Dumb Bells

Nora and Wilma sat in Blue Bells restaurant. They’d invited Dotty but she declined due to the amount of research she wanted to do.

“Wilma, something is amiss,” Nora said, worriedly.

“Why do you say that?” Wilma frowned.

“Dotty isn’t square in the head. Since the Wise Owl issue, she’s glued to her computer. If she does write her autobiography, it will make Lady Chatterley’s Lover middle grade reading. I have a feeling her lift isn’t going to the top floor.”

Wilma laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Of course, she’s fine. She’s going through a sexagenarian crisis.”

“I’ve heard of a mid-life crisis, not a sexagenarian one. Which is more serious?”

“Definitely sexagenarian – not enough sex. You see Nora, I know I’m referred as the blonde bimbo but actually I’m not.”

“Of course you aren’t. You’re not naturally blonde; you’re grey but with all the peroxide, I doubt if it will change colour. It’ll fall out first.”

Wilma automatically patted her hair to make certain each strand was still in place. She plied it with so much hair spray; a golf ball travelling 150 mph could bounce off without leaving an indentation.

“Wilma, I’ve just twigged. If Dotty’s going through this sex crisis, how come we aren’t?”

“Excuse me, speak for yourself.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you’re going through one. Strange, because you act normal.”

“I think we should order, I’m starving.”

Wilma caught the waiter’s attention – he acknowledged her and gave thumbs up. He knew what they wanted to eat.

Nora ran her finger around the rim of her glass: it started to ring. “Nora, penny for them.”

She blushed.

“Ah, I know – it’s Mr. Harris at No. 52. He has the hots for you. You should test drive him Nora.”

Nora wiggled her bum further into the chair. “I do like him but don’t tell Dotty. She’ll try and be cupid.” Nora fiddled with the place mat then added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already test driven him.”

“No way, Nora! She said his knees are too knobbly. In any event, one session with her will find him in the cardiac unit at the general hospital.”

“I never thought of that. So, if we see an ambulance outside his cottage we’ll know why.”

Wilma stretched her neck to look over Nora’s shoulder. Nora half turned to follow her gaze. They noticed Dotty talking to Woodridge – the editor of Hawthorne Heights Chronicle. She wagged her finger at him, while he nodded his head.

“I thought she’s researching. Why is she talking to him, unless it’s to complain?”

Wilma chuckled. “She’s too late; I’ve already emailed a complaint about the Wise Owl.”

Dotty pushed open the glass spring door with gusto. With a purposeful step, she approached their table: a huge smile of satisfaction slid across her face. As she plonked herself on the chair she announced, “That’s sorted. “

Nora and Wilma glanced at each other: Dotty turned to get the waiter’s attention. He only managed a faint smile.

Wilma finally asked, “What is sorted? You were talking to Woodbridge. Has he agreed to print your autobiography in chapters or volumes – gawd help us all!”

Dotty cupped her hands under her chin; her mischievous blues eyes danced in victory. “Actually, it wasn’t about my autobiography – it’s about Wise Owl. I complimented him on a brilliant column.”

Wilma interjected, “I emailed…”

Dotty put her hand up, “He knows you complained. You’re the only one.” She gave a satisfied grin.

Nora shook her head. “People are so fickle, I don’t understand it.”

“Yes I know Nora. You never understand or think.” Dotty took a sip of her gin and tonic, and then asked, “What have you two been up to lately?”

“Nora had sex-a-marathon with her knob throb and I went to visit an old flame,” Wilma replied, nonchalantly.

Dotty retaliated. “Now I know who bought the entire Spanish fly stock from the chemist – you Nora.” She raised her brows.

“Don’t be ridiculous Dotty. Why would I waste money on a Spanish fly? They buzz around my kitchen for nothing.”

Dotty rolled her eyes: Nora’s ‘dumb’ bells ring again.


Food for Thought

Since the announcement of the Wise Owl column, Dotty had become unusually reticent. Concerned, Nora and Wilma decided on a surprise visit and found her sat at the computer, her fingers furiously tapping the keyboard. Flustered with the intrusion, Dotty gave the duo her faux bonhomme smile and quickly minimized the screen.

“I did call out but you didn’t answer.” Wilma approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’re anxious about you. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m fine. Just extremely busy.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her weary eyes.

Nora stared at Dotty, her lips pursed she shook her head. “This sudden mission of yours has given you periorbital puffiness,” she commented.

Dotty pushed her chair away from the desk and rubbed the back of her neck. “Let’s have a cuppa. I need a break.” They followed her to the kitchen and helped lay the tea tray.

Nora, her arms folded across her ample bosom, leant against the cupboard with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Are you going to explain why you’re so busy or is it a deep, dark secret? Maybe a lover in your cupboard!”

Dotty gave her a sideward glance and continued pouring the boiled water into the teapot. She lifted the tray and carried it to the sitting room. “Damn, I’ve forgotten the cake platter,” she said, not addressing anyone in particular. She returned to the kitchen to collect it.

Nora took the opportunity and whispered to Wilma who poured the tea, “She’s up to no good – guilty as heck.”

Wilma put a finger to her lips, “Shush, she can hear a pin drop. By the second cup, she’ll reveal all. You know she can’t keep  secrets.”

Nora finished her tea and placed the teacup on the side table and blurted, “Are you going to tell us what you’re up to?”
An impish grin crossed Dotty’s face. “How do you want it? In chapters or books?”

“Holy Moses, your brain cells have mutated. Is this going to take long?” Wilma asked.

“I, my dears…  am writing our autobiography,” Dotty stated with defiance.

Nora leapt up and screeched, “Writing our autobiography! You’ve had a stroke.” She swung to face Wilma. “It’s time to phone the loony bin.”

“Nora, they don’t put stroke patients in a loony bin. Show some compassion.” Wilma scolded, wagging a finger at her.

Dotty fell back in her chair in laughter. “Visualize a sexy cover adorning our terrific bods: each page inscribes the juicy bits of our lives. “ Tears rolled down her cheeks.

The other two went ashen.  Wilma swallowed dryly. “You can’t do that, it’s a travesty of justice. With your wild imagination and wishful thoughts, readers will think we’re sluts. Be appropriate and fantasies about yourself which, no doubt will be volumes.” She turned to Nora, “You’re right – she’s needs to be admitted in the loony bin – the fantasy ward. Make sure it’s close to the male psychopaths so she can entertain them with her autobiography.”

Dotty retrieved a tissue, wiped her eyes and blew her nose; pleased she’d evoked ’ food for thought’.