I close my eyes for a minute and try to center myself. Okay, so apparently this mother-daughter day is important enough that Mom has sent my stylist to dress me. I guess flip-flops and jeans aren’t good enough, even when the flip-flops are Juicy and the jeans are Swarovski-studded Sevens.

“Coming,” I shout halfheartedly. I drag myself away from the beckoning bed and make my way to the front door.

“Star, Star, Star!” Melissa, a punkish woman in her thirties with pink-streaked black hair gushes at me from the hallway. She’s pushing a long rolling rack of clothes. “Omigod. We have, like, thirty minutes. We have to hurry!”

An hour and a half later, Mom and I are standing in the famous Tiffany store on Fifth Avenue, looking at bracelets and rings presented to us on little pale blue pillows by two grinning salesmen and a blushing saleswoman who are entirely ignoring the other customers in the store. In all fairness, though, I’ve noticed that the other customers aren’t really looking at the jewelry anyhow; they’re watching me. As usual, I try to pretend I don’t notice. Mike and Tiny Joe try to blend into the woodwork as well as two six-foot-five-inch-tall linebacker-sized men can.

Melissa has decked me out in a little Dolce & Gabbana silver and gold lame dress, which seems awfully fancy for a late-morning shopping trip. But she’s managed to dress it down with opaque black tights, casual black ballet flats and some chunky gold jewelry. Mom is still wearing her black cocktail dress and pearls, and Don has blown out her hair perfectly, as usual.

“Ooh, Star, this one is so pretty,” Mom gushes, holding up a silver-beaded bracelet. I nod and she turns to one of the salesmen. “How much?”

“One hundred fifty,” the man says after checking the price. Mom frowns.

“That’s all? Could we see something more expensive?”

I roll my eyes as the salespeople present Mom with an array of other options: shiny cocktails rings, charm necklaces, pins. Finally, the saleswoman appears with a bracelet that makes Mom’s eyes light up.

“Ooh, honey, it’s little stars!” she exclaims.

I look at the bracelet, which is, admittedly, pretty.

“It’s nice,” I say.

“Stars!” she repeats loudly, in case I didn’t get it the first time. “Like your name! Star!”

I look at her strangely. Does she think I’m a total idiot?

“I know, Mom,” I say.

Mom reaches for the bracelet, and the salespeople rush to help her clasp it on her wrist. She turns it over and smiles as the little diamond star charms catch the light.

“That’s our Tiffany Star charm bracelet,” explains one of the salesmen. “Just under a carat’s worth of diamonds. Fifty-two hundred dollars.”

“Fifty-two hundred? Excellent! We’ll take it!” Mom exclaims instantly, still admiring the way it sparkles on her wrist.