How to Host a Garden Party (Without Having to Talk to Anyone Unimportant)
As the jasmine blooms and the commoners peek wistfully through the hedges, it’s time — once again — to curate joy. Or as the peasants call it, host a garden party.
This week, I’m sharing my personally-sourced, spiritually-aligned, algorithm-approved guide to throwing a garden party that looks good from every angle and means nothing at all. Because sometimes, wellness is the absence of meaning.
Let’s begin.
Step 1: The Guest List Should Be Selective (and Selectively Leaked)
A guest list, much like a mood board, is a reflection of your soul, your brand, and your future Netflix development deals.
Invite those who spark joy — or at the very least, have a verified checkmark and a villa in Provence.
If no royals are available (relatable), a wellness influencer with a multi-millionaire/billionaire husband will do nicely.
Step 2: Dress To Impress
I recommend something understated.
Perhaps a $2,200 toga from an ethical atelier that specializes in making expensive fabrics look inexpensive — you know, to appear “accessible,” but not actually be.
Top it off with a hat from an emotionally complicated event. It's not a fashion repeat — it's narrative layering.
TIP: Attending someone else’s garden party? Wear your most delicate stilettos and let them gracefully sink into the estate lawn. Later, express gentle outrage and hint at irreparable damage — it’s the most cost-effective path to a new pair of Louboutins. Or Manolos. Or both.
File it under: Footwear compensation for emotional labor.
Note to HRH Self: Draft up a Montecito Manor Liability Waiver under “The Rules are for Thee, Not Me" Folder- Montecito Manor assumes no responsibility for damage to footwear, dignity, or delusion... consult attorney.
And while you absolutely didn’t invite the press, do be sure to give your “friend at the paper” a heads-up — just in case they happen to be strolling past the gates with a zoom lens.
Step 3: The Menu Should Be Seasonal, Ceremonial, and Confusing
Begin with an amuse-bouche of foraged microgreens harvested exclusively from the north side of the estate — the side that doesn’t get cell service.
Replace finger sandwiches with an abstract interpretation of sustenance — perhaps one heirloom radish per guest, served on artisanal slate with a verbal affirmation. Anything resembling an actual carbohydrate should be gluten-free, dairy-free, and spiritually incompatible with joy.
Serve tea, of course — but only if it’s been “blessed” and flown in from a region with vague political tension. Cucumber is allowed, but only in vapor form, hire Green Juice Sommelier if your party falls before noon.
As for dessert: the cake should be lemon.
And the icing should have a monogram no one can quite identify.
Step 4: Be Present, But Not Engaged (Tips for the perfect photo)
Begin each interaction with a compliment — toward yourself, of course — followed by a rapid blink, a half-nod, and a vague sense of detachment. (You're in their presence, after all.) If someone you don’t recognize begins speaking to you, assume they’re staff or someone’s plus-one. Either way — do not overcommit.
Maintain a rictus grin at all times. The photographers you didn’t invite (but absolutely notified) will be circling, and you’ll want that perfect candid: engaged, effortless, and visibly better than everyone else.
Feel free to murmur to yourself if necessary, or — for added movement — insert yourself mid-conversation with someone famous, titled, or wealthy. Keep your smile fixed no matter the topic. Bonus points if you burst into laughter for no clear reason; those photos always perform best.
And don’t be afraid to casually grab the arm of the richest man in the circle. It makes him feel important — and you look generous.
(And since it’s springtime, you’re unlikely to be ignored under the guise of scarf adjustment… unlike certain moments involving royal neckwear and strategic avoidance.)
Step 5: Exit With Intention (or Preferably, Exit Early)
If at any point the energy no longer serves your journey — simply whisper “I’m bored” to no one in particular and vanish. No goodbyes, no gratitude. Just presence... followed by your perfectly curated absence.
Let the guests speculate. You’ve simply decided they no longer deserve proximity.
Within the hour, post a carousel to social: backlit by florals, filtered just enough to look expensive, but never retouched.
Caption optional. But if you must, make it punny:
“A little dirt never hurt. Unless it’s on the guest list.”
This is your chance to showcase your RSVP list in exaggerated calligraphy, featuring the top five richest or most recognizable attendees (tastefully ranked by how useful they are to you) and dusted with estate garden soil for organic mystique.
And of course, email the photographers you didn’t invite to request preview drafts of anything they plan to publish — you know, for aesthetic consistency. Edit freely.
In Summary:
A garden party isn’t about socializing — it’s about soft power, passive PR, and casually networking with people you fully intend to outgrow by autumn.
It’s not a party. It’s a power play.
With florals, filtered light, and faint disdain,
Madame of the Manor
