Cursed By Santa

I’m currently in quite the state, due to the fact that I just got a new laptop after 9 years. This one is fast and shiny, but there is no discernible way to remove the password requirement from MY OWN DAMN COMPUTER. I’ve literally spent an hour this morning watching tutorials and carefully following instructions and all I’ve managed to do is create ANOTHER f*cking account under MY OWN NAME that has become the default account and now, when I restart my computer, not only do I have to put in a password, I have to switch accounts. And then suddenly, all my apostrophes turned into accented ‘e’s and I finally figured how to stop that, but whatever I did now makes it impossible to create an ‘e’ with an accent so apparently I’ve lost my alt keyboard and can no longer speak French.

Anyway, this is NOT about how much I hate my computer; this is about how I finally figured out why my life is so weird, which is to say that I think I was cursed as a very small child by Santa Claus. And what led to this bizarre, albeit obvious, conclusion? Last week, my parents came over for my mother’s early birthday dinner. At the end of the evening, right before they left, my mother pulled a card out of her purse and said, “Ooh, I found this the other day, and I thought you might want it!” On the front of the card, it said, “Christmas Fairyland” and on the inside was a picture of me at the age of 2, sitting on the lap of a Santa Claus. “Oh, that’s cute,” I said. “Thanks,” and I put it aside.

But then the other day, I opened it up and took a closer look. And that’s when I realized that it wasn’t really Santa. I mean, I KNOW it’s not the real Santa Claus, obviously—what I mean is that I think the lap I was precariously perched on belonged to some kind of demonic creature a la Stephen King. (Note that I couldn’t put the accent on the ‘a’ because my keyboard is no longer bilingual. Sorry). It’s like in It, when the kids realize that Pennywise is in all the historic pictures of Derry going back hundreds of years, except MY clown is dressed in a Santa suit. Don’t believe me? Take a good look at those dead eyes—they follow you wherever you go. They’re the eyes of a man who wants nothing more than to devour your soul. And look at ME—it’s like he just whispered, “You will be cursed with a mind that never shuts off” and I’m like “Get me off this guy’s lap and also, is Fred Flintstone based on a real caveman? Will people be able to live in space some day? Will I ever get a robot butler? Which bathroom stall is the best one? Wouldn’t Player One be a fantastic nickname? Oh my god, it’s already started!” So now you know.

In Other News…

Speaking of bathroom stalls, we’ve been having a problem at work with Stall Number 3. If you’ll recall from a couple of years ago, there are five bathroom stalls in the ladies’ bathroom. Stall 5 is my favourite, because it’s against the far wall with no other stall to the left, so if Stall 4 is empty, I ALWAYS use Stall 5. However, if Stall 4 is occupied, then I immediately go to Stall 2 if the ones on either side are both empty. I NEVER use Stall 1 because a ghost lives in it. Stall 4 always smells weird. Also, I heard that the number 4 is considered unlucky in some cultures, and no one wants to be unlucky in a public bathroom. I WILL use Stall 3 in an absolute emergency. But now, Stall 3 has supplanted Stall 4 as the worst non-haunted stall because twice in the last two weeks, it has been plugged up rather badly and won’t flush. And I don’t know what’s wrong with the person who’s been plugging it up (aside from the need to reduce the vast amount of fibre in their diet) because they’re not leaving a note saying Out Of Order or anything—all they’re leaving is A LARGE PILE OF POO LYING ON A GIANT BED OF TOILET PAPER. And this has forced me to go not once, but TWICE to the young woman who looks after facilities and have this conversation:

Incident 1

Me: Um, hi Deirdre. The third stall in the bathroom doesn’t seem to be working. It’s full and won’t flush.
Deirdre: OK, no problem. I’ll call the plumber.
Me: It wasn’t me. I swear.
Deirdre (laughs): OK.

Incident 2

Me: Um, hi Deirdre. The third stall in the bathroom doesn’t seem to be working again. It’s full and won’t flush.
Deirdre: OK, no problem. I’ll call the plumber again.
Me: It wasn’t me. I swear. Seriously, I know that it seems like it’s always me reporting it, but I didn’t do it. This is NOT a “Blame your fart on the dog” kind of situation.
Deirdre (laughs harder): OK. I believe you.

