Subtle Muddle

Sometimes I may not be the best at picking up subtle signals, like body language indicating a person doesn't want to talk to me anymore or like my husband having missed the last 4 minutes of our "conversation" because he's on the computer.  These things float right over my head as I live in self-important, ignorant bliss.

Then there are some not so subtle signals that are hard to miss... like the one my scale has been giving me lately.  Not really so much that the numbers are climbing (which they unfortunately are, no thanks to my Hostess abuse habit) but more that I have somehow found an enemy in this engineered piece of plastic.

I stepped on the scale at some point this week and felt the message was unsatisfactory.  I told this to the scale.  Then I got back on to see if it was willing to make an adjustment for me.  The same numbers appeared, followed immediately by a low battery message.  This made me happy because clearly this was why the numbers were inflated.  I lived in this happy bubble for a few days.

Then finally tonight I decided I should change the batteries and give the scale another chance at reflecting a positive message.  To encourage it, I sing, "Heal the woooorld, make it a better place, for you and for me and the entire human race..."

Battery in.  Step on the scale.  No numbers flash.  I turn it over to be certain the battery was facing the right direction (I did pass the low-level intelligence test for today, but just barely).  I put it back on the floor and step on again.  Nothing.

Then I start to smell something funny, which is actually not out of the ordinary as I am standing in the bathroom.  But this is the smell of burning.  A little sniff research tells me that this odor is coming from my scale.  In fact, there is a little cloud of smoke coming up from under it.

Here is a picture of the discarded insult-thrower.  I figured if it caught the garbage can on fire, I could always just push it outside and warm my hands by it.

I think somehow my scale decided to self destruct rather than be in my employ.  Oddly enough, this is the not the first time this kind non-subtle message has been sent to me.  Once, I warned a hair dresser about my problematic hair and she scoffed at me.  I could tell she believed my hair was giving her a glove-slapping-your-face challenge.  She pulled out her blow dryer and round brush and went to work.  Not three minutes later, her blow dryer caught fire and smoked up the entire salon.  They had to open the doors so people didn't asphyxiate.

The burning scale is not doing much to help my week of indulgent, self-pity.

A few days into self-pity week, Eli stopped me at breakfast to tell me I was the #1 Greatest in our house.  I thought this was really nice.  I even smirked at Mark who was sitting nearby feeling overlooked.  I asked Eli who #2 was.  He said he was #2.  I felt the need to brag to Mark, "You hear that?  Mommy is the #1 greatest in the house!"  Eli's voice cut through, saying, "I didn't say greatest, I said greediest."  Uggh.  This changes things.  He reasoned that I was greedy because I always want to spend all our money on pantyhose (I bought my first pair of pantyhose in 15 years a few days ago.  They were $4.)

Woe is me.  Tomorrow, I better win the lottery, suddenly enjoy running long distances and have someone mistake me for Heidi Klum.