Don't Help Me

More and more, grocery stores are putting in self-checkout aisles to eliminate standing in long lines, which I love, since my goal is to get in and out of the place as fast as possible. Now if they could just eliminate the people overseeing them...

Two weeks ago, I was at a self-checkout that had a conveyor belt. When your checked items filled the space at the end, the belt stopped and you had to bag before you could check the rest through. Usually, they have one person working all these lanes who helps bag, thus moving people along quickly.

Except in my case. Thanks to "Helpful Hanna", it took me twice as long.

After sending down my pack of mega jumbo, ultra-soft, 18-ply, no shred toilet paper and one toothbrush, the bagging area was full and "Hanna" was busy with someone else. Leaving my still mostly full cart by the scanner, I ran down to bag. No sooner had I hefted my 36-pounds of toilet paper onto the ledge than "Hanna" almost knocked me over trying to get up to the scanner, and before I could stop her, hit the "finish and pay" button.

Um. Excuse me. Did you happen to notice that large, metal cart prodding you in the hip and still filled with food? Any idea what that would indicate? Would you like to buy a vowel or maybe phone a friend?

"How are you paying?" she asked briskly, obviously pleased as punch with herself for moving the (non-existent) line along.

"I'm not done yet," I indicated my cart which she had conveniently shoved behind her into the main aisle, causing a four cart pile-up near the information stand.

"Oh." She seemed surprised to see it. "Do you need to scan those items too?"

No. I just spent the better part of an hour selecting random groceries to take on a joyride through produce. Yes I need to scan them.

Big sigh. "I'll have to call a supervisor to override," she said as though hoping I would just take my toilet paper and leave.

Okay. Any time this century would be fine. And so my "express checkout" took me only eighteen times as long as standing in the regular lanes, thanks to all the help.

Four days later, different store, different set-up, same problem.

As I placed my green peppers on the scanner and hit the "produce" and then "peppers" buttons, a hand suddenly came darting past me to push the "back" button two times in rapid succession.

Obviously mistaking the murderous glint in my eyes for confusion as I rounded on her, the self-checkout monitor indicated the itty-bitty little sticker with the teeny tiny numbers on it stuck to the bottom of one of the peppers that was obviously made for people with super-human vision.

"See that?" she said. "You can just enter the six digit code here instead of pressing the "peppers" button. Isn't that much easier?"

Hmmm. Let's see. Going on a search and rescue mission through the jungle I call a purse to find my reading glasses which are always buried in the bottom, then diving in a second time for a tissue to clean off the giant smudges before finding the one out of six peppers that actually has a sticker on it and entering the code or touching the square on the screen that has a picture of peppers on it. Wow. That's a real head-scratcher. After careful consideration, I think I'll have to go with "B" and touch the picture.

And I did so. But again, her hand shot out to touch "go back".

"That's okay," she chirped. "I have bifocals. I'll read the code to you."

Or you could just get away from me and go slow someone else down.

God save me from helpful people!

Messing With My Head

Since Sunday's attempt to get home had been such a charming and fun-filled experience, I decided to try and plan for the unexpected on Monday.

First, I printed out my boarding pass, although not without a bit of trouble, thanks to the airline.

Knowing that they would have over-booked the flight (is there any flight, anywhere these days that isn't?) and that the security lines would be long, I got online as soon as I got back to the condo on Sunday night. After squinting at the scrap of paper they had given me at the airport for about twenty minutes and still not being able to find the confirmation code because I did not hold a doctorate in computer programming, I called the 800 number for help (and I use the term loosely).

After listening to the usual litany of choices that you get whenever you call anywhere anymore, and pressing the numbers 1,2 and 3 in various combinations for fifteen minutes, I finally got through to a real, live person--Michael.

I explained that my flight had been cancelled, I had re-booked, and that I was trying to figure out my confirmation code so I could print my boarding pass.

"Oh, sure," he said, "I'll help you. Just let me transfer your call."

Which he did. Right back to the main menu asking me to press numero dos por espanol!!

Oh. My. God. Now I know where the customer service reps from Comcast go when they get fired.

Gritting my teeth and creating various scenarios in my head involving Michael and heavy farm equipment running amok, I sat through the interminably long list of options...again. This time, I got Susan, who seemed genuinely concerned over what Michael had done and wanted to help me, but we kept getting cut off. And now I know where the people from Verizon go when they are fired.

Why were these people messing with my head? Did they not realize how close to postal I was?

Eventually though, I got my pass and continued to plan for my return trip.

I didn't strip the bed or pack away my jammies since my mother was convinced that's what jinxed me the day before. I left for the airport waaaaaay earlier than the previous day and chose a playlist on my ipod that had 413 songs, which I figured I could get through seven or eight times while standing in the security line. And finally, I ate a really big lunch and brought lots of chocolate.

