My mother was so excited when we got an appointment with Monique deVouvray, wedding dress designer to the stars, that she bragged about it for three weeks at her weekly mah-jongg game, which was funny since she was mispronouncing Monique’s last name for the first two of them.

“My mother will kill us if we’re late for Monique,” Vanessa says, leading the charge out of the dressing room.

“Your mother knows Monique?” the salesperson asks, doing her best to furrow a Botoxed brow.

“Yes, she does,” Vanessa says, her right arm linked in my left as she guides me quickly to the elevator. “Thanks so much for everything. Bye!”

As we hit the button for the elevator, I can hear my mother whispering to the salesperson that Vanessa’s mom used to model with Monique. My mother dashes into the elevator just as the doors are about to close (I was willing to leave her up there, it was Vanessa who pushed the door-open button), and in moments, we are down at the car.

Vanessa’s dad lent us his car and driver for the day so that we could hop around town to our various appointments. The three of us pile into the backseat of Vanessa’s father’s huge Mercedes (affectionately dubbed the “Nazi-mobile” by my mother) and head uptown.

“We need to get you a bite to eat before stopping at Monique’s,” I say to my mother. “We don’t want you throwing up all over the couture.”

“There are a million little delis up Third Avenue,” Vanessa offers.

“Let’s go to Tasty D instead,” my mom slurs. “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!”

She’s been saying that my whole life.

“Tommy,” I say to the driver, “would you please pull over here?” I run out of the car and hop into Dunkin’ Donuts, returning with a massive cruller, a delicacy that I know my mother cannot refuse.

“Well,” my mother says, “I suppose I could have just one tiny bite.”