Just in case the illo does not make it clear enough, wrestling Fat Frances is neither easy nor fun. First, well... I'm not gonna beat around the bush here. She smells bad. Really bad. She stinks. Like spoiled milk and boiled cabbage. And she farts ALOT. And she never, ever brushes her teeth. Also, she's very, very loud and oh-my-gawd HEFTY so when she's sitting on you, you really feel it! Your ribs kinda crack into your lungs and every breath is a struggle.
Not that she was sitting on me the whole time, mind you. I did manage to heave her off on occassion, occassions such as when the Gilmore Girls were on (they are re-running the first season on channel 33 and I totally missed the first season) and of course, I shook her off for the daily wolf walk (there's nothing Fat Frances abhorrs more than fresh air and exercise). Sometimes, Fat Frances even got off me voluntarily to go snog her boyfriend Milo in the closet. Yes, it's true. She has a boyfriend. He's quite devoted and dare I say it? Enthralled with Her Royal Hefty Huffiness. Which just goes to show you there is someone for everyone, I guess.
Yesterday, she packed up for good. She's off to her snooty boarding school to terrorize her classmates and prematurely age the administration. Hopefully, she'll stay away for the rest of year. I did not weep. I didn't even tear up. I won't be sending any postcards or care packages nor, you can be certain, extending any invitations to stay the weekend. I slammed the door behind her and the wolf and I did this elaborate sort of square dance thing that involved alot of bum waggling.
Last year, though, she got expelled mid-January for burning down the stables and had to bunk here awhile. But surely, that can't happen two years in a row and maybe the three months of sensitivity training and anger management did her some good. Surely. Although, to be honest, I didn't see much evidence of that this week. Still...there's hope, right?
P.S. I once had an editor that looked exactly like Fat Frances, only not as feminine. I kid you not. A RCMP* officer she called to the scene during one particularly nasty incident at the newspaper (which would require far more time to explain than I have at the moment) actually addressed her as "Sir." To which she huffed dangerously, "I am not a SIR! I am a Ma'am!" No word of a lie. I can't say that I miss her much.
* By the way, RCMP stands for Royal Canadian Mounted Police, in case you've never resided under the red maple leaf.
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