The Evil Queen, Er, I Mean Machine

There are very few technology-related things in life that I can do well, but using the self-checkout at the grocery store is one of them.  I can scan, bag, pay and be out the door in about five seconds.  Unless the machine turns against me.

The other day I was scanning my order when all of a sudden, it (let's call her Maleficent, shall we?)  decided she didn't like my brand of bread and refused to accept it.

"Please remove  item from bag and scan again," she intoned in her smug little voice.

So I did.

"Item not found," she informed me loftily, and instead of resetting the screen, the miserable witch put up the "need assistance" screen. 

What I needed was for Maleficent to actually do her job, not tell me I needed assistance.

Naturally, the woman in charge of "assisting" me was busy giving a tutorial to someone who had no business being in the self-checkout if she couldn't figure out the "self" part after the first thirty-six times she was shown how to scan and bag.  Although I'm sure everyone was thinking pretty much the same about me by the time I was done.

Finally, I caught her eye and she punched some buttons and brought daughter of Hal back in line.

The next item was fine.  The one after that, an issue.

Miss Assistance again pushed some more buttons, but clearly at this point she began to think that I was as clueless as a Wheel Of Fortune contestant who had bought all five vowels, guessed R, D and K and still couldn't solve an "animal names" puzzle that said: aard_ark.

Dreading the next scan, I searched my basket for something Maleficent couldn't get me on.  Aha.  Bananas.  I plopped them on the scale and quickly punched in the code.

"Item not found.  Please get assistance," she goaded me.

I gave an exasperated WTH look at little Miss Helper, who was not appreciating the self-control it was taking for me to not flip off both her and her evil machine cohort.

"What do you have there, bananas?" she asked, craning her neck to see the item I was dangling THREE FEET FROM HER FACE!

No.  These are fillet mignon masquerading as bananas, and if you're impressed by this, just wait till you see how I've disguised the zucchini.

I tried to scan some tomatoes next, but before I could even get them on the scanner, Ms. Fix-it started pushing buttons like she was a pre-teen girl trying to win Justin Bieber tickets on a radio call-in contest.

"Got it," she sang out in her shrill little holier-than-thou voice.

I glared back at her and grabbed the next item, shielding it with my body so I could scan it before her sharp little talons could peck away at any more keys.

I gave a quick swipe, but Maleficent came to her minion's defense and the next thing I knew, she was speaking to me in Spanish!

I don't know exactly what she was saying, but I got the impression it wasn't good.  She sounded kind of angry that I had challenged her authority and seemed to be cussing me out, or threatening to lock me in a tower, guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.

I backed away and shot Helpful Hannah a look that should have had her cringing and fleeing in terror.

Apparently, she didn't have the good sense that God gave a turnip because she headed towards me instead of away from me, this time stabbing the buttons on my screen instead of hers.

"Uh, I think this will work," she had at least enough brains to sound semi-concerned.

I bit my tongue against the multitude of rejoinders which were crowding my brain and backing up in my throat.

"There."  With a final flourish, she re-swiped the last item and...the evil seed responded in English.  Really loud English.  Extremely loud English.  Dogs three miles away began howling and covering their ears.

"That's kind of loud," she looked at me, aghast.

Ya think?  I would have actually said this if I thought she could hear me over the roar of the machine.

Sadly for everyone in the store...and the shopping center...we had reached the limits of the assistance she was able to give, but it didn't really matter.  The evil queen had won.  She magnanimously let me check out the last few items and leave with the minimum aggravation while her servant scuttled back to her station to lie in wait for the next hapless victim. 

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!