We happened to arrive at the beginning of the biggest blizzard in Washington in 90 years, but I remember one just about this wild, in 1993. We knew it was coming, so my assistant and I stayed in the office until midnight, cranking out letters to Members of Congress. We had no idea when we’d be able to get back in – and that was days later. The White House is amazing in EVERY kind of weather.

The House looks beautiful, as always. I like the changes Mrs. Bush made, moving the Georgia O’Keefe painting from the Green Room to the Library. It’s so completely 20th century in that 19th century room. I was struck by how extraordinary the flower arrangements are. The new chief florist has a very different, contemporary vision and expresses it in tall glass vases with twigs tied around the outside with twine, and flowering quince branches spreading out. Some vases are covered in wavy Magnolia leaves – like the pleating on a Fortuny dress. Exquisite! The White House has always had gorgeous flowers, but now they reflect the youth and style of the current First Family. I remember once coming back from a trip to London. I rushed to the flower shop to tell the chief florist that the White House has WAY better flowers than the Queen does at Buckingham Palace

I connected with US Secret Service Uniform Division officers who remembered me, and household staff – some of whom have been there 20 years or more. Gave out some books, with a wink, and told them they’d remember a lot of these stories. A Congressman in the room rushed over and said, “Melinda! Oh my gosh! I heard your voice and knew it had to be you! How nice to see you, and what a great time we had in the Clinton years…”

It was a very emotional visit for me. Walking past the East Wing doorway to our office suite, seeing the ramp I had built for mobility-impaired guests, walking through these familiar spaces, remembering events from press conferences to holiday balls, arranging lunch for PM Begin and Arafat in the Library, sweeping up the stairs to the East Room in a ball gown, standing out on the South Lawn in the freezing dawn, waiting for Marine One (the President’s helicopter) to arrive, wilting out there in 100 degree heat and humidity during an Arrival Ceremony … I tell some GREAT stories about all this in my book (click above to buy!)

The Secret Service and Visitors Office very kindly let me contribute to the special tour for the group I brought, so it felt just like old times. How I loved my time there, and how I miss being in the heart of the most important place in America. And here’s a little secret no one else will tell you: It’s a LOT of fun to be important, and a little hard to let that all go when it’s time!

Aaron Shikler's famous portrait of Jackie Kennedy

There’s a story in the October 6 Washington Post about art selected by the President and Mrs. Obama for use in the private Residence and East and West Wing offices.
Most people don’t know about programs providing loans of art from American museums to the White House and embassies around the world.  Presidents (really First Ladies) and ambassadors (really spouses) get to visit art galleries and request world class art to hang in their public and private spaces.  In the 1990s I visited our ambassador to the OEDC, in Paris.  Her government supplied house, in an exclusive neighborhood of tree-lined streets, green parks and elegant townhouses, was filled with beautiful art her husband had selected according to a theme.  They wanted paintings by American women artists who had lived and trained in France.  Every room displayed pictures that took my breath away.
The Obamas selected a wide range of periods and styles.  I note they took a number of George Caitlin paintings of Native Americans for the Residence.  I wonder if they’re the same ones that used to hang in the area outside the Oval Office, or if they are new (to the White House).  These are wonderful portrayals of chiefs in elaborate ceremonial dress, who must have seemed as exotic and marvelous to 19th century Americans in the East as creatures from the other side of the world.
The public usually doesn’t hear much about art in the private spaces, but it makes big news to hang or display something new in the public rooms.  President and Mrs. Clinton acquired several historic pieces.  They wanted a painting by an African American artist, and the curators made a search.  The rule is that the artist has to be dead – and that’s a political protection for the President, so he has an answer when some Congressman says, “Gee, Mr. President, I’d like to vote for your budget, but first, my wife paints these lovely pictures with crayolas and we’d like to see one hanging in the East Room …”
The painting they purchased is a wonderful, traditional landscape by Henry O. Tanner.  Now it hangs in the Green Room.  Next they wanted a piece of art by an American woman, and found a modern landscape depicting the magical mountains of New Mexico by Georgia O’Keeffe.  In the Clinton years it hung in the Green Room, and now it’s over the mantle in the Library, on the Ground Floor.  Why does it matter who painted these pictures?  Well, because when Americans visit the White House, they know it’s THEIR house, and they want to see some reflection of themselves in its public spaces.  It took 200+ years for African Americans and women to see art there by artists who represent THEM.  That’s a good thing, don’t you think?

