I need trash can advise. Please?

We recently bought a new trash can, when the pedal-operated can we used for recyclables broke. The new can featured a self opening lid: it seemed a convenience.
It scared me the first time I walked past it—maybe a bit too close—and it snapped open. The combination of sound and action startled me. It’s happened again but I’m getting used to it.
It reminded me of Woody Allen complaining that his appliances conspired against him. It was a funny bit. Woody used to be very funny, before he turned into Ingmar Bergman.
Not that I mind Bergman. His movies were good, not necessarily enjoyable, but very good. And I was young then. I even liked the ones in black and white. They are fine. Hey, even my printer is black and white. But sometimes you need color, like for a photo. Fortunately Ruth has two color printers.
I soon discovered the Epson is unequivocally broken. It says so in its little liquid crystal window, while advising you to call a technician. No ambiguity. Nothing I tried dissuaded it. Call a technician, it insisted.
The other printer is newer and should work. It did for a while, Ruth said. When I tried it, the printer claimed to have no paper, even though it did. It actually claims to have no paper even when it takes it in. How is that possible? It took the paper and now it claims it didn’t? I forced the issue and it rewarded me with a different message: it cannot handle paper so small. Small? It’s regular size, for Pete’s sake!
I unplugged the new printer, moved it to my study—next to the new computer—loaded drivers from its CD and powered up its wireless feature. It still didn’t see the paper.
The HP people on the blogosphere suggest to disconnect and reconnect. Okay. I had jut done that, but what the hell, I did it again.
No help. So HP says to place it on its right side. Meaning what? It needs to be burped? And how do you know which is the right side? Your right? Its right?
I tried the right, I tried the left. Neither worked. I tried front and back—for good luck—I examined the paper space with a flashlight, jiggled the paper, raised it, fed it one at the time: I tried every which way.
I sat back and stared at it for some time, trying to figure out if there was something else I could try. That’s when the paper lid snapped open. Which scared me. It wasn’t the flip or the sound or the surprise; it was the timing. Was the HP printer mimicking the trash can?
I pushed back on my chair. This had to be a coincidence. That’s when this loud, horrible roar rose from the corner. The shredder had come to life. By itself. No paper jammed, nothing on top. Nothing even near it. It just turned itself on. I got the message: the shredder has teeth.
I can’t tell who else is in the conspiracy but I’m not getting into the massage chair anytime soon.