Mrs. Ferrier Goes to Washington

One thing I love about being a blogger is that I never know what’s going to turn up in my inbox. From celebrities e-mailing to ask for parenting advice to offers of free vacations and appliances, some pretty awesome surprises have come my way over the years — and a few weeks ago, a real doozy of an e-mail turned up…

I got an invitation to the White House.

Unfortunately, though, it was for the day of my kids’ swimming lesson, so I had to turn it down–

TOTALLY kidding! I put myself on a red-eye faster than you can say “Pa-JAM-a, Pa-JAHM-a, O-BAM-a, O-BAHM-a” and headed off to what was billed as a roundtable discussion about health care with senior White House officials. Although I wouldn’t be meeting the President on this trip, I would get to sit in the Roosevelt Room, just a thin door away from the Oval Office — at a table where President Obama regularly meets with his staff and American history has been made too many times to count.

It’s fair to say that I was excited.

Getting into the White House on Tuesday afternoon was surprisingly simple. I was let through the outer iron gate into a holding area, where my drivers license was examined and my belongings were put through a metal detector. After that, I was sent on my way.

“Just follow the sidewalk to your right and it will take you to the West Wing entrance,” the guard told me.

“Okay,” I said gamely. I waited for a moment, assuming that someone would be coming with me, but when no one moved, I turned and started walking. It was quite a long sidewalk and I was surprised as I followed it that they were letting me roam the White House grounds without an escort. I mean, technically, I could do anything. Anything! I could veer off the sidewalk and jump into the White House fountain! I could streak naked across the grounds in front of hundreds of gawking tourists! I could sing Yankee Doodle Dandy and ride an imaginary horse over the lawn!

Yes, friends. President Obama trusted me THAT MUCH.

I slowed my walk, mulling over all the things I could do, and after much consideration, decided to make my way straight to the West Wing entrance. There, a Marine in dress uniform waited to open the door for me. I entered, gave my name to a receptionist seated at a polished mahogany desk, and perched on a sofa to wait for my appointment time. I had come extra early so that I’d have plenty of time to gawk — and I wasn’t disappointed. Smithsonian-quality paintings lined the walls, and all were of deeply American scenes, from Old Faithful to George Washington to pioneers standing knee-deep in prairie grass. After staring for a few long minutes, I decided it was time to explore new, previously uncharted territory.

“Where is your restroom?” I asked the receptionist sweetly.

She told me and I made a beeline for a heavy door down the hall bearing a plaque that was inscribed with the word Ladies.

Of course, I didn’t need to go — I was on the hunt for memorabilia! Once inside, I breathlessly searched for official White House Mints– or perhaps a paper towel with the White House logo– or maybe even toilet paper stamped with an official White House image. But it was no use. There was absolutely nothing in the bathroom that would prove to my cul-de-sac that I’d been to the White House. The only thing in that restroom that was even slightly out of place was the hand sanitizer dispenser. There could be no cheap plastic dispenser for the White House, oh no! This dispenser was wooden, and bore an engraved brass plate.

Yes, folks, this is where your tax dollars are going! *cue outrage*

Unfortunately, I couldn’t pry the box off the wall, nor could I fit it into my handbag.

I went back to the lobby emptyhanded (but hand-sanitized!) and eventually was ushered into the Roosevelt Room. There, I found undeniable proof that I indeed belonged here…

Don’t hate. (I still have this name card, by the way, and I put it on the kitchen table in front of my plate every night, to remind my family of WHO THEY ARE DEALING WITH.)

Anyway.

As Franklin Delano Roosevelt watched approvingly,

I spent the next hour discussing the new health care law with Jeanne Lambrew and Nancy Ann DeParle. During our discussion, they came across as nice, smart working women who were passionate about something they’d been working overtime on for years. I had heard their names before in reference to the Obama administration, but it wasn’t until I read this New York Times article on Monday that I realized we were chatting that day with women who are truly shaping the future of the nation in a myriad of ways.

If you’re interested in the administration’s take on the new health care law, I’ve discussed it in exhausting detail over at CafeMom. (And don’t worry– I also paid a visit that day to a health care expert at a conservative think tank, who gave me a bunch of reasons as to why the new health care law is a horrible idea. Both sides, people! It really is possible!) But for the purposes of this story, suffice it to say that the conversation was interesting, and that all too soon, it was time for us to leave what I had begun affectionately thinking of as ‘The W’…. H.

A staffer offered to take us “the long way” to the exit, which meant quick visits to the famed Rose Garden and a peep inside the off-limits residential area. I snapped a covert photo at the entrance room, which was filled to overflowing with heavenly-smelling lilies. I’m assuming that was at Mrs. O’s request…

Next, we made a stop in the press room, which hadn’t changed much from the days when I was interning as a college student at CNN in Washington. The biggest difference I noticed was that the front-row seats, once permanently labeled with the names of the A-list journalists who were allowed to sit in them, were now name-free. It makes sense, I guess, since now there are really too many major news outlets and ‘A-list’ journalists to count. I tried to snap a quick picture, but the security guard stopped me.

“No photos!” he bellowed. I gasped.

“Not until we turn on the lights,” he finished, and smiled. He gestured to a guy in the back of the room, who turned on the podium lights. “Now go up there,” the security guard instructed. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I handed someone my iPhone, dashed up to the podium, and gestured wildly at the reporters relaxing in seats throughout the room.

“My fellow Americans,” I said authoritatively. “Lend me your ears!”

Oddly, no one else in my group opted to give a speech before the presidential press corps.

Their loss.

All too soon, I was back at the gate, bidding a fond farewell to the security guards. It was my first visit to the White House, but I’m determined that it won’t be my last.

I’m not giving up until I’ve found those mints.