Paradise as some call it, can morph into holy hell before you can say "Chop-chop, Juanita!" when ex-pats have finally had enough of one another. Inbreeding curls at the edges like foie gras left out overnight. . . sticky or ironic, depending on one's take. However the rows are interpreted, keeping the peace cannot be left to the authorities. Subtleties of law enforcement are too vague and must be kept under wraps. Can't have an actual scandal, after all. And if we do, it had better make a good story for bridge. For as one of the elders of the tribe said, "People don't care what one does in the hamlet, as long as they know all about it."
The Original Garden Club has been sliced into two groups now, not unlike the card clubs, the croquet clubs, and the online bulletin boards. For many years The Garden Club has served as a wan substitute for those mourning the fact that here in Heaven, where hundreds of charitable organizations flourish, not a single chapter of the Junior League can be found.
So to compensate for the the sad dearth of a JL--which distinguishes women of substance from the hangers-on--"The" Garden Club was formed. The ladies dressed in "casual dressy" gauzy togs with thick ethnic accessories, and gathered in each other's fabulous homes to share jewelry-acquisition secrets, remedies for cooks who ruin caviar pie, and even once in a while to discuss horticulture: the gardeners' lack of skills.
Sometimes an exciting new subject would tumble into the agenda: a marvelous "find" -- a new fabulously gifted gardener. ("He's known as Gaston, and he just arrived from Provence, so snap him up quickly, Darling!") Gaston could not tell a perennial from a lady bug, but he could at least read. He'd subscribed to "Better Homes" in French before he landed.
The Garden Club hummed with tasks: having the help gather seeds at the perfect moment of propagation season, learning how to grow herbs from those little strips one can bring back from the states, just water and leave them to the gardener (provided the gardener had aced the pricey workshops offered by "Gaston de Provence").
Herb luncheons were held, gala balls thrown and after a time the leaders wised up and let underlings with fewer than 3 years' service shoulder the work. These worker bees then had to order Lupe to arrange the color-coded centerpieces, find suitable speakers for meetings and research topics such as "On Weeding." ("Now Ladies, do tell them to WEED...they do not like to WEED, you know.")
Beleaguered newbies also undertook distributing invitations via handymen, who hand-delivered envelopes on foot, all around town. A great deal of pressure surrounded these tasks, but for a time the Club remained "tranquila." (It's "trankeee-la," Brenda Darling, like tequila--not "trankilla," like Wasilla. DO learn to pronounce the language, Dear--one doesn't have to speak it of course, but correct pronunciation does look better.)
Projects in town smoothed out most squabbles, but inevitably something unpleasant would come up. So-in-so's husband would have committed another faux pas concerning the maid's daughter, or you-know-who would have done you-know-what AGAIN. Sigh. People started competing for "best recipe calling for basil", or "best bud vase arrangement" or "Julio's cell number." Fierce competition soon wrinkled the well-fertilized landscape.
Jockeying for officers demanded higher and higher qualifications--if you hadn't planned the renovation of Versailles, or been a docent in Honolulu's Botanical Gardens, then forget it. . . unless you might just have lost two or three-mil in the last crash.
One flagging member became so distraught over her lack of losses, the unlikelihood of becoming president, that she had her maid drop a few tabs of acid into the punch, hoping to cozy up the hamlet even more.
"It's organic," she said, "after all, isn't it organic, Lupe?"
Lupe frowned into the punch, mixing in mangos and champagne and a fabulous time was had by all--and way too wild for Junior Leaguers from any town. Gingerly, "Acid Alice" as she was subsequently known, was urged to prune herself, so she moved to Barbados--alone--her husband left her over the punch extravaganza. . . his golf club membership was suddenly rejected, so we can all imagine what he went through.
The Originals were enraged over the unpleasantness--while the others felt it was only a bit more raucous than usual, just a tab of acid, and "Tequila Night on the Town" is only a step below that, after all. But the Originals pressed the issue, and a schism skizzed.
The Originals were enraged over the unpleasantness--while the others felt it was only a bit more raucous than usual, just a tab of acid, and "Tequila Night on the Town" is only a step below that, after all. But the Originals pressed the issue, and a schism skizzed.
A second garden club formed: a more arduous and Birkenstocky club who meet actually to discuss the types of soil in which one plants trees, which insecticide is "green" and other boring stuff, although there're usually plenty of margaritas with fresh limes. So roll the ex-pat clubs, some of whom simply cannot bear to lose, others simply stoned out of their skulls. Too much time on their hands covers most of the problems. Splinter groups crop up--less prestigious but cooler cliques, whose cachet is of a more Greenpeace nature with a hipper-than-thou attitude.
For if we had no somethinger-than-thou, no measuring stick for one-upsmanship, there would be no little clubs at all. Wouldn't that be sad? No rules or slogans to memorize; no parties, dances, songs, insignia jackets, cliques within cliques. Ah gee. . . such memories. Come to think of it, I adored Junior High. Didn't you?
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