The Silent Treatment
I think giving someone the silent treatment is one of the purest forms of passive-aggressive behavior there is, but the Kroger self-checkout chick is giving it to me right now and I'm loving it. I know - you’re thinking it has been a while since I have mentioned my on-again off-again relationship with Kroger in this intellectual arena and you are quite correct. But I’ll bet you have known someone (or ARE someone) who had a relationship in which they broke up and got back together so many times that they stopped bothering to tell people they were back together because they would likely be broken up again before word got around. That’s what it has been like with Kroger and me. In case you have forgotten, I became besotted with Kroger a little while ago over their oven-ready fish and individual celery spears, but it turned out to be a short-lived affair that became rocky when they replaced their sturdy and reliable self-checkout software with that carping fishwife who couldn’t stop talking. It has been a mercurial relationship since then and, although I was sorely tempted to tell you about an unfortunate occurrence at the self-checkout a couple of weeks ago, I thought it wiser to keep my mouth shut, for the reason mentioned above. So now we have a little bit of catching up to do.
A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO
A couple of weeks ago, back when they first installed the self-checkout Carping Fishwife, I approached the self-checkout area, braced myself for the encounter, then tapped the “My own bags” button before placing my bags in the bagging area. I scanned a couple of items and, with each scan, the Fishwife advised me what to do with the product, lest I be left standing there drooling, forced to call out, “What should I do with the item once I have scanned it?” Because how could one possibly know what to do next if not told every time? As I started to scan the third item, the Fishwife said, “Please remove the last item from the bag and scan it,” although, of course, I had already scanned the item. I repositioned the items in my bag, because that’s the usual remedy for this situation. Frankly, the ability to pragmatically analyze and solve problems like this is one of my greatest talents. You see, sometimes the squash will fall to the side of the bag and hang outside the bagging area so that the weight isn’t correctly recorded. After I fussed with the contents of the bag for a bit, the Fishwife got bored with me and reported me to the Self-Checkout Police. “Please wait for the attendant,” she intoned with an air of superiority. At that moment there happened to be a cacaphonic chorus of “Please wait for the attendant” sounding from all the other portals and a gangly 17-year-old on the first day of his summer job bounced from one to the next with a magical ID badge that electronically slapped the Fishwife back into submission. When he got to my station, he saw I was using my own bag and counseled me, “You gotta press the ‘My own bags’ button to use your own bag.” No shit, Sherlock. “I did that,” I replied, pulling myself into the most scientifically intelligent looking posture I could manage, in a desperate attempt to not look like a clueless senior citizen. Apparently his little asynchronous mind could not process incoming and outgoing data in rapid succession, because he ignored my reply and slapped that ID badge against the screen then tapped the “My own bags” button on my monitor before skating away to the next terminal. Did this solve the problem? Of course not. The shrill self-checkout Fishwife simply echoed her plea for me to “Please wait for the attendant.” After a litany of scanning complications and admonishments, I finally finished checking out. On my way out, I made the colossal mistake of trying to speak with the pea-brained pubescent about the fact that the software used to work a whole lot better than it does now. He executed a flawless who-gives-a-shit shrug as he skulked away to silence another rant from the Fishwife. Encounters like this tempt me to return to the old-fashioned human-driven conveyer belt checkout but, like a stalker, I can’t help myself. I have to keep going back to see what she is up to now.
YESTERDAY*
Yesterday I went to the fish counter and picked out a piece of halibut destined for an oven-ready baking bag. They didn’t have any lemon slices, which was pretty disappointing, so I decided to try a slice of orange and it turned out fine, but lemon is better. The fishmonger went to seal the bag but the bag sealer was broken. I was beyond disappointed. But the fishmonger was a resourceful fellow who took that bag into the back and used a different heat-sealing device to manually seal the edges together, then pound it down with a spice bottle. I congratulated him on his resourcefulness so he explained that Information Technology is his real occupation which, I think, was meant to inform me that he has a brain fit for more than the fish counter. Now, you know I have a great admiration for one’s ability to accurately cut a piece of meat, fish or cheese to the correct weight just by looking at it, so the I.T. reference didn’t impress me as much as he might have thought it would. Nevertheless, I told him I.T. is my business too and we shared a little imaginary high-five moment before I said thank you and moved on to the self-checkout.
*Note: This is a tangential story line that has nothing to do with the rest of the story other than to explain the extent of the lengths I will go to in order to use the self-checkout area to see what the Carping Fishwife is up to now.
WHAT SHE IS UP TO NOW
It was as quiet as a library. I pressed the “My own bag” button and the screen read, “Please place your bags in the bagging area.” There was not a peep from the Fishwife. I began scanning and, while there was a discrete beep each time, there was no verbalization of what I should do with the item. It was the same all around me: No Talking. There must be eight self-checkout stations at my favorite Kroger and not a one was uttering a word, yet people were scanning items and placing them in the bagging area. I cannot begin to understand how the other customers knew what to do without the reminders, but this silent treatment seemed to be working. It was magical. I left feeling smug, like the triumphant winner of an argument. There was a collection of red-shirted Kroger employees at the Self-Checkout Police Station on the way out so, of course, I stopped to talk with them. “Did you turn off all of the voice commands?” I asked. One of them nodded and explained, “Yep. People said she just talked too doggone much.” Needless to say, this is huge step forward in my relationship with Kroger. I'm in control and I'm digging it.