Tennis shoes
Hoodie
Eletronics
Camera
Camera battery charger
2 BB chargers
BB charger converters
iPod
iPod charger
Computer
Computer power cord
Secure ID
Hard pin
Miscellaneous
Evian
Passport
Pre-advance schedule
Culture memo
POTUS schedule
Nap socks
Nap neck pillow
Sunglasses
Umbrella
WH badge
WH fliptop badge
Jewelry
December Trip
Sleeping bag
Watch
Big North Face
Skinny North Face
Nike hoodie
REI pants
Mattress pad
Draft schedule
He said it was “We Are the World,” so we spent the rest of the dinner trying to name all the musicians who sang on “We Are the World.” Long after we had given up, and he was talking to someone else, he looked back at me and shouted, “We forgot Cyndi Lauper!” Everyone was very confused.
If you don’t see yourself attending black-tie events with foreign dignitaries any time soon—though you never know—you can still take this advice to a job interview. When I’ve had to prepare for a job interview, I make sure to keep up on any news or current events related to the person or organization I’m meeting with. I read up, if I can, on my interviewer. It’s entirely possible someone who interviews you might not have Google results or be on Twitter, but if they are, you should know. At the very least, company websites usually have employee bios. The person will understand if you aren’t deeply acquainted with her stance on Bachelor in Paradise, but knowing her position in the company, how long she’s been there, and maybe even where she went to college (good for small talk) demonstrate a solid effort. Don’t go overboard in some psycho Instagram deep dive and open with “So I see your dog Chunk likes to eat rabbits,” or “You really enjoy Pilates!”—that would put you in the running for mayor of Creeptown. But if this person has a more public profile, scan a few articles about her. One of the best/worst/most revealing job reviews I ever conducted was when, 10 or 15 minutes into the discussion, the woman stopped in the middle of what she was saying to exclaim, “Oh, waiiiiiiiit—weren’t you an Obama staffer for a while?”
I never started doing the type of work I do to become famous. But part of why preparedness is so important is that everyone knows you’re supposed to come to professional conversations with a couple of questions and a sense of whom you’re talking to. Everyone knows how easy it is to Google. The woman I was interviewing wasn’t living in a commune in the forest with no Internet access. Not knowing who I was didn’t make her look like an independent spirit or focused on her own work—it just made her look bad.
We have advance teams in politics because it’s often much easier—and more effective—to negotiate in person than over the phone or via email, and there were times during my reign as director of scheduling and advance or deputy chief when, because a certain trip was especially complicated, I thought it would be best for the operation if I traveled ahead of the president. One of these times was in 2011, when we went to London.
The president was going to the UK to kick off the yearlong Diamond Jubilee celebration of Queen Elizabeth II—the 60th anniversary of Her Majesty’s accession to the throne—and our trip had many different pieces: a dinner at Buckingham Palace; a dinner at Winfield House, the US ambassador to the Court of St James’s residence, that the US was throwing in honor of the queen; and an address to Parliament, to name a few. We were sending an entire US delegation—Caroline Kennedy (who later became the US ambassador to Japan) and her husband; Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson; Brian Roberts, the chairman and CEO of Comcast; and Doris Kearns Goodwin. We wanted a group of dynamic Americans the queen might enjoