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that area was zoned for horses.
    Dr. K and I forked over twice what we might have paid a few miles away so our kids could attend the tony Lakeside Elementary instead of Calvin Coolidge, my completely unremarkable grammar school alma mater. Kelly told me that Calvin Coolidge wasn’t even offering Mandarin classes at the time! Still, the quaint little Cape Cod we bought was adorable, nestled in the midst of so many old-growth oak trees.
    Before we even moved in, we made the business decision to tear down the Cape Cod in order to take advantage of the size of our lot, because that’s what everyone does in North Shore. (Hoo-boy, you should have heard what Nana Baba, my ridiculously utilitarian mother-in-law, thought about that!) Now our sparkling new, triple-paned, custom-built, mock Tudor home is deliciously spacious, and the large, oak tree–filled yard has been reduced to a landing strip of grass in the front and the back.
    Kelly insisted that only negligent monsters allow children to play outdoors alone, so I’m confident we’re better off with the expanded interior space, even if part of it’s presently bereft of furniture. But since the housing crash, we’ve lost a ton of equity and we’ve maxed out our homeowners’ line of credit, just like many North Shore families, so we’re a bit stuck. (Not Betsy and Trip, but they don’t count.)
    Others are floundering, too. I’m sure of it. I saw my next-door neighbor Cecily dropping off items to sell at the North Shore Doubletake consignment store last week. Naturally, I ducked out before
she
could see
me
. Wouldn’t want to embarrass her!
    The second reason for our cash crunch has been the one-two punch of fluoridated water and sonic toothbrushes. The cavity-filling business is a shadow of what it once was in the candy-coated, sprinkle-topped heyday of the second half of the last century. Back before my father sold Dr. K his North Shore dental practice and retired to South Carolina, he had a staff of four dentists, twelve full-time hygienists, a lake house
and
a ski cabin, and two brand-new Cadillacs delivered to our driveway every fall. Dr. Daddy says cans of full-sugar soda alone paid for my tuition and convertible Cabriolet.
    To compensate for the changes in the industry, Dr. K sank a ton of money into building up the cosmetic portion of his biz last fall. Dr. Daddy’s old shag carpet and Brady Bunch–style paneled walls are finally gone. The office is so high-tech now! The exam room looks like NASA with all the plasma screens. Unfortunately, air abrasion drills, digital panoramic X-rays, and jaw-tracking technology don’t exactly come cheap.
    Honestly, the only reason I’m still able to dress Kassie in Hanna Andersson and Billieblush is because of the posts those companies sponsor on my blog.
    Ashley interrupts my thoughts. “Hey, is Dr. K around?”
    “No, it’s his day off, but he was called away for an emergency.”
    Cookie, his office manager, wasn’t specific about what kind of emergency it was, but apparently it was urgent enough that he rushed out of the house like his pants were afire. I’d never complain, but it’s funny how he can’t quite spring into action to help me, but when work calls? Step aside, everyone!
    Speaking of his job, but can we take a moment here to discuss Cookie?
    First, what kind of adult calls herself
Cookie
?
    Mind you, I’m not jealous. Far from it! I mean, she’s a
grandma.
A forty-something grandma, but still. I cannot even imagine how embarrassing that must be. Plus, she tries to be extra chummy with me, as though we’re equals, or coconspirators on some great secret. Unacceptable.
    I’m miffed by her lack of deference and I don’t love how dependent Dr. K has become on her in the past few years. He made a lot of his upgrade decisions based on her recommendations. I miss the early days of helping out at the practice myself. Cookie laughed herself asthmatic when she found my old “Miles of Smiles”