Posted on by jsmith

D my C.

I apologize in advance for the travelogue; I know it’s the kiss of death for a blog that tries so fiercely to be hip.  (I said tries.)  But I have to break momentarily from talking about my hair and husband and just tell you guys:  Washington D.C. was fab-u-lous.  Better, even, than I thought it would be.  Although I’d been looking forward to this adventure with my 14-year old daughter for two years, I think I’d half-expected a stodgy, bookish week somewhat akin to a school field trip; you know, the kind of vacation that’s mostly fun because you can come home and check it off your list.  But to my happy surprise, we had true, tremendous fun while we were there; it was inspirational and educational and funny and loud and entertaining and superdupercool.  I think, in all my low-expectation planning, I’d forgotten to factor in the biggest variable:  it was a trip to D.C. with these two It Girls.  How could it be anything but a part-ay?

Leaving our humble Western roots–and minivan–behind. (I didn’t think that gold beauty would get the respect it deserves in Urbanville.)

Now, you know I hate to brag, but I gotta tell you that this trip was, in a myriad of ways, simply serendipitous.  I don’t know how or why, but the stars just aligned for us.  It all started on Day One.

You’ve heard how the White House Tours have been cancelled due to the sequester, right?  Well, on our first morning out we were walking in front of the White House, studying our tour map and minding our own beeswax, barely paying attention to Obama’s abode since we knew that seeing it firsthand was no longer an option.  Strolling by, however, we did notice a ginormous line on the sidewalk out front.  We asked someone what was going on, and they told us it was the day of the White House’s Annual “Easter Egg Roll.”  Apparently this is a huge deal every year on the Monday after Easter and nearly impossible to get into; you have to enter a massive online lottery and hope for the best.  In fact, just that morning at breakfast a woman with her young son told me they’d come from Michegan for the big event, finally winning tickets after years of trying, and then only because she had a relative in the Secret Service.  (I wish I had a relative in the Secret Service.  Wait.  Maybe I do.)  From our spot on the crowded sidewalk, I looked at the masses of people waiting in line and felt enormous relief not to be one of them.  I was just sharing this sentiment with my daughter when a cute young mom behind a stroller called out in my direction.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”  I realized she was talking to me.  I sauntered over to her and saw that this cute young mom had a cute young baby in the stroller, and a cute young grandma by her side.  (They were a cute, cute family.)

“Yes?”

“We have two extra tickets–our friends couldn’t make it–would you guys like them?”  She held the tickets out to me, apparently at no cost.

Now, I know I’d just told Rache how happy I was not to be standing in line for this event, but I also saw this as an opportunity to introduce my young daughter to a strict philosophy that has served me well in life:  WHEN SOMETHING’S FREE, YOU TAKE IT AND RUN.  So, with a great deal of class, I said (yelled), “Are you kidding?  YES!  Gimme!”  (I may have omitted that last word, but believe me, it rang loudly in my mind.)

We hopped into line behind the cute young family and chatted happily with them for an hour and a half before we were admitted to the party.  Crossing the proverbial threshold and floating onto the emerald green of the White House lawn, we saw a dazzling array of booths, games, egg hunts and, of course, a large stage boasting Disney channel superstars.  (Heard of Coco Jones, anyone?  Yeah, me neither.  But I guess she’s pretty big.)  We heard that President Obama had come out earlier to say hello, but we’d arrived too late for that.  It was still fabulous, though, tromping all over the beautiful grounds and seeing the Big Fat White House up close (so clean and sparkly!)

The only damper on the festive scene was the oppressive evidence of Mrs. Obama’s Let’s Move! campaign everywhere we turned.  Instead of handing out chocolate eggs, costumed rabbits held up food pyramid charts telling us how long we had to run to sweat off a large order of fries (ninety minutes, faithfuls, ninety minutes!)  Long tables were laden with “healthy” snacks, like organic juices and natural crackers–Capri Suns and Cheez-its disguised in expensive, earth-toned packaging–and brightly colored yoga mats dotted the pristine spring grass, welcoming participation by all.  (I wanted to stop and show Al Roker my Downward Dog, but Rachael said it was embarrassing.)  I have no beef against the First Lady, but I cannot help but roll my eyes at the gloriously goofy Let’s Move! campaign.  I’m sure she means well, but I just don’t believe that dancing with Beyonce on national television and making more rules about school lunches will do a single, solitary thing to fight childhood obesity in America.  But we still had fun.  And we didn’t eat the bagged carrots.

