I just got back from the White House. I stole nothing of value. More accurately, the thing I stole didn’t cost anything.
Let me explain.
The National Book Festival is an annual book fair sponsored by the Library of Congress and started by First Lady Laura Bush, to promote literacy. It’s held on the National Mall, where a series of tents had stages for seventy authors, representing all types of books. Approximately 150,000 people attended the Festival, a record crowd.
Reading knows no political party.
The morning of the Festival, Mrs. Bush invited the authors and their guests to the White House for a classy breakfast buffet, and we were permitted to eat anywhere we liked in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms. My plus one was daughter Francesca, who made sure that I didn’t spill coffee on the red, blue, or green rugs. I’d hate to be remembered as The One Who Assassinated the Lincoln Rug, and that wouldn’t be a dry cleaning bill I’d like to pay. We’re not talking a stained sweater here. We’re talking a second mortgage.
So we ate our blueberry pancakes very carefully, perched on the edge of two lovely red wing chairs, and we even put an official White House napkin under our coffee cups so we didn’t make a ring on the inlaid mahogany tables. But even in the White House, my home-improvement wheels got turning. People imagine what they would do if they ever got to be President, and I’m no different. For me, renovation of the White House would be the national priority.
I wouldn’t hire a decorator. I’d do it myself. I’d be the Decorator-in-Chief.
We know that real estate ads are my porn, so it should come as no surprise that I have lots of great ideas about home décor, too. I’m addicted to HGTV. I memorize House & Garden. There’s no more extreme make over than the White House. The place has major curb appeal, and that world-leader vibe would make it the best client ever.
I smell Architectural Digest.
I’d start my make over in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms, because they’re surprisingly small and laid out in a straight line. If I were President, I’d knock down the walls and make one big family room, with space enough for a nice, built-in entertainment center. And a 70-inch plasma TV and a wet bar. Plus a computer station with 21-inch monitors. What an improvement that would be! Even the First Family needs a family room.
Obviously, I’d have to repaint the new room, too. I’d love to paint it my favorite color, which is pink, even though it’s politically incorrect. It’s the first thing someone would ask if a woman like me became President: “What, is she gonna paint the White House pink?”
I’d answer, “Yes. It’s good to be Queen.”
I’d make a few changes in the furniture department, too. The wing chairs are lovely, as are the antique tables, but you have to go with the times. You can’t watch the playoffs from a wing chair. You can’t rest your Diet Coke on mahogany. If I were President, I’d get me a nice, big sectional sofa. Gray ultrasuede would be chic, and I’d order it custom, with cupholders built into the armrests. That’s my dream. In my Presidency, cupholders for all!
Cupholders know no political party.
And, when I looked out the bubbly glass windows of the White House, I noticed there was no attached garage. That would be a must. Also an in-ground pool, maybe next to the Rose Garden, with some tasteful fake rocks and a little waterfall, so I could listen to artificial burbling while I contemplated foreign policy or skimmed the Frontgate catalog.
In fact, I found myself wondering if the White House had a finished basement, which of course would be job one. It would make a perfect gym, and I’d fill it up with Nautilus weights and elliptical machines that I could ignore.
That’s how I’d make the White House a home.
By the way, before I left the White House that day, I did get to meet the First Lady. She shook my hand and was very nice. I thanked her for the Festival, but I didn’t tell her my suggestions for the house.
Or what I stole, which was the official paper napkin, embossed with the gold symbol of the President, encircled by the brown ring of my coffee cup.
You can hardly blame me for taking a memento.
Even without a Jacuzzi, it’s still the White House.