Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan Page B

clients has to take at least an hour, but I don’t mind. Her coffee table is stacked with women’s magazines whose cover lines promise advice on “4 Ways to Have a Better Orgasm,” “5 Ways to Give a Better Orgasm,” and “6 Ways to Have 7 Simultaneous Orgasms.” What they don’t say is how many men all this will require.
    Kate disappears back into her office and I start to make my way through a copy of
Marie Claire
that heralds “587 New Looks For Fall.” I figure they’re offering more bang for the buck. By the time I look up again, the waiting room has emptied and the last patients of the day—a mother and her teenage daughter—are emerging from Kate’s inner sanctum. For a moment, I wonder which one is the patient, and then I realize it’s probably both. The mother is furrow-free and the daughter has zero zits. And I bet it costs a small fortune for each to get what the other has naturally. Kate follows behind them, jingling her car keys on their Cartier chain.
    â€œWe’ll both see you next week,” the mother says. “Same time, as usual.”
    They come in every week? How much Retin-A does one family need? And where does a dermatologist fit in with the usual New York City kid’s lineup of after-school consultants? Tennis coach, self-esteem guru, SAT I and SAT II tutors, college essay expert—also known as the ghostwriter, therapist, herbalist and the ever-important orthodontist. Because whether or not your children have crooked teeth, giving them braces shows that you care.
    â€œOne more thing,” says the mother, pausing at the door. “My other daughter Kimberly’s turning four next week. I’m thinking of bringing her in. I want to make sure we don’t wait too long.”
    â€œDon’t need to see her yet,” Kate replies. “Wait until she’s six.”
    Ah yes. Odds are little Kimberly’s skin will still be peaches and cream pure at that point. But the stress of first grade and all her mother’s expectations will probably make her break out in hives.
    Once the derm-addicted duo leave, we head out to the sidewalk where Kate’s zippy new Z-4 convertible is parked. Top down, and not even so much as a fire-engine red Club on the steering wheel to protect against thieves. It would never occur to Kate that anything could go wrong in her life. And somehow it hasn’t.
    We pull away from the curb and Kate revs the engine as she weaves her way through heavy traffic.
    â€œZero to sixty in five-point-nine seconds,” she says proudly. Even though we haven’t broken twenty. “Mapquest says we’ll be in Bedford in sixty-eight minutes. A quick commute.”
    Since we haven’t moved an inch, I wonder if Mapquest allowed time for the traffic-stopping pothole repair crew that’s blocking all of 88th Street. And I also wonder why my city-loving Kate suddenly wants to commute in the first place. Maybe my moving to Hadley Farms has started a trend.
    â€œWhen did you decide to buy a house?” I ask Kate. “Last I heard, you were buying the Birkin bag. Nobody should be able to afford both.”
    â€œI’m still on the waiting list for the Birkin,” Kate says. “The house is instant gratification.”
    When I need instant gratification, I buy a Mars bar or a Milky Way. Kate buys a mansion. If this is what she does on the spur of the moment, I’m afraid to ask about her long-range plans.
    But when we finally arrive in Bedford and cruise up the driveway past rolling lawns and a thick hedge of perfect trees, I see the hidden white-gabled house with hunter green shutters—and I understand the appeal.
    â€œCome on in,” Kate says eagerly, hopping out of the car and sprinting up the stone path in her stilettos without ever missing a beat. I try to follow and immediately catch my flat Cole Haan loafers on the edge of a rock. But even a stubbed toe