So, though the line was too long and the food too healthy, we had a fantabulous time during our afternoon at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  It was a fun and frolicky way to kick off our week of sightseeing, and the week only got better from there.  And lest you think me an iconoclast, let me clarify:  If the First Lady ever launches a federally funded campaign against middle-aged-mothers’ obesity, I’ll be her staunchest (in the strictest sense of the word) supporter.  There’s a cause I can believe in.  Really, Michelle, it’s not personal.  (And I did love your 2008 Inauguration Gown on display in the Smithsonian.  But that’s a whole ‘nother post.)

Posted on by jsmith

Mrs. Smith Goes to Washington

The best (worst) thing about having Netflix instead of cable is that is forces me to watch decades-old t.v.  Consequently, while the rest of you have been enjoying Big Bang Theory and The Voice (two shows I’m told I sorely need to watch), I’ve been squatting under my rock these last few weeks salivating over what I’ve decided is simply the best television drama ever written:  The West Wing.  And lest you think I’m merely impressed with the brilliant dialogue and Rizzo as the First Lady, let me assure you that my fascination spills broadly over such superficialities.  You see, my faithfuls, after watching the entire first season, I’ve had an extended, expansive epiphany:  I’ve decided that I belong in the the West Wing.  Or at least on The West Wing.  (Is there a difference?)  And as though choreographed by Fate herself, my introduction to this (psuedo)political (psuedo)education just happens to coincide with my first trip ever to our nation’s beloved capital, Washington D.C.  (Washington D.C.!  The home of President Josiah Bartlett!)

I’ll be there next week with my daughter, and I can only surmise that this month’s virtual rendezvous with President Bartlett was simply providential preparation for my literal rendezvous with destiny.  And even though the White House tours are closed, I’m pretty sure that, if I can just get a moment alone with Traveler and show him my smarts and cunning, he’ll invite my into the Oval Office and witness for himself all the style and sass I have to offer.  Among the many Ivy League intellectuals and military geniuses roaming those hallowed halls, surely there’s a place for a middle-aged English major from Eastern Washington.  I mean, is this an egalitarian society or what?

Now you may be wondering why, besides my looks, I believe I belong in the West Wing/on The West Wing.  Well see, I’ve always been a big fan of pretending to be smarter than I am.  I’m also a big fan of talking a lot, talking over other people (I dare you to interrupt me!), and talking at lightning speed as I pace briskly down long hallways.  Granted, I don’t own any hallways long enough to really Pace Down Briskly, so unlike President Bartlett, I have to make do outside Residence.  I’ve found ample space for Pacing Briskly in the Columbia Center Mall, although the venue is a bit wide for my dazzling wit to bounce clearly off its walls.  There are also the walkways inside the TRAC of Pasco, although the Home and Garden Show they run every spring gets a bit noisy during peak hours, sometimes drowning out my brilliant political discourse.  So you can guess, my friends (constituents?) which single hallway is long, grand and glorious enough to house the intellect and authority that oozes quite naturally from my West Wing/West Wing destined lips:  yep, the hallway at the church.  It’s long, it’s painted, and it has countless people milling through it every Sunday.  Most of these people are are shorter, younger, and less educated than myself, which works nicely when I’m striving to sound smug and superior.  (This shorter, younger, less educated crowd is known as children in some socioeconomic classes, but for the sake of this piece, work with me.)   I don’t know if anyone at church has noticed, but lately I’ve been using the building’s hallway to practice for what will soon (next week!) be my inevitable stint in/on/ the West Wing/The West Wing.  And I have to say, rehearsals are going pretty well.

