discount your work for $1.99 or $3.99 (in my case). Or $24.47 (in Chernow’s).

And perhaps the dollar amount matters less than the fact that Amazon cares very little about standing for something other Cheap.

Then again, who doesn’t delight in cheap shit.

“Damn, a set of twelve for $4.99, and this artisan store wants to charge me $19.99 for one?!”

Until we pause a moment. Change our emphasis. And realize we’re actually just getting cheap shit (see: the AA batteries we just bought from Amazon that last approximately 45 seconds, or the off-brand Q-tips that snapped in half when we merely looked at them.)

Or, just as bad, maybe worse, we all support a company that takes quality good and merely prices them as shit.

I’ll pause here to note that my argument is wobbly at best because it’s hypocritical. Most of my author income comes from Amazon, even as my touch points with Amazon as an author have been almost exclusively negative.

Hypocrite.

And I’d be silly not to mention that Amazon’s cheapening of the price of books means that they’re accessible to more people than ever, and that’s a good thing (and yet … libraries…).

Nuanced.

Or that for those of us without access to Costco or another big box store, Amazon’s price on Kleenex is hard to look away from.

Practical.

And yet, the ick remains.

This sense that our lives are determined by algorithms. And that we’ve lost the sense of discovery that happens when we go looking for our new nightstand lamp, and come home with a vase that looks like Medusa.

Or just the satisfaction of buying a quality hand-crafted picture frame direct from the person who actually made it rather than from the ginormous company that is going to throw it in with the same box into which it throws bulk dryer sheets.

Maybe next time I need my ankle socks in bulk, I care less about, “Wow, this pack of thirty socks is only $11.99!” and start asking why it’s only twelve bucks. Who made it? What was compromised?

Something is always compromised.

Perhaps I’m ready to treating myself, my belongings and the planet with more respect than Cheap Shit, Fast.

I may not yet ready to spend $41 on that Mark Twain biography, but I’m not going to give Amazon $24 for the book either.

Conceptually, I love the idea of saving $17.

Ethically? I question the actual cost. I’m ready to start asking what corners were cut to make that $17 in my pocket possible.

Yeah, I may gain cheap book. But what do I lose in the process?