House Rules

The next morning we stagger from bed at the crack of dawn.  It is barely light when my feet hit the floor and I attempt to rouse my slumbering children in time to call a cab.

Hil has planned to churn out the hype and wear a stylish, hip ensemble that the First Lady would comment favorably upon. Pat has actually agreed to wear something other than basketball shorts and a snarky t-shirt for the occassion and is willingly putting on a collared shirt and khaki shorts. I have chosen a fabulous A-line dress with a scoop neckline and beautiful embroidered detail and paired it with gorgeous patent sandals in the same colors. 

This dress won the prize because of its pockets. 

Yes, pockets.

When we got our confirmation that we'd be going to the White House, we also got a list of instructions, a map, and a long list of acceptable and not acceptable items to bring with you.

Of course I can bring ID (and must bring ID, specific ID, not just any ID) and a set of keys, and cab fair.

That pretty much ends the list of acceptable items.

No camera, no makeup, no lotion, no aerosol, no sharp objects, no pointy objects, no firearms (duh!) no explosives, yadda yadda yadda not unlike the list of forbidden carryon items at the airport.  The only difference is, I am not allowed any carryon items. No purse. No fanny pack (as if I'd own one!).  If it is not in my pocket, it can't go in. 

So as we jump in our cab to head toward the Elipse, I have to jam money, hotel keys, phone (that is allowed even if it has a camera feature...I just can't use it or the Secret Service will pounce and confiscate it) and ticket info into my pockets. And as I am jamming, I am wondering what all the other well dressed women are doing about this pocket situation at the White House. Most nice dresses do not come equipped with pockets. I got lucky with this little rag. What are they all doing?

Evidently they are staying home!  There are no well dressed women visiting the White House!  Only slobs. Truly. Slobs. All of them.

It has begun to drizzle so the kids and I stand under a tree that is across the sidewalk from our place in line at the Visitors Center. Pat is mad that there is no place to sit down. Hil is just in a funk because her perfectly straightened hair is becoming a big ball of frizz. She has an acute case of the crankies. My allergies are flairing up and each time I turn my head, cover my face and sneeze, Hil dramatically wipes her spindly little arms and glares at me as though I've just sneezed on her, which I haven't. It makes me want to though, just for spite.

Ignoring my children's attitudes gives me lots of time to observe the other visitors. My little family has evidently churned out a little more hype for the event than the others. We are visiting the President's home. What would you wear?

The line is filled with t-shirts, running shoes, jeans, wife-beaters, baseball hats, sport sandals, flipflops, camisoles, short shorts, athletic jerseys and all manner of ensembles intended to be worn to wash one's car. There is not one dress, one jacket, one pair of slacks, one pair of heels, or one hair do that suggests the remotest concern for one's grooming.

Where did these people think they were going?

As the ranger comes down the path, we take our place in line. He stops at the family in front of us and says "That may be a problem." 

What? Switchblade?  Corrosive materials? Shoe bomb?  Exploding pen?

She evidently did not get the "no purse" memo.  Incredulously, she argues with the guy. All he can say, over and over, is, "The guard won't be happy about it, and that means he has to call the Secret Service."

Why couldn't she have been in line BEHIND us?

She takes all of the items from her purse and jams them in her jean pockets (Mom jeans have roomy ass-sized pockets, especially the pleated ones.) She stuffs what remains into her husband's pockets. Her son backs away, not taking part in her ridiculousness. He has no interest in being here and isn't about to carry around her lipstick and nasal spray in his basketball shorts.

"There!" she says. "What if it is empty?"  And the ranger again says, "The guard won't be happy about it, and that means he has to call the Secret Service."

The purse is a no-name, beaten up, threadbare knock off version of a second rate designer. I would have ditched it in the trash and gone shopping for an upgrade later. But no, she is going to take her chances. She is evidently very attached to this stupid purse.

As the line moves to the first check point, it splits in two. Her family goes to the left. I direct the kids to the line on the right so we're not behind them anymore.

As I clear the ID checker and head toward the full body scanning room, she is still standing there, explaining away the purse.

I wonder if she ever got in at all. Our tour was wonderful. The White House is magnificent. In my next life I want to be the White House florist.  It is a wonderful, magical tour through the most historic house of our time. 

And when it is over, it is only 9 am.  The kids and I have a whole day ahead of us to spend in DC, and yet, I could have left for home at that moment and not one of us would have said we hadn't had a fabulous time.