I arrived at the airport to find that all of my precautions were completely unnecessary. There was a grand total of exactly four people ahead of me in the security line and three x-ray machines. Helloooo? Wasn't this supposed to be a Holiday Weekend????? Where were all the people that should have been in front of me, making me crazy? This confirmed it. The airlines were trying to mess with my head. I kept looking around expecting the crowd to jump out any minute and yell, "surprise!"

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, I headed for the nearest x-ray machine... and promptly got flagged for something in my carry-on. The same carry-on that I had breezed through with the day before. The same carry-on I had breezed through with the week before. What was the suspicious item? Turns out my cell phone charger which didn't look the least bit suspicious on Sunday suddenly looked like a weapon of mass destruction on Monday. (Meanwhile, two days later I found my Swiss army knife rolling around the bottom of my purse which I had completely forgotten was there. I guess two prongs and a cord looked dangerous, but the 2-inch blade was fine. Good to know.)

Once I got cleared of all charges by the gestapo, I went straight to the gate only to find the pizza place nearly deserted, lots of seats at the gate and the plane ready and waiting, complete with all the small rubber rings it needed.

Ahhh. But the airlines were not done yet. Yes, we took off on time. But they couldn't let it go. They had to mess with me one more time. As we approached the airport, they made the announcement that we had to turn off all electronic, portable devices, blah, blah, blah...
And then, instead of landing, we circled the airport again, and again, and again.

Finally, I had found the crowd.

The Best Laid Plans

After spending a great weekend soaking up some Florida sun, I headed to the airport this past Sunday, patting myself on the back that I had decided to come back the day before the holiday, when everyone else would be flying. Hehehe.

Turns out, it was the airline that had the last laugh.

This was my plan: arrive early for my flight, breeze through security, sit and have a nice cheese or maybe veggie pizza for dinner while reading my book, finish my book on the plane and be home in time for Desperate Housewives .

This was the airline's plan: schedule every flight in terminals B, C and D to take off at the exact same time so that all eight thousand passengers could get chummy while standing in the security line for twelve hours. I guess it's the airline's version of Facebook.

Some people apparently enjoy the bonding experience so much that they do everything in their power to prolong it. Like the ones ahead of me, who decided that despite being told fifty-six thousand times to have their ID out and ready, they would rather wait until they got to the head of the line before trying to remember which pocket they had tucked their wallet into.

Or the guy in front of me at the x-ray machine who placed...each...item...in...the...bins...one...at... a...time...after...carefully...removing...it... Arghhh!!! I've seen constipated slugs move faster!

And as if these fun and games the airlines had kindly provided so far were not enough, they had planned a few more, free of charge.

Like one of my favorites, the ever-popular: "Which disgusting food sold near the gate is the least likely to land you in the hospital?"

Courtesy of their master plan, I arrived at the gate with only ten minutes to spare, and the pizza place was three deep in people trying to avoid the only other two food choices: boxed salads that looked like they had been made fresh...in 1872 or burgers that could be used as hockey pucks and may or may not have contained any actual beef. Yummy, yummy!

Setttling on a burger and a bag of Cheetos, I made it to the gate to find the area only half-full and the plane having just arrived with people coming off. Finally. Something going according to my plan. Hehehe (said the airlines)

As the last person de-planed, they turned all the lights on the aircraft off. Da da da dum (think Beethoven's Fifth)

Five minutes later, they announced that the plane had a "mechanical" problem and they were waiting for a part. Da da da dum.

Ten minutes later, they asked people making connecting flights to come to the counter. Da da da dum, da da da dum, da da da dum.

Fifteen minutes later, their plan for screwing up my night was complete. The flight was cancelled due to an inability to get the part: a small rubber ring.

Were they kidding? A small rubber ring? You mean nowhere in the whole big airport with lots and lots of planes, they couldn't find one extra rubber ring? And what exactly was the function of this ring besides causing me to have a coronary? Did it do something really important like hold the curtain between first class and coach closed, or perhaps allow the beverage cart to roll down the aisle in reverse?

Joining the rest of the disgruntled horde in the mad dash up to the counter to rebook, I could only hope they planned on letting me go home sometime in the near future, or at least that I could get back to the condo in time for Desperate Housewives .

They went with option number two. The only flight available was the same one on Monday.

Yippee. Flying out the evening of the last day of a holiday weekend, along with everyone else from this flight. I'm so glad I planned this trip back in October.

Ann Who?

It's a good thing that I am such a confident and well-adjusted person. Otherwise, I might have an inferiority complex.