Last week, for example, I entered the church hallway dressed for the part:  pencil skirt from Target, iPhone conspicuously in hand, Reading Glasses That Make Me Look Smart fixed firmly on my face.  I sauntered confidently through the walkway, picking up two and three and then four Shorter, Younger, Less Educated people as I went, slipping Cadbury Mini Eggs in their upturned palms if they agreed to walk slightly behind me and look up in wonder as I spoke.  The bribes were quickly accepted, and before I could yell “Donna!” I had an impressive entourage of admirers hanging on my every word as I boldly flung instruction in all directions, letting my wisdom settle on whomever was apt enough to receive it.  I didn’t want to overwhelm the crowd with too much political lingo–it might confuse them, since they are probably not at the end of Season One yet, like me–so instead I stuck to the subjects under my stewardship.  Breezing past the first door on my left, I called out with a concerted irritation, “I need to see those Scout Camp registration forms before third hour…”  (I didn’t wait around for a response; in The Hallway, people come to me.)  With adoring entourage in tow, I then sauntered past the door on my right, yelling out “More paper in the library copier, pahleez…” as  I looked down over my shoulder and shook my head at my followers.  “Admin staff…” I muttered, “what can you do?”  I received no response to this statement, just upturned hands for more mini-eggs.

Finally, on rounding the corner by the kitchen, I stopped, knocked cockily on the open door, and jauntily said to the woman pulling a tray out of the oven, “They told me a Harvard education would get me a job, but they didn’t say anything about muffins.”  (See, they’re always listing their degrees on The West Wing, so I have to get over my usual girlish modesty about my academic achievements.  Harvard…BYU…potayto, potahto.)  I then grabbed a muffin off the counter and popped in my mouth before she could protest, yelling, “Thank you, ma’m!” in a full-mouthed garble as I swung merrily down the hall with my peeps, stopping only to high-five the occasional approaching admirer (i.e., some Younger-Shorter-Less Educateds had heard about the free candy.)

I was in The Zone now.  I was cruisin’.  We sailed by the library and, without so much as looking at who I was talking to (a gesture that’s big on The West Wing), I blandly yelled out, “Copy paper is coming–you’re welcome!”  Clucks of admiration trailed behind me as I made my way blithely down the hall.  No matter–I was too busy for chitchat.  Like Sam and Josh and C.J., I always had Somewhere Important to go.  I then felt a small, sticky palm smear chocolate across my Target pencil skirt, and I suddenly remembered my entourage.  I glanced back across the hall and saw that most of the adult crowd had dispersed, thus reducing my need for the hastily assembled Throng of Admirers.  I decided to release them from their Cadbury Contract and deliver them back to the Primary room, but I was going to do it in style.  I stopped mid-hallway and planted one hand firmly on my thrust-out hip, making eye contact with the YSLEs for the first time (on The West Wing, eye contact is discouraged when addressing inferiors.)

“All right, people, time for class.”

“What? No!”  Their shouts of dismay toppled over each other.

“We want more candy!”

“You promised us more candy!”

“Lady, you stink!” I nodded my head and smiled tersely, which is all a political operative can do when assaulted with an opponent’s Free Speech.  (I’m pretty sure the Free Speecher was, in this case, my eight-year old son.)

“I’m sorry for your disappointment,” I said, in my coolest-Mandy-manner, “but there is simply no merit to your argument.  Now go.”  They grumbled and growled as they trudged past me toward the classroom door, and I swear I felt a chocolately palm swipe across my skirt on purpose.

I gathered my things and headed for my minivan, so pleased with my Dress Rehearsal that I decided to skip the rest of church and go back to Residence for my sweatpants, slippers and the remainder of the mini-eggs.  The Brisk Hallway Pacing may have ended on a flat note, but don’t you worry, President Bartlett.  I’m ready.  I’m coming, and I’m ready.  Are you?

(If not, may I suggest you watch a few episodes of Parks and Recreation?  It may aquaint you with what I’ve got going on over here.)

(Plus, my husband says I remind him of the lead female character.  Nice.)