As poor, sweet Francine Zane is temporarily—I hope—recovering from holiday induced PTSD, I have been tasked with writing an interim post on my life as a gargoyle. Why the woman thinks anyone would want to know about my life is beyond me, but she assures me I have a devout following.
So, here is my report on my current condition. I am cold. Stone cold, if you will pardon the pun. Since the woman has taken to hiding under her bed all day and mumbling something about nasty elves and evil sleigh drivers, she has failed to pay the bills, and we are presently without heat. I’ve been reduced to breaking down bits of furniture to burn in the stainless kitchen sink to generate even the remotest amount of heat. I had originally tried burning a second fire in a cast iron pan near poor Francine’s bed as she must be freezing under there, but after the second time sparks flew out and caught her lace doilies and such afire, I gave up the fight. Besides, if she gets too comfortable under there, she may never come out and that just won’t do. I’ve been reduced to scavenging for my own meals, and a gargoyle of my age and stature is too old to learn to cook. Not that I want to learn to begin with.
What, might you ask, has upset the dear Francine so badly? All I know is she was in good spirits until right before Thanksgiving. She’d made a shopping list and checked it thrice before tootling off to the store for the makings of a holiday feast. She came back scowling worse than I do after losing a fight to a cat in heat. The woman complained for three days about drivers backing up traffic to the state line while waiting for parking spaces to open up that were two inches closer to the door than the next closest spots. The next thing I knew, she had stopped talking all together after the UPS guy delivered her long awaited limited edition Irish crystal miniature chandelier for the Victorian doll house she is furnishing for her newest guests, a pair of fine magical gentry of the pixy persuasion. Bug bait if you asked me, but she did not ask me. The chandelier, clearly marked fragile in a million spots on the box, was smashed between the new bowling ball she had ordered for me and a historically accurate recreation of a seventeenth century anvil that she had ordered for her weed patch—I mean flower garden. But the final blow came in the form of a letter from her dearly departed mother. Here is the important bit of the letter:
My dearest Francine,
I know I have put this off way too long and that telling you the truth by letter is the ultimate act of cowardice, but I can no longer live with my secret. You, Francine, my dearest child, are the product of a long and lurid affair between your father and his nitwit lover, Twinkletoes. Oh, but it gets worse. Twinkletoes is the head assistant to Santa Claus. Your father, Lord forgive him, only met with your mother the one day of the year she had off from toy making, list checking and chimney sweeping (to protect Santa’s red coat from soot marks.) From that union, you were born. Seeing as how she couldn’t raise you at the North Pole and maintain her workaholic lifestyle, she gave you to your father to raise, and I, being the loving and devoted wife of a rich man, decided to forgive his annual indiscretion and to raise you as my own. I’ve never regretted my decision, until now.
Christmas Eve, the little trollop and her red and white henchman came for a visit while I was asleep in my cap with visions of sugar plum dancing in my head. She stole your father away, and this time for good. They ran off to Mexico for a quicky divorce, and I won’t have it. I’ve packed up the Hummer and am road tripping it that way. I’ll not give that man up without a fight. I may have to trade your freedom for his. Pack a bag and stand by.
P.S. Don’t forget to pack thermal underwear and wool socks.
P.P.S. You look like your mother. I can never forgive you for that.
At least that explains why Francine is such a tiny creature and has such an appetite for the sweets.