Many years ago, Mrs. G. and her beloved friend Faye showed up at the same mom's group. They connected instantly, and it didn't take them long to ditch the group (as Mrs. G. recalls many in the group were overly invested in and vocal about just how important they were prior to having children) in favor of a more intimate connection. Mrs. G's three-year-old-daughter adored Faye's three-year-old son, and Mrs. G.grooved on Faye-the years they spent together are some of Mrs. G's most cherished. While Mrs. G. is lucky to have made many dear friends since she and Faye moved to opposite ends of the country, there has never been another friend who Mrs. G. has truly felt got her the way Faye did. And even though Mrs. G. hasn't seen Faye in ten years, she holds Faye in the nook of her heart that she reserves for those rare people who offer unconditional friendship, unconditional love. In other words, if Faye ever flipped her lid and accidentally committed a premeditated murder, Mrs. G. would not only help her move the body, but store it in her freezer until the coast was clear.

During their many days and months of hardcore mothering, birthing of additional babies, sapped marriages and overall weariness, they would frequently talk about the Women's Colony that they would retire to when the kids were grown, and the husbands were gone. Just exactly how the husbands would be gone wasn't examined at any length. The fantasy was more about the sanctity of a female refuge for older, tired women who needed some sort of estrogen infused utopia. When times were tough, they would simply utter Women's Colony and nerves would ebb, hope would rally, dinner would make it to the table, children would be bathed, bedtime stories would be read, and, finally, wine bottles would be drained.

The Women's Colony would be in some out of the way place, some little slice of paradise that was off the grid and extremely difficult to access. Men would find it particularly difficult to locate because, without a doubt, they would be required to stop and ask for directions. Like that's going to happen.

It would be a place where women could come to spend their post mothering/wifing/working woman years to live completely as themselves. The selfish pursuit of individual desire and authenticity would be encouraged and allowed-guilt free and without any emotional cost. No scales, no mirrors, fat asses, cellulite, age spots, chin hairs, crows feet and bras optional. For those reluctant to cut all ties with their heterosexual needs, husbands and boy toys gentleman friends could be bussed in on Thursdays and Sundays for conversation and such. Appreciative children, grandchildren and emotionally stable relatives could come to visit every other Saturday and all major holidays.

This Women's Colony would not be any sort of Hee-Haw existence. No one would have to live on a school bus or make hemp hammocks to support her diet of quinoa and tempeh.

Each woman would have an entire floor of a house like this...

or this...

or this.

Faye and Mrs. G. felt strongly that there should be a row of connected rocking chairs on the front porches of the various houses, and each evening, it would be one woman's responsibility to do the rocking. The rest of the women would just sit there and sip cosmos chill.

There would need to be a butler to overlook the running of the house and the division of labor that would not involve any of the women.

After years of full calendars and the juggling the lives of others, every woman's to do list would basically be nothing, nothing and nothing. For those with a need to be productive, they would be free do whatever the hell they wanted. There would be no pairing of socks or locating anything for anybody.

In the Women's Colony, bathrooms would be sanctuaries of solace and joy. No bathtub or toilet scrubbing or dealing with hairs whose origins are too disturbing to contemplate.

There would be creative spaces for each woman: writing and pottery studios and crafting spaces and dark rooms.

Communal dinners would be optional.

But this guy would be the Colony's personal chef. We'll get to the maid and dishwasher momentarily. Bourdain doesn't do dishes.

Fresh organic vegetables,fruits and herbs would be grown right on the property

And, of course, a full-time gardener would be on site.

Oh, and there would be flowers...fields and fields of flowers.

Despite the Colony not having an in-ground pool, a pool boy would be available for serving cocktails, rubbing in sunscreen and gratuitous eye candy.

There would be no no pool, because the ocean would be just a stone's throw away from everyone's houses.

As mentioned earlier, members of the Women's Colony would have no mandatory chores. Those would be completed by the Colony's full-time maid.

Yes, another pristine girl's bathroom. Mrs. G. is willing to admit that the concept of a man-free bathroom was the cornerstone of her Women's Colony fantasy.

Despite the Colony's rural setting, regular house calls would be made by a prominent physician.

There would be a music room with a roaring fireplace.

And a yoga/meditation space amongst the luscious trees.

And, of course, a library overflowing with books and flanked by overstuffed chairs.

Please forgive Mrs. G's obsessive need to keep returning to the clean bathroom.

In recognition that men need to pee too, an outhouse would be provided. Toilet paper at no extra charge.
All animals welcome.

No shortage of spaces to be alone and spy on the gardener read a good book.

Mrs. G. would assume the responsibility of taking care of the laundry, so it wouldn't take too long before clothing became optional.

Rocking chairs, gardens, beach front property, no chores, clean bathrooms, gourmet food, conjugal visits, hot servants...paradise, people. Female paradise. And in the meantime, when the boss is bitching, the kids are mouthy, the spouse is cranky, the relatives keep reminding you of all the things you could do better, take a deep breath and exhale Women's Colony...Women's Colony.

Who's in?

photos courtesy of Google Images.