I love reading frou-frou magazines. You know the ones I’m talking about: they’re loaded with pictures of gorgeous gardens, vistas, and homes. One day, I too shall have a beautiful garden…when I can learn how to turn off the kill-anything-green gene. I’ll live in a cute English cottage…when I can get Himself on a plane and, oh yeah, score me some English real estate. Said abode shall be free of any decor car-related, with white upholstered furnishings and that shabby chic vibe I love in theory but that gives me hives in reality. It’s so pretty to look at, but where I come from, shabby means in need of refurbishing or painting or possibly a bonfire. In the meantime, I peruse the pages and dream and drool (but that’s only after the muscle relaxer and second glass of wine).
On occasion, I’ll stumble across one of those high-end frou-frou mags…the ones with multi-million dollar properties and handbags that cost more than I make in a month, if only to scoff that people actually pay big bucks for shit that, frankly, is just butt-assed ugly. You’re talking to a girl that gasped at spending a cool $40 bucks on a handbag. Yes, I am a Walmart troll. Sue me. But I digress.
So, one day on break I was thumbing through one of those high-end mags, Veranda, when I stumbled across the perfect retreat. To use The Co-Defendants favorite word (no, not ‘mine’), it was ‘only’ $37.5 MILLION dollars. Hell, I’ve got that growing on the tree right outside my kitchen window. Boy, could a gal get some sewing done there. And, being the generous sort I am, I’d invite all my besties to come and stay…sans hubsters and children, natch. Then there was the article about the sights to be seen in Cape Town, South Africa. I’ve never had a hankering to vacay in SA, however, one locale caught my eye. Here’s the teaser profile…”one of the grande dames of Cape Town cuisine, with an Italian-leaning menu that’s delicious.” By cuisine, I’m assuming they don’t mean fish sticks or Hamburger Helper. The name of this bastion of gastronomic awesomeness? Brace yourselves.
Yep, you read it right. You just can’t make this shit up, I tell ya. After clearing my lungs of all that inhaled coffee, I took a stroll around the office asking if anyone would be interested in going with me. What self-respecting chick wouldn’t dig a weekend at Casa Labia, for Pete’s sake?!
Which got me to thinking. Stop laughing. If I were to open a hideaway for the teeming masses, what would I call it? I thought really hard (that third glass of wine may have been a mistake) and came up with a few gems.
For the racy, reckless and socially irresponsible crowd, there’s Camp Chlamydia or, if it’s in the wilds of Colorado, Gonorrhea Gorge. Clothing would, naturally, be optional.
I’d have crazy cat ladies everywhere knocking down the doors to get into Shittin’ Kittens Retreat and Spa.
Want a Vegas vibe for the teen in your life…how about the Pimple Penthouse?
Oh, what fun! Imagine what I could do with a fourth glass!!
CASA LABIA OR BUST, Y’ALL!!!