Several years ago, Tim and I were back in Pennsylvania having dinner with my parents at a very nice restaurant. Now it just so happened that a local judge was having the wedding rehearsal dinner for one of his daughters there in a private room.

Although I hadn't seen the judge in many, many years, our two families had known each other for a long time. I had grown up spending summers with two of his daughters swimming at a local lake, and my father occasionally testified in front of the judge as an expert witness.

At the time, Tim was working in the White House and the judge, like many people back home, had expressed an interest to my father in getting together with Tim.

Not wanting to intrude on a family affair, my father passed along the judges wishes to Tim, but they both decided that another time would be better.

As we were leaving though, the judge happened to pass us in the hallway. Seeing my father, he stopped to chat and it was then that I received the crushing blow.

My father, obviously thinking of the judge's request, introduced us as, "This is my son-in-law Tim, and his wife, Ann."

Excuse me? His wife? What about, "This is my daughter? " Shouldn't I at least get top billing in my own family? What, had his first wife tragically died and I was his second and therefore unrelated wife?

What happened to the good old days when Tim and I were dating and my father used to refer to him as "that boy" with venom dripping from each syllable? How had he replaced me in the family in just a few short years? (my father, meanwhile, was totally oblivious to what he had done)

The second incident happened more recently, as in the other day.

I had just gotten off the phone with my parents when it rang. Glancing at the caller ID, I saw that it was my father calling me back. Thinking he had forgotten to tell me something, I answered with, "Hey", which must have thrown him off as there was quite a sizable pause.

Then, "I'm sorry. Who is this?"

Okay. Not what I was expecting to hear, but... "It's me, Annie"

Another pause. "Annie. Hi. I was trying to reach Joan."

"Well, you dialed me instead."

"Annie...Annie..." he repeated it as though it were a foreign word. "Do I know you? How are you related to Joan?"

Uh, I'm not, and yes, you should know me since I AM YOUR DAUGHTER!!!

Or perhaps you might know me better as Tim's wife!

Car Talk

Here is what I know about cars: they come in different sizes and colors and they get you from point A to point B.

Here is all I want to know about cars: they come in different sizes and colors and they get you from point A to point B.

Here is what the guy at the service station apparently thought I knew about cars: there are actually different makes and models, and they have other working parts besides the heated seats and automatic windows.

As I waited for my car to be inspected last week, I found myself trapped in a very small office with a guy who decided that despite the book in my hand and the ipod buds in my ears, I was just dying to talk about cars.

On my best day, I have to take an educated guess as to my car's model. I know it's a letter of the alphabet, and I'm pretty sure it's up near the front, like a C or an E, but beyond that...it is small and silver and gets me from point A to point B.

Expecting me to be able to look out at the ten or so cars in the side lot and know which one was the Ford was like asking a vegetarian to identify the skirt steak at the butcher's counter. Not going to happen.

Nodding vaguely in what I hoped was the right general direction, I tried to fob him off with a muttered, "uh, yeah", and buried my nose in my book again.

Now, I either sounded a lot more interested than I thought, or he was a lot more bored than he thought because instead of taking the major hint I was throwing out, he then moved on to the topics of motor oil and tire expiration dates.

Oh, goody. Two other things I know shockingly little about.

Giving up on the book altogether and wondering exactly what the fine would be for having an expired inspection sticker, I dredged around the dim recesses of my mind for something, anything I could contribute to this one-sided conversation beyond, "Look, I just need that little sticker thingy put in my window that says '09."

Just before I would have had to fess up and confirm what I'm sure was his secret conviction that women (especially blondes) know nothing about cars, inspiration struck. I suddenly remembered Thanksgiving of '07 when we had two flats on our way back from Pennsylvania.

Quickly rewriting one of the scenes from Grand Torino I simply leaned back in my chair, propped one foot over the opposite knee and related the horror story, ending with, "Yeah, those car dealers really try to rip you off."

It was like saying "Abracadabra" and "Bibitibobitiboo" all at once.

By the time he finished his tirade against the dealers, the manufacturers and the quick change oil places, my car had the new little '09 sticker thingy in the window and I was out of there.

Thank you, Clint Eastwood.

Winter Wonderland Workout

Last week, we had our first snowfall, two inches, followed by our first ice storm, two inches.

The next morning, I snuggled down in my nice warm bed as Tim headed out to the ice skating rink that we called our sidewalk and driveway, secure in the knowledge that I didn't need to brave the elements until later that morning, and that the ice would be only a distant, slushy memory by then.

About an hour later, I got a call asking if I could move up my 11:30 appointment...to right now. Warning the woman that our neighborhood hadn't been plowed, salted, cindered or even appeared on any map the county currently possessed except for tax purposes, I told her I would be there as soon as I could.

