It's a Chick Thing. Ame Mahler Beanland
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Mississippi, for that sole purpose—just to play. The lot of them—and lord, there are a lot of them—take time off work, buy plane tickets, make hotel reservations, construct costumes, and come all the way to Jackson, Mississippi, to play. They dress up as the Queen of Whatever They Choose and they march in the St. Patrick's Day parade—and every single one of them say it is the most fun they have ever had in their lives and they do not think they can live until next year, when they can do it…again.
The stories in this book may appear to be merely fun and frolic—as if that wouldn't be enough—but there's truly a higher purpose to it all. It represents the women's movement come full circle. We've fought and struggled for attention and equality, and in our efforts to be taken seriously we've taken ourselves too seriously at times. And although there is still much work to be done to level the playing field, we are finally able to revel in our femininity and celebrate our connections with other women. We are able to risk and play and just be ourselves. That's a glorious thing.
A man said to a group of us women one day that listening to us made him long for what he did not believe in: that another person could really understand what one is about. It got very quiet and we looked at him in utter disbelief and sympathy bordering on outright pity. “Bless your heart,” someone surely said to him, with a loving pat.
Our understanding of each other seems to be complete in utero-we just have the rest of our lives to enjoy it. Its a Chick Thing—thank God!
—JILL CONNER BROWNE, THE Sweet Potato Queen and
author of The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love
“God, I love a tiara.”
—Jill Conner Browne
the cHick mAnifestO
The creation of this book has generated a lot of discussion about the clumsy, fun, silly, sometimes downright insulting ways people attempt to give name to our essence, our spirit, as women—chick, girlfriend, babe, gal, broad, sister, dame, feminist. Some were coined within our own ranks, others by men; some we embrace or tolerate, others we reject outright.
Most of us spurn rigid labels. One day we might choose to be our “chick” persona—wearing a hot red lipstick and ferociously high heels; the next day we might choose to be “woooman” and wear a crisp white blouse with khaki pants. One day we might want to smoke a cigar and blurt out Dorothy Parker witticisms at an office party, the next day we're putting on our scarf pin and sitting down to high tea at a stuffy hotel with Aunt Martha. We're unapologetic about our feminine and our feminist sides and how we choose to manifest and celebrate them. Lets put it this way—some of us want to wear lipstick to the bra burning. Don't try to define us—we have attitude and an inalienable right to be unpredictable, enigmatic, and female.
Our good friends, our girlfriends, let us do this. That is what this book is about—how our girlfriends allow and encourage us to expand our boundaries, defy definition, and do it all while simultaneously comfortably residing within our own skins.
The stories in this book are meant to amuse and entertain, but they also explore themes of growth, commitment, loss, self-identity, and memory What we do in the name of adventure, thrill-seeking and sport can sometimes mask its higher purpose in the eyes of the uninitiated—that of connection, bonding, and celebration. This book is a testament to the ways that friendship forms and influences our lives as women—our minds, our bodies, our emotions—and our lipstick color.
We celebrate all sides of women's friendships—from the merciless jokes we play on men in bars to how we encourage each other in the workplace and offer one another the unflagging support that only girlfriends can deliver. So next time you feel like wrapping your head in a scarf ala Thelma and Louise or belting out your favorite girl's-night anthem, succumb. And to your critics deliver a sassy, “It's a chick thing,” and leave it at that.
—AME MAHLER BEANLAND AND EMILY MILES TERRY
“It's life, Sidda.
You just climb on the beast and ride.”
—Vivi Abbot, in Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, by Rebecca Wells
“Ouiser could never stay mad at me.
She worships the quicksand
I walk on.”
—Clarice in Steel Magnolias
A royal AdventuRe
On July 15, a week before the wedding, Andrew had his stag night at Aubrey House with the likes of Elton John and Sir David Frost. I desperately wanted to gate-crash, but the fortress was impregnable: high wall, single entrance, guards with major biceps—no go.
As a fallback, Diana and I staged a hen night. With a few co-conspirators in tow, we donned gray wigs and dressed up in authentic policewoman outfits, down to our regulation dark stockings and lace-up shoes. After assembling just outside the Palace, we pretended to arrest one of our friends (chosen for her fabulous legs), who was playing the promiscuous lady.
The duty police at the gates thought this very strange. They called out the parks police, who proceeded to arrest the lot of us—even our protection officer, who played along—for causing a scene outside Buckingham Palace. They ushered us through some barriers and into their police van, and this was the worst part, because the other women slid slimly between the barriers, but I got wedged at the hip.
Diana and I had no intention of resisting. We thought it hysterically funny. Wed turned our engagement rings wrong side around, and it had worked, they hadn't recognized us.
After the van drove off and we sat down like little convicts, Diana asked the driver what kind of crisps he had on board and would he share them, please? Soon she was chomping away at these smoky bacon-flavored crisps. By the rime we reached the end of the Mall, our cover must have worn thin—we heard one of the policemen say, “Oh my heavens, it's the Princess of Wales in drag!”
We got the van to drop us off near Anabel's, the big nightclub in Berkeley Square. And the people at the door said, “Sorry, we don't allow policewomen in here, it is a place for everyone to enjoy themselves.” We coaxed our way in and pushed on to the bar—where whom did we find on their working night out but some eagle-eyed executives with the Daily Mail. We stood there shoulder to shoulder with them—ordered a round of orange juice, drank it down—and still they didn't cotton on.
Going out, we stopped traffic in Berkeley Square—we were having a wild time now—and headed back to the Palace near two o'clock in the morning. Knowing that Andrew was due home from his own little revelry, we told the duty police to get out of the way—and then we closed the gates. As it turned out, Andrew had just phoned from his car in advance of his arrival. When he saw the shut gates, he properly took it as something was very wrong. He flicked on his car locks, rammed the Jaguar into reverse, and screeched out around the Wedding Cake. He thought he was being set up.
It was about then that I wondered if we had gone a bit too far.
The morning after found me at breakfast with Mrs. Runcie, the wife of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was to marry us. I could hardly see straight; I just barely made it through. (I do adore the Runcies; they've both been of such great support to me.)
Later I confessed our hen night to the Queen, and she thought it was reasonably amusing. We had got away with it clean—I'd been as naughty as I could be, and still I was adored by all. They were playing flush into my complex. I was wonderfully, extravagantly, madly brilliant. I could shoot a stag and hook a trout, and dance to Swan Lake in my wellies for good measure. I could do no wrong.
—SARAH FERGUSON, THE DUCHESS OF YORK
Fergie and Di giggling