It really wasn’t me. I swear.

Let Me Be Frank

So on Thursday, we were trying to figure out how to get home because all the Via trains were cancelled (long story) and a bunch of us took a GO train halfway home then figured we would share a cab to Brantford from there. We were looking for one more person, and I saw someone I knew standing further up. “Frank!!” I called out, loudly enough that everyone else stopped talking. The man turned and started coming towards me. IT WASN’T FRANK. But he kept looking at me and getting closer, and my friend next to me whispered, “Why aren’t you saying anything?” But I didn’t know what was going on with Man-Who-Looked-Like-Frank-But-Wasn’t-Frank, so I kept very deliberately staring out the window until he was right in front of me.

Me: Um…hi?
Man: Do we know each other?
Me: No, I mistook you for someone else.
Man: But you called my name.
Me: You’re FRANK?
Man: Yes.
Me: Sorry—I meant a different Frank.

And I don’t even know how to end this story except to ask how many completely bald, short men wearing huge headphones and a trench coat named Frank are out there riding the trains every day? Are we in The Matrix and this is a Mr. Smith-type situation? Because if this is The Matrix, I want my damned robot butler.

All Hail The Rat Queen

This giant stuffed rat dressed in a pioneer costume sits atop a cardboard box in the middle of the warehouse used by the secret agency to house our secret stuff. It’s been there for years. No one knows why, and if you ask anyone why it’s there, they just shrug. And I’m not sure if it’s there to WARD OFF the rats like a bizarre eyeless scarecrow or if it’s there for the rats to worship. But SOMEONE OR SOMETHING has been leaving it offerings of paper flowers and I will think about this every day for the rest of my life, and that’s my curse.

74 thoughts on “Cursed By Santa”

  1. Santa’s eyes can be explained away as the look of someone who absolutely and utterly hates his job. I can’t imagine spending hours letting small children pile onto my lap telling me all of the stupid things they want for Christmas. I would probably rather work on plugged up toilets…

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  2. It’s funny cuz Kim was just asking us about our treasured stuffies over at her place, a couple of posts down the Reader, and there you are with the killa rat. She was also asking about our favourite vacations and there you are reminiscing about that time with Santa Claus and that other time with Frank on the train. Do y’all compare notes for Sundays?

    The other thing she was asking about was traits we admire in other people, and humor came up a lot. I admire a person who can pick a stall.

    At work, and here, I have a PIN I have to type to get into my Windows 10, and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing I can do about it. I’ll bet if we had a robot butler we wouldn’t have this problem. Or, at the very least, a monkey one.

    Do you ever wonder what that guy in the red suit, that cast that curse, is doing today? I wonder if the mall keeps records about that sort of thing…

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  6. I have an old laptop and let the grandkids play games on it. I had to clear out my own stuff and reboot with all new info. It’s so involved it takes about 5 minutes to get online. That’s why now its sitting on a nonworking printer gathering dust. The printer isn’t working because every time wifi goes out it has to be reset for airprint and the new password is a hundred letters and numbers long.

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  8. The more educated, the more technologically advanced we become the less tolerant of our bodies, their smells and sounds. Not too long ago trekking Asians shat at the side of the road in ditches. Public bathing, communal commodes, public nudity all of it suppressed by what? Shame? Squeamishness?
    My own hunt for an empty men’s room will take me up and down floors. Squatting in private seems a human right not a privilege. But why the change? Has religion twisted us so far as to shun the thought of eight billion asses all squeezing out turds as if it was some Devil’s curse, or Santa’s?

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  10. Wow, I never much thought about the stall that I’m going to use (except in those instances when they’re secret entrances to other places, like in Desperado, and I’m going to one of those places), other than confirming that it’s flushed, not filthy, and toilet paper is available.

    I think you should play into the scarerat being. Go before it each day and leave it a cuppa coffee as an offering. It’ll give people something to talk about.

