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instantly transformed into dangerous Missile Boobs, I’m sure.
    Kate’s boobs, however, went from twin chest freckles to twin mosquito bites, if that. I know, because she insisted on showing me her new “cleavage” when we were having our final bridesmaid-gown fitting for Raphael’s wedding.
    “I hate feeling sick all the time, too,” she grouses on. “And I hate getting so big and fat—”
    Mind you, as of Friday night, she was still zipping her size zero jeans, and you could have stuck the Manhattan White Pages between her belly button and the snap.
    “Plus, I’m so tired all I want to do is sleep.”
    I should probably point out that the last issue isn’t necessarily a huge problem since all she has to do, really, is sleep. She’s a stay-at-home wife thanks to her family’s money and Billy’s Wall Street salary with staggering bonuses. She has always spent a lot of time sleeping.
    “I know how hard this is for you, Kate.”
    I say that because I’m a good, loyal friend.
    I also say it because it’s the truth.
    But mostly I say it because I’m anxious to move on to my news.
    As always, however, Kate is the main topic of conversation and she isn’t eager to relinquish that role.
    “Do you know what makes me throw up in the mornings, Tracey?”
    No, and I really don’t want to.
    But I daresay that doesn’t matter, because I bet Kate is going to tell me.
    “Everything.”
    See?
    I murmur my sympathy, glad that at least she didn’t elaborate.
    “Billy’s breath is the worst,” she says then, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re still talking about morning-sickness triggers and haven’t moved on to a new topic, i.e., Billy Has Halitosis , in which case I’d be more comfortable changing the subject to my engagement.
    “I make him get up and brush his teeth the second the alarm goes off every morning. And I make him open the refrigerator whenever I need something because the smell of it just does me in.”
    “Good idea,” I say, rather enjoying the image of arrogant Billy as foul-breathed refrigerator doorman at Kate’s beck and call.
    “And then there’s the thought of meat—any meat…Oh, God, Tracey, I feel like I’m going to hurl just talking about it.”
    “Then let’s change the subject,” I say quickly. “I’ve got news for you.”
    “What is it?” she asks feebly.
    Realizing she’s fading fast, I blurt, “Jack and I got engaged last night.”
    “Oh my gosh! I’m so happy for y’all!”
    I have no doubt that Kate means that from the bottom of her heart…even though she follows it up with a horrible gagging sound and throws down the receiver with a clatter.
    I hang on, hoping she’ll return momentarily so that I can regale her with the romantic saga of Jack on his knees in the gutter.
    But it’s Billy who a good minute later picks up the receiver and asks, “Hello? Tracey?”
    “Yeah…?”
    “Listen, Kate’s got her head in the toilet again. She told me to tell you congratulations and she wants to take you out to lunch next weekend to celebrate.”
    “Okay…thanks. And be sure to tell her the wedding won’t be until after she has the baby, so not to worry.”
    “What wedding?”
    “Mine and Jack’s,” I say, miffed that Billy would offer secondhand congratulations without even asking Kate the reason.
    “Oh, that’s great,” he says in exactly the same fake-enthusiastic tone he might use if somebody’s six-year-old niece gave him an ugly crayon drawing.
    “Well, see ya.” Billy hangs up.
    Wow. First time I get to make my big announcement, and one audience member pukes, and the other doesn’t give a damn. Where do we go from here? I just hope it isn’t an omen of some sort.
    I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Kate.
    I also can’t help but feel the distinct need to share my news with somebody who won’t be dismissive. Or vomit.
    But there’s nobody to tell, unless Jimmy the doorman is on duty…and I’m not dressed for the lobby at the