aubree
AUBREEVISION - Observations from the far side of the dial
scannerLook at me -- I'm a mini-Canada!
The little toy I'm holding is my very own Nielsen purchase scanner. In their quest to quantify the typical Canadian household, the fine folks at Nielsen gather purchase data from 1100 "homescanners" countrywide. It basically amounts to me scanning the barcodes on purchases from tampons to potting soil and completing the occasional conveniently barcoded survey. Once a week I call a 1-800 number to transmit my data, a mysterious process that involves holding the scanner to the phone receiver while it makes a series of fax-transmission-type noises.
The scanning bit is inordinately exciting to me. I love using the self-scan checkout at the local grocery store; even when Eric's up and we're shopping together, I always beg to play Checkout Girl to his Bag Boy. We always joke that it's my secret dream to be a Checkout Slut, a term we jokingly used when Eric worked nights at a grocery store and teased me with tall tales of liasons with comely16-year-old cashiers.
Could it be true? Does my heart of hearts ache to moonlight as a Checkout Slut? I can't say for sure. All I know is that something about the validating beep of a smoothly executed scan makes me warm and happy inside.
The little toy I'm holding is my very own Nielsen purchase scanner. In their quest to quantify the typical Canadian household, the fine folks at Nielsen gather purchase data from 1100 "homescanners" countrywide. It basically amounts to me scanning the barcodes on purchases from tampons to potting soil and completing the occasional conveniently barcoded survey. Once a week I call a 1-800 number to transmit my data, a mysterious process that involves holding the scanner to the phone receiver while it makes a series of fax-transmission-type noises.
The scanning bit is inordinately exciting to me. I love using the self-scan checkout at the local grocery store; even when Eric's up and we're shopping together, I always beg to play Checkout Girl to his Bag Boy. We always joke that it's my secret dream to be a Checkout Slut, a term we jokingly used when Eric worked nights at a grocery store and teased me with tall tales of liasons with comely16-year-old cashiers.
Could it be true? Does my heart of hearts ache to moonlight as a Checkout Slut? I can't say for sure. All I know is that something about the validating beep of a smoothly executed scan makes me warm and happy inside.
Nutshell
Passed the Audition
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