Evil Incarnate

I have decided after this weekend that I am evil incarnate.

Seriously.

Every time I went to measure a kids' feet using the Brannock device (foot scale), I ended up with a screaming heebeejeebee. And it's not like this scale is scary or anything. At worst, it's a cold piece of metal. But put it in my hands near a bed wetting toddler, and the banshees come out in force.

It really makes me wonder.

Yesterday was a great example.

Two kids were playing with the scales while their parents shopped. Each kept taking turns running behind the counter and grabbing the devices. They would then run around (literally) the store swinging the scales until the other relented to have their foot measured. All fun and games (except for the customers that we cannot help since we can't find the scales now!).

Until it's their turn.

The parents finish demolishing the section of the store that they think they own, and now it's time to put shoes on the snowflakes. All hell is about to come crashing down about our ears.

Mom (usually) or Dad comes up to us and asks us to measure the feet. In yesterday's case, it was Mom.

First things first, I have to have a Brannock device. We keep some behind our counter, and a couple up high at the end of the aisles, so no problem.

Remember, these fiends have been playing with these same scales, laughing and running and basically terrorizing the entire store, just moments before all this...

I kneel down and talk to the snowflake, asking if they are having fun, smiling the entire time.

Snowflake takes one look at me, one look at the scale and decides this ain't happening.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I am sure the scream was audible somewhere in the orbit of Neptune.

Little Precious now starts kicking and yelling, pointing at the scale. Tears are falling fast enough to flood the Mojave. Other customers look at us either in fear, wondering what we are doing to the poor child, or in sympathy, or relief since it isn't their child--yet.

Mom is looking at me with apology all over her face.

The other child, in the spirit of the moment, decides they want attention. She starts screaming with the intent of setting off new decibel records.

Mom thanks me for the effort, and says she will just guess on size unless she can talk Snowflake into being measured. I tell her that I will leave her the scale and give her a brief how-to on using it should the twerp decide to be measured.

I get up, leave the scale on a bench and walk towards another customer.

INSTANT silence from Snowflake.

It's got to be me that Snowflake hates.

It's okay. I am not exactly her biggest fan either.

After all, I am evil incarnate.