Carly Cove was a staunch feminist at 32. She had a grown up son and one beautiful daughter, the latter still in preschool. During the day she liked to write articles for her local group, strut around in short shorts, yoga pants, plant her garden, and bake health food. She was otherwise a pretty average woman living a rather insignificant life, very much insignificant from those viewing her lifestyle as a betrayer of their natural cause. She'd never married, and any concept of fidelity to her was in jest. It was perhaps for this reason she was chosen to be among the first test subjects.
A doorbell wrung. Ms. Cove answered.
A perky, smiling squeaky clean woman that looked like she crawled out of a 50's pinup ad had arrived, holding a bottle of shampoo.
The stepfording'ization'ing'ifying'geddon was at hand.
Literally, in her manicured hands.
