NaNoWriMo - Chapter 1: Hen Convention

Last year I attempted to participate in NaNoWriMo and completed 1 chapter.  I think I chose a topic I wasn't ready to write about.  This time, I'm keeping it light.  Not exactly my choice, this chapter just wrote itself last night.  I need 50,000 words by November 30.  I'm doing it as a daily "freewrite".  Here's my start (451 words so far, must get caught up).

Hen Convention

You be-otches know who you are. You all cluster around the entranceway of schools and supermarkets looking superior. When solo fliers pass by, a hush falls over your clustering crowd. You act like an innocent passer-by is trying to eavesdrop on your conversation. Then there's that look reserved solely for newcomers in the neighborhood... 

I know who you are, too. Why do you all have such wide hips? You aren't fooling me.  You want to create a freakin' barricade. That's right, while you refuse to acknowledge the presence of others, we are forced to say something to you . The alternative is to stand outside of Stop and Shop forever, longing for our Spartan salad. 

When someone outside the pecking order needs to pass, you all pretend not to notice her.  The unspoken rule is she must say “Excuse me” at least three times. Of course she is forced to raise the decibel a bit the third time, wondering if you heard her above the din of your gossiping. 

You all stare, mortified, and someone coldly comments yelling isn't necessary. What seems to be an eternity later, you all slowly slumber your oversize arses aside. 

It's the hen convention. Cluck, cluck, clucking at those of us with low-cut blouses and bleached and blown hair. Heaven forbid we have skinny jeans and long tresses. We're cursed, wretched ho's who want your husband's beer belly banging against our bony mounds. You cover your son's eyes as we walk by, warning him about women like us. 

Working women are shunned even more. Sport a professional suit in a size 5 and watch the hatred in the hens' eyes. Not only do you want their 300 pound husband, you can't wait to pay his bills. Yes, you are definitely the devil wearing Prada. That brings me to designer clothing and handbags... 

The frumpy hen convention still has the same practical, well-worn leather handbag from high school graduation. “Coach” is the class they ride in an airplane, if they ever get on one at all. Denim is in jacket form only to hide those oversize arses rather than accentuate them. Designers are moms who have a sewing machine. 

Frankly, the hens are really reacting in fear.  What if we took the power we have in the boardroom to address them at the next school gathering? Imagine if we called you on out stuffing all those donuts in your faces at every PTA meeting? C'mon, ladies, leave a few for the visiting members! 

And we really DO see you scuffling the leftover chocolate chip cookies home to your fat husbands, hoping to get lucky. Imagine if we called YOU on using those cookies as an aphrodisiac? Then, can we please discuss those hideous stretch pants clinging to cellulite... 

In other words, I'm just saying...if I don't kick you with my Manolo Blahniks, stop stomping me with your women's workboots. Or are they combat boots?! Beware my spiked heels...

(c) Stacey "Mamasaid" D. 2009 All Rights Reserved