I want to be a doll.

“”You’re a doll,” I said.

“No, that’s what I say to you after you take that box upstairs. In the guest bedroom, please.” The box was one of Liz’s “Care Packages.”

“I mean, you’re Liz’s doll. Don’t you see it?”

“What I see is the box is still sitting in my living room.”

Fran and Liz met years ago when they modeled. It was a profession for Liz and some part-time spare change for Fran.

I don’t know anything about Liz’s first marriage. But, the second one seemed to be based on figures. Hers and her new husband’s bank account. She married an older Florida real estate developer. His passion was constantly hopping around the state, buying waterfront land and putting up bricks. Hers was continuously shopping for clothing, analogous in price to land with sea views. They were both happy with the arrangement, so all was good.

Apparently, clothes shopping isn’t an aerobic event, because Liz eventually added a few pounds. Not a whole lot, but enough to take her out of the league of the stuff cut for the svelte.

She could continue to lavish expensive threads upon herself, but the form-fitting cocktail dresses were out. She hired a trainer, but that didn’t have sufficient impact. A lesser woman would’ve given up the hunt.

Liz continued her shopping passion, but sends her finds to Fran, who pretty much held her weight. Hence, my observation.

“You’re Liz’s doll.”

“You’re getting too much sun.”

“I’m not kidding. She plays dress-up with you. Heck, that’s not bad. In fact, I would like some expedition guide to send me clothes. I want to be someone’s doll.”

“Good luck with that.”