It is a November Friday at noon:15.  I am to retrieve my four-year old charge, C., at the high tech massive church carpool. All the Buckhead Betties and several other nannies snake their SUVs in lines through the parking lot as I pull up in the only sedan and grip my steering wheel with ghastly unpainted, short fingernails.  In fact, I am not even wearing makeup!

(For those unfamiliar with this ATL slang: A Buckhead Betty is a lovely, giving woman who resides in the Buckhead Community of the greatest and most diverse city on the planet Earth, Atlanta. A typical morning for a Buckhead Betty includes waking up and letting the house keeper/nanny/and maid know her duties for the day. She’s charitable because she gives these poor, downtrodden immigrants jobs.  Her deep and boundless interests include: shopping at Phipps Plaza, shopping at Phipps Plaza, and shopping at Phipps Plaza. Other, secondary interests include, going to affairs at the Piedmont Driving Club, hosting teas, attending debutante balls, and naming her children after Republicans.  Many young Buckhead Betty’s-to-be typically mate with males of the Auburn/UGA/UVA/Duke attorney or doctor persuasion. This holy union brings about years of happiness, love, and private memberships to places like Sea Island .  All in all, a Buckhead Betty is truly your expert, go-to reference should you ever pen a thesis on materialism, never working a day in your life, old “Southern” customs that nobody outside of a 2 mile radius still practice, or plastic surgery.  However, this is just skimming the surface of this poignant, Audrey Hepburn-esque woman.” -mg83 on citydata.com

A yellow disposable racing 33 for my windshield is bestowed upon me a week ahead of time (“And be sure to keep it out of the dark upper corner, they can’t see your number!”)

It is my duty to pay attention; at all times, as my sagacious friend UMKidd says, (regarding life and parking lots:) “Keep it movin’!”

A Methodist preschool teacher in a festive November themed turtle neck, featuring a 3D turkey waddle, maintains order with her walkie talkie. She decides each carseat-ready, Uncrustables-supplied vehicle’s fate as she scans the line, checking off numbers on her clipboard and radioing updates back to the superchurch.  There, the children are herded from classrooms to the hall, under nearly as much pressure as I to scurry in a hurry to their cars.

If I drive too slowly or take too many liberties/display impatience, will C’s place as 33rd increase to a dreaded 40th?

Am I already doomed with out of state plates, a bumper sticker displaying a Wolverine instead of a Georgia Bulldog, and a non-German, non-SUV automobile? Should I turn down my rock n’roll music?

Will I please the Carpool Nazi with my acquiescence…?