Thirty housewives started out that day. They just got up and went. West. The direction of change. The biggest direction of all. You could see them, swaying in the breeze, stirrin' soup, hopin'.

The housewives moved out onto the highway, cheek bones to the wind, gargling destiny. They left no note on the fridge with magnetic grapes, there hadn't been time. Some held pies out in front of them like divining rods of freedom. They had meant to put the pies on the window sill to cook, but for some reason, they just kept going. And by now the pies were so cool they smoldered. They were red-hot brother.

500 housewives, no longer just brunettes, blondes and red heads moved through Birmingham. They had thrown down their oven mitts, and cast their colanders some miles back. Through Casper and Cheyenne, Des Moines and Fort Wayne they marched gaining strength, gaining calm.

There was no need for t.v. trays in the cool breeze of Arizona desert. There was no reason to cut coupons from the papers in the towns that dotted their path. But, my friend, if you'd seen them over the horizon, like a watery pool of locusts, they came, and were comin.'

Kids holding sticks, and dogs, and men with bellies lined their path. The men just stood there as if to say "honey, what's for dinner?" The men didn't realize that there would be no hot dinner, not even soup and a sandwich. Kathy's not cookin'. Not this eve---fat boy. Because now the dinner tables had really turned.

By the time they reached the ocean they were 5,000 housewives strong. Holding hands with a crazed ferret look in their eyes. Slowly, together they took a step. And as their tired feet creased the moonlit water, they paused and looked back from where they'd come, as if to say, "Are you comin'? It's easy."