    Speaking of farts, I was thinking about them the other day, and how we’ve maligned them. We’re aghast when one slips out, ESPECIALLY if one makes a sound or smell, as if we’re in complete control of every damn thing going on with our bodies.

    I want to propose a rebellion — we’ll call it the Fart Rebellion, and we’ll be Fartcists (which just seems better than Farters, to me, image, you know) — where we, the brave, just start farting in public and around others, and DAMN THE CONSEQUENCES. Everyone poops; everyone farts, too.

    Cheers

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  11. How much you wanna bet that if we were to unmask all those creepy department-store Santas, they’d all be one of those Frank clones that seem to be on every city street corner…? Probably the same bastard clogging the toilet in stall no. 3, too. I think if you look hard enough, Suzanne, you’ll realize that all your life’s difficulties are attributable to this Pennywise-style demon…

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  12. What no one seems to notice is that in the Santa picture you’re holding up your hands like you’re flying a plane or spaceship, so you were already Player One. And you must have been cursed by Santa right at that moment because you’re trying to fly away from him.
    And I used to envy you having so many bathroom stalls. There are only two in each of the bathrooms in my building—they put bathrooms on six different floors. Now, though, I can see the advantage of that. It increases the odds that the Phantom Clogger will be on another floor.
    I do, however, envy you having The Rat Queen in your building. I suspect the Franks are her minions and there’s a whole story there involving a Nutcracker.

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    • Ooh, the Phantom Clogger–I think now instead of putting a sign on the door saying Christmas Fairyland like Paul suggested, I’ll put one on saying “The Phantom Clogger strikes again!” Or “No One Expects the Phantom Clogger”!!

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  13. You can’t see Santa’s mouth at all but you can tell he’s not smiling because it hasn’t reached his eyes. At all. Or yours, if we’re being honest. Are we sure there isn’t a portion of devil clown in YOU? The clogged toilet may not be the case of blaming farts on the dog, but maybe the Santa story IS.

    All heil the Rat Queen.

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  15. I’m so glad I’m not the only one who has an assigned cubicle that they always use, ha!
    Love that creepy Santa photo! We took our 2-year old to see Santa last Christmas and she hated every moment, which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that all weekend she’s been telling me she wants to see Santa. You’ve got a long wait, kiddo!

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  17. I think your right, that Santa does look a bit like Tim Curry in IT, creepy as hell. And I don’t blame you for looking scared in that picture. Your gut was telling you there is something very wrong with this department store Santa, lol.

    As for your bathroom situation, I can relate although here at work we have “inclusive” bathrooms and they all have only one toilet. So if someone’s in there, we have to wait or go to the one on another floor. We have two on each floor but it seems that when I need to use the ladies room it’s always taken! Ugh, and someone always seems to fuck up one or the other so then we only have one until facilities comes to “unclog” the other.

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  18. Santa looks tired, alright….but you look like you are sliding off his lap, as if his costume is made of silk.

    And I do exactly the same thing about my workplace toilet. Whenever I find it dirty, I report it….but just opposite to the reporting desk there’s another washroom. After I report, I enter this other washroom. This makes sure they know it was not me ☺

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  19. Even though this wasn’t supposed to be about the computer password thing, that’s the part that will stick with me. It’s the worst part of a new laptop, trying to disable the password, and there is no logic to it – you try the suggested method 10 times and nothing, and the do the exact same thing an 11th time and it finally works. Let’s just go back to no password being the default, please!

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  20. I think all new technology should come with a free training course. When I had a new hard drive put in my computer, after being assured that everything would be the same, I discovered I now had windows 10. I can no longer use alt codes and my computer regularly and randomly disconnects from the internet. GRRR!

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  21. First off, I could feel myself breaking out in hives at your computer story. I HATE the rigamarole. It does feel like the matrix:). And second, do you think Deirdre tells her family dinner table stories about you? I do:).

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  22. Yes–I agree that Santa’s eyes are creepy–and that you look rather startled (but still cute:) You are also reaching out your arms as if to say, “Someone–anyone–please take me away from this situation.” So funny–I’ll have to dig up some Santa photos and see if there are any “dead-eyed” Santas in them–this may be a pattern.

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