CONFESSIONS OF A PREP SCHOOL MOMMY HANDLER: A Memoir
Wade Rouse
Three Rivers Press
Memoir
Hardcover: 0307382702
Paperback: 9780307382719

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I squint into the sunny, shimmery sea of idling, just-washed black Land Rovers, Escalades, Excursions and Navigators, searching for Mrs. Ludington. Tate’s carpool lane looks exactly like a new SUV lot, except for the fact that right here, right now every tinted window is cracked just enough to reveal a pink-clad Stepford army of tiny, tan blondes all riding high and gesturing wildly into Laffy-Taffy-colored cell phones.

And yet I can still easily pick out my speed-dialing mommy.

Mrs. Ludington has the dog who is dressed just like her.

I have seen the duo pictured together numerous times in the society pages. They come as a set --- this blonde heiress and her snow white sidekick.

The famed LulaBelle, Mrs. Ludington’s “showdog,” is a fluffy, white cock-a-poo-something-or-other for which I heard she paid $10,000. LulaBelle, who actually looks like a frayed athletic sock, is riding shotgun and yapping at anything that happens to move. Which is everything in carpool. LulaBelle is wearing pink doggles and a pink gingham bow on her collar, and a little pink tanktop that says “My Dogs Are Barkin’.” Even her little nails are painted pink. If she had opposable thumbs, I am quite confident LulaBelle would be on a cell phone barking orders to her maid and sipping a no-fat Starbuck’s iced latte just like many of these mothers.

The color pink is primary at Tate Academy, for many of these mothers and pets. Lilly Pulitzer pink, to be exact. Pink is not an accent color here, a side swatch. It is not simply a pop of pink, like a begonia in a window box. It is the color.

I walk cheerfully up to the Escalade, waving like a hitchhiking Moonie, and peek in the tiny opening of the passenger window.

“You’re tardy,” is how she greets me, like I’m a third-grader who forgot to get a bathroom pass.

Mrs. Ludington is ensconced in a shrunken pink Lilly Pulitzer polo and pink floral-and-heart capris. She looks like an animated begonia, a floral DreamWorks character who has plucked herself from one of our windowboxes and taken to the streets to find her longlost mother, the petunia.

I have already held lots of meetings standing outside an SUV --- making deals, bartering, begging, schmoozing, pleading, finally, reluctantly agreeing to a situation that makes me wholly uncomfortable.

I am a hooker.

At least, I try and convince myself, I’m a high-class whore.

I can’t do this another year. Please, God, not another year.

To grab my attention, Mrs. Ludington proceeds to gun her Escalade with a pink-bedecked espadrille, the SUV jolting forward, dragging my body alongside. I look at her, my eyes wild, my nails gripped to the top of the windowframe.

“I thought that might do the trick. My God, for a moment I thought you were in a coma.”

She begins dumping the contents of her Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 carryall into the passenger seat. LulaBelle dances excitedly over lipsticks and perfume bottles and a thank-you note from the Cadillac dealership.

 “So … what I want you to do is take my Louis bag and make the background for the new reunion invite match their logo. Isn’t it just brilliant?”

Are you kidding me? I don’t even get it, except that she’s obsessed with Louis Vuitton and wants to show off her new purse.

Excerpted from CONFESSIONS OF A PREP SCHOOL MOMMY HANDLER: A Memoir © Copyright 2008 by Wade Rouse. Reprinted with permission by Three Rivers Press. All rights reserved.

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