As I slid my way across the frozen tundra that had formerly been our yard, I realized that the neighborhood streets might be the least of my problems. Where my car had stood only the day before, there was now a large silver ice sculpture.

Feeling like an archaeologist unearthing a wholly mammoth, I finally managed to chip my way through the perma frost that coated my car and pry open the driver's side door enough to slip in and turn the car on. Cranking all the dials and buttons to high, I shut the door and turned my attention to the driveway, or giant slalom run, as I like to call it. I flirted briefly with the idea of calling the Jamaican bobsled team and offering them the driveway to train for the next Olympics, but then decided they might be better trying something less dangerous, like Everest.

So, how to get rid of the ice? We were out of that ice-melt stuff (and stopping at four different stores for it the day before had yielded only either pitying looks or hoots of laughter from the sales clerks) and our plastic shovel was not up to the job.

What to do? And, more importantly, how to do it without breaking a sweat or, God forbid, a nail?

Hot water? Sure, and when it freezes up after I leave, we can have an actual pond at the base of the driveway and invite the pairs figure skating team as well. Besides, it seemed like an awful lot of work lugging pot after pot of hot water outside.

Hair dryer? Hmmm. Easy. Low impact. I could probably even knock off another chapter of my book while I sat there and let modern technology work for me for a change. But, after further consideration (and not knowing where a long-enough extension cord was), I had to let that one go.

My eyes fell on the ice scraper that I had used on the car. Sharp edge, long handle. Bingo!!! We have a winner! Ten to fifteen minutes max and I would be out of there.

I extended the handle to it's maximum length and began banging the edge against the top layer of ice. Nothing. I raised the scraper a little higher, shoulder height, and whacked at the ice again. Small dent. Jeeze, was this ice or had the polar cap slid that far south already? I finally hefted it above my head and smashed it down like I was at a carnival trying to win a stuffed rabbit by ringing the bell. Minor success; a small crack actually appeared.

I revisited the hot water and hair dryer ideas again. I thought about cancelling my appointment altogether. I debated the merits of hibernating until Easter, especially when I looked and could see my shadow--yep, six more weeks of winter.

In the end though, I decided I could make this work. After all, I'm working out now. I'm in shape.

And so I began to dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, I dug the scraper through (think seven dwarfs song from Snow White) and, ever so slowly, I began to hit pay dirt, er, concrete.

After fifteen minutes of hearing the clank, clank, clank of the scraper echoing off the neighbors' houses, I had amassed a small pile of ice shards, but was still looking at a fast trip to the auto body shop if I put the car into reverse. Oh, and the other good news was that the interior of the car was about 4,000 degrees, but it hadn't affected the ice coating the car one little bit. On the bright side, I had probably worked off a few pounds, and could now eat that bag of M&M's that was calling my name.

Foolishly determined now to triumph over nature, I hefted my pick-axe, er, scraper, and humming, "that's the sound of the men working on the chain-gang", under my breath, I began hacking away at the ice again. This time though, I decided to only do two tracks for the tires to somewhere near the bottom of the driveway.

Fifteen minutes later, I was a third of the way down the driveway, my car was still enshrouded in its icy tomb, the brush attachment was hanging drunkenly off one end of the scraper, and I was sweating like a pig at a luau. Okay, I had definitely earned the M&M's, and maybe a few cookies too.

Removing my gloves and coat, which still left me with about six layers of clothes, I attacked the driveway once more. Now, it was a matter of honor. I come from the northeast. No ice storm is going to beat me.

Fifteen more minutes of hacking at the ice, cursing, and turning the interior of my car into an area I was thinking of registering as a protected wetland, I had finally reached the bottom third of the driveway. I was now lucky if I made my appointment on time, never mind early, had a severe case of carpel tunel, and smelled like a wet sheep thanks to all the ice chunks spraying back up at me and soaking my boots, sweater and coat. And to add insult to injury, my car still had not defrosted. I no longer cared about looking svelt. I just wanted to make the pain stop.

Attacking my poor, little car with what remained of the scraper, I finally pried massive sheets of ice off---and into my semi-clean driveway. At that point, our neighbor, who I'm sure must have been taping me, hoping for the $100,000 prize on America's Funniest Home Videos, apparently decided that he probably wasn't going to win with shots of his neighbor crying hysterically and throwing herself under the wheels of her car, begging someone, anyone, to put it into reverse.
And so he came out and offered me his ice-melt.

If I had had the strength, and my scraper was not a mangled pile of plastic and rubber, I would have worked off another couple of pounds letting him know what I thought of the timing of his offer.