JUNE CASAGRANDE -- Reporter’s Notebook

I always had trouble understanding why people gamble. I love Las

Vegas, but in my book, just being there is more fun than gambling under

rules that say most people must lose if the casino is to make a profit.

But I recently learned that I have more in common with gamblers than I

was ever willing to admit. I have an obsession of my own -- and, like

gamblers, it’s all about the thrill of a big score. I never realized my

little pastime was akin to the gambling bug until, after a recent weekend

in Vegas, I returned home and picked up the Sunday paper.

Like every Sunday, I didn’t even give my eyes a moment to focus on the

front-page headlines. My hands were turning the pages faster than I could

see them, scanning for one thing in particular. By the time I found what

I was looking for -- the coupons -- I noticed my heart was racing just a

little.

There it was: the mother lode of big scores just waiting to be

claimed.

Yeah, yeah, I know: What difference can a quarter here or a dime there

make in the grand scheme of a grocery bill? The answer, for me, is

usually about 50%. And that includes lots of free and nearly free stuff.

Don’t try this at home. I’ll tell you how I score so big, but, for the

sake of your mental health and the ones you love, please take a lesson

from my experience. Coupons have made me completely crazy. Here is my

tragic story.

I’m young, I’m unmarried and childless, I consider myself relatively

hip. But on a Sunday morning, I might as well be an 80-year-old survivor

of the Great Depression. By 7 a.m. most weeks, I’ve already torn into the

coupons to plan the day’s hunt.

It’s not the kill. It’s the thrill of the chase.

The trick is to combine sale prices with double coupons. This triples

the savings on some items and makes some literally free. On Tuesday, for

example, I got a 10-pound bag of cat litter for 9 cents. This kill was

particularly satisfying because I beat an advertised deal by a big

margin.

To pull this off, brand loyalty is out of the question. In fact, I’m

the Runaround Sue of the supermarket. Names on my tissues, pasta, whipped

cream, sponges, dish soap, cheese and paper towels come and go faster

than boy band singers hitting puberty.

I clip and save every coupon for every product I might use or want,

then I don’t buy the item until it gets marked down, usually through a

club card special.

Does this sound like a lot of work? You betcha. Clipping, sorting,

sifting -- and of course discarding the expired coupons -- is equivalent

to a part-time job. (Hint: If you’re a high-powered executive who brings

in $1 million or more a year, your time might not be worth the extra $40

a week you’ll save at the grocery store obsessively angling for the best

deal on pot pies. My time, however, isn’t that valuable.)

One Sunday morning, early enough that it was just me and the

Depression survivors, I spilled some coupons out of the folder I keep

them in and onto the floor. An old man pushing a cart passed me,

muttering in horrified amusement, “I’ve never seen that many coupons in

my life.” I had spilled fewer than half of them.

The saddest part, though, and the reason I know I have a problem, is

that I don’t know when to stop. For example, this is the second year in a

row I used coupons to get free Hanukkah candles. Problem: I’m not Jewish.

I don’t even know what to do with them. The last batch melted on the

floor of my car after I had brought the box to work to decorate a

birthday cake.

The final straw came one day last month. Rifling through my bathroom

cabinets, I realized I had no fewer than 33 rolls of toilet paper. I live

alone. I’m not kidding. I’m not exaggerating. They were really, really

cheap. Help me.

-- June Casagrande covers Newport Beach. She may be reached at (949)

574-4232 or by e-mail at o7 june.casagrande@latimes.comf7 .