But when she speaks I realize her size is irrelevant.  At less than five feet tall, Dr. Ruth may look like a child, but she has the charm, forceful personality and intelligence of a fascinating adult.  I’m tempted to laugh at her high pitched voice and thick German accent, so recognizable from radio and TV – but my White House training kicks in, and I simply smile.  We chat for a few minutes, and then she says that she and her two friends are going to the Jockey Club for lunch and would I like to come along.  Sure I would.

The Jockey Club is a very snooty place for very important people to have lunch and pretend not to notice all the other excessively important people dining there.  Like lunching at the Ivy in LA and pretending not to notice Jennifer Anniston at the next table, except that here “Jennifer Anniston” is actually the Secretary of State.  Remember the old saying, “Politics is show biz for ugly people?

I find the haughty attitude funny, because the room was originally decorated by my former Father-in-Law, Ray Bates.  He and his wife, “Toots” (yes, really) pretty much created the design business in Washington, in the 1950s, and this room was a favorite of theirs.  It’s small and dim, decorated with hunt prints on the walls, dark paneling and red checked tablecloths.  Its greatest asset is the maitre’d, who always knows exactly how to seat all these very important people so they can impress everyone in the room without actually having to speak to each other.  This is not the kind of place I normally frequent.

I walk in with Dr. Ruth, who sweetly requests a pillow or phone book to sit on (she really is that small.).  And because everyone in the Jockey Club knows – and plays by- the rules, our entrance barely causes a ripple, even though Dr. Ruth is not your usual Washington VIP.   Political people are pretty much immune to each other’s celebrity, but they will stampede over anything between them and a movie star.  And vice versa.  Social Washington pays no attention to either.

We order our meals (lobster roll for me) and begin to chat. Again, everyone in the room is studiously NOT noticing Dr. Ruth.  Although they are indulging in the socially acceptable random glance around the room without focusing on anyone and never staring or catching anyone’s eye.  Because that would be rude.

So, we’re all playing by the rules, and not only not noticing Dr. Ruth, but they are also carefully not listening to her (our) conversation, which would actually be very easy to overhear in the small room.   Especially with that distinctive accent.  This works for a little while, but then Dr. Ruth begins to explain to me that she is writing a new book, and the name of that book is, “The Art of Arousal.”  Well, when she says “the Arrrt of Arrrousal” rolling out the Rs with her high-pitched German accent, all the proper, sophisticated people in the room suddenly snap their necks to turn and stare at Dr. Ruth.  I swear, most of them probably get whiplash.  Jaws drop.  Eyes bug out.  And then they break the rules completely by turning to stare directly at her, as she innocently repeats the name of her book, with particular delight in the word “arrrrousal,” oblivious to the effect her words are having on the other diners.

And, you know, official Washington is a deadly proper place, so that’s not a word I’ve heard spoken aloud all that often myself, and I’m mildly shocked as well.  But mostly I just enjoy observing the other diners as they choke on their Cobb salads and Perrier, over the sound of the name of that book.

We finish our meal and I ask the waiter to wrap up the remaining half of my lobster sandwich.  Dr. Ruth leans over to me, pats my hand and says, “I am so glad to hear you do that.  I grew up in Germany during the war when we were all starving.  I’m convinced that is why I never grew to normal height.  I just hate to see food go to waste!”  I laugh and say that I can’t promise I never let ordinary food go to waste, but there’s no way I’m forgetting about that left-over lobster.  And I’m thinking, I’m not likely to forget you, either, Dr. Ruth!  What a fun lunch!

After this, Dr. Ruth and I are “friends,” and one evening I come home from work, hit the play button on my phone messages and hear her unmistakable voice, “Hellooooo Melinda!  This is Dr. Ruth calling.  I hope you can help me with a little something …”  I saved that message for months, until the boyfriend accidentally erased it.

I truly enjoyed Dr. Ruth, but she never did send me that book!

1994, Yeltsin's plane and lectern. Don't I look presidential?

It’s interesting that the news this week has focused on a particular story in the Clinton Tapes – the one about Russian President Boris Yeltsin being drunk during his White House visit.  But those who’ve read White House Story, a Democratic Memoir, were already in the know, ‘cause I tell this story in a lot more detail there.
The whole world knew Yetlsin had problems with alcohol, but we got to witness it up close and personal in 1995, when he was honored with the highest level of White House visit, a State Visit.

These are highly choreographed events, beginning in the morning with an Arrival Ceremony on the South Lawn.  My staff and I worked closely with the Military District of Washington and the White House Social Office (above us in the East Wing) to arrange for about 5,000 visitors to watch the Clintons welcome Mr. Yeltsin.  Bands play, there are speeches, and troops to review, followed by a meeting in the Oval.
The day before, I’d been part of an official welcoming party sent to greet Yeltsin when he arrived at Andrews AFB.  About eight of us lined up along a red carpet, watched the Russian equivalent of Air Force One land and taxi close to us.  The press jostled for position in front of the lectern where we’d been told our guest would make remarks.
Well, the doors of the plane opened, Yeltsin rushed down the stairs, we straightened our shoulders and put on our smiles – but for nothing.  The Russian President pushed past us without a glance, much less the traditional handshakes.  Someone from State tried to steer him to the lectern (that he had supposedly requested) and got a rough brush off.  The press shouted questions, but he was having none of it, focused on the limo waiting at the end of the carpet.  The driver, not expecting this sudden arrival, had to run around to get the door open in time.
Once in the limo, he sat and scowled, as the guys from State, ever diplomatic, tried again to encourage him to speak to the press.  I don’t speak Russian, but everyone understands “NYET!”  especially when it’s being shouted by a man whose face is beet red with anger.
Finally, our diplomats gave up, shrugged, smiled (they’re pros!), closed the door of the limo and waved it, and our unhappy guest, away.
The next day the arrival ceremony in the morning and state dinner in the evening went off flawlessly – ‘cause that’s what we did in the Clinton White House, flawless events!  I left thinking, No problems, no glitches, the President and First Lady are happy, I’m happy (and exhausted), so I’m glad it’s DONE.
But the next day, I barely got into the office before a senior US Secret Service Officer knocked on my door.  “Got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?  Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know what exactly you’d call it, but I figured I should report it to you, just in case.”
I settled into my chair, thinking, Now what?  ‘Cause you never know what’s going to come up at the White House, from the simple and predictable to the bizarre and unpreventable.
“I just got a report from the Watch Commander on duty at Blair House last night.”
Uh oh!  That’s where Yeltsin and his official party spent the last two nights.  What happened there?  At least it couldn’t be all that serious.  Mrs. Valentiner runs Blair House like, well, another White House.  Nothing gets past her.  Must have been something minor – maybe they didn’t like the flowers?  But that wouldn’t involve the Secret Service …
“Well, there was an officer on the sidewalk in front of the door, as there always is, and he hears the door behind him open.  You know that door’s not supposed to open.  He looks up the stairs and sees a man in the doorway, in his undershirt and boxers, drunk, lurching on his feet, and shouting ‘Pizza!  Pizza!’ The officer figures it’s one of Yeltsin’s aides, exhausted from the visit, clearly having drunk too much.  He doesn’t want to embarrass the guy, so he tells him, ‘OK, buddy, I’ll get you pizza, but first we gotta get you out of the doorway, so come with me.’
“The officer takes the guy to the command center, sits him down and promises to order a pizza.  You know the command center – it’s always dark in there so they can monitor the security videos.  Somebody calls Domino’s and orders a pie for their Russian guest.  He speaks no English, they speak no Russian, but they’re laughing and trying to joke around, waiting for the pizza.  Then the Watch Commander comes in, takes a look, can’t believe his eyes, ‘cause the guy in the chair is no aide, it’s Yeltsin!”
I gasp, “Oh my God.  It was Yeltsin?  Then what?” And I’m thinking Holy cow, international incident! Who else knows about this?
“The Watch Commander goes over, gently takes Yeltsin by the arm, and says ‘Mr. President, we’re honored to have you here, but you’ll be much more comfortable upstairs in your rooms, and I promise we’ll bring you the pizza.’  He doesn’t know how much of this Yeltsin understands, but he keeps smiling and saying, ‘Pizza, yes!’ So Yeltsin follows him back upstairs and everyone laughs hysterically and goes back to work.  That’s it.”
And that WAS it.  The Secret Service people know how to keep a secret.  I know how to keep a secret.  We never tell a soul, ‘til I publish my book this year.  And now we know someone briefed the President on his guest’s behavior, ‘cause it’s in the new book.  But, you heard it here first!

I’m also a political insider, since I was born in Washington and lived there almost all my life.  My Dad was a journalist, and the news of the day was standard fare at our house.  Thanks to the White House years, I had a front row look at both the inner workings of the world’s most famous House and both sides and both houses of congress.  I’ll be bringing these experiences and that perspective to commentary about the politics of the day.

And, did I mention, I have very sharp opinions?  Well, I’m proud to be a liberal, proud of what liberals have done for America, and VERY unhappy about the direction of the current political “conversation”.  Opinions WILL flow!  You may not always agree with me, but I promise you’ll never be bored!  And if you want to understand what’s really going on in DC, well, stop here first.

I look forward to entertaining, enlightening and informing you.  Thanks for stopping by!