The Story of The Talking Scale

Now that you've had a look at my ex-trouble 'n strife, I thought perhaps I might share a story with you. A true story. Thanks for reminding me, Jenn.

This story took place nearly twenty years ago. Kelly and I had been married about a year; she was pregnant with Daniel. We were not getting along very well and I thought maybe a romantic getaway might help melt the frost on her side of the bed. I booked a room in a fancy hotel in the quaint village of Niagara-On-The-Lake and off we went.

We spent the day strolling about and shopping. In Truth, Ms J, we did more sitting and resting than actual strolling. The town fathers had thoughtfully provided tourists with ubiquitous benches from which we watched others strolling. Kelly had gained masses of weight with her first pregnancy. She was slightly more than three hundred pounds, nearly twice my weight. I did my best not to upset her.

In a crowded shop that sold kitchen and bathroom gadgets, Kelly discovered a "talking" bathroom scale. This was twenty years ago, remember. The technology in this plain-looking device was, to us, quite remarkable.

"How does it work, I wonder?" asked my wife.

I said I didn't know and picked the item up to read the instructions.

Turn switch clockwise to activate unit and adjust volume. Step on scale.

I switched it on and set it down again.

"Try it, Kel'," I suggested.

"No way!" she protested. "I don't want everyone in here knowing how much I weigh. No way, Dale. And no weigh."

(I put in that 'no weigh' bit, Ms J. She's not quite that clever.)

But there was a volume control on it, wasn't there? I told Kelly I could turn it down really low.

"No," she said firmly, and she tried to fold her arms across her chest. She couldn't quite do it, so she held her pudgy palms toward me.

"I'm not getting on that thing," she said.

I must tell you, Ms J, I was honestly and completely innocent of any malice aforethought. I simply wanted to test the scale to hear how it sounded. I was fascinated by a machine that could talk. We both were. I have no idea why I didn't step on the thing myself. It simply did not occur to us.

"OK. How 'bout this, then," I suggested. "I'll turn the volume control all the way down, and then up just a tiny bit. I'll kneel down and press my ear to the speaker. No one else will hear it."

I looked at her round face and I could tell she was beginning to soften. She shrugged her shoulder to reposition her purse and I waited a minute til she stopped rippling.

"C'mon, Kel'. Please?"

"OK," she sighed. "But turn it down as low as it will go."

I protested.

"Shit, if I turn it down as low as it'll go, I won't be able to --"

"You know what I mean. Just do it. And hurry up. My feet are killing me."

I decided it must have been phantom pain, Ms J. The woman hadn't seen her feet in months. I stooped down and twisted the black knob on the side of the scale. I turned it down as far as it would go and then up just a bit. A tiny bit. With great effort and a lot of huffing and puffing, my wife managed to climb atop the two inch appliance. (You can see this coming, can't you?)

I put my ear close to the speaker. And we waited.

Suddenly, the mumble and murmur of voices in the shop was silenced by a very loud male robotic voice. It frightened me. And it nearly deafened me.

"OVERLOAD. OVERLOAD. GOOD-BYE."

A lady's hand bag, when it's loaded with sweets and chocolate bars, can be a formidable weapon. I suffered at least three crushing blows to my head before I could get off the floor and out of the shop.

Kelly slept in a gorgeous four poster bed that night. I slept in a chair. A two hundred dollar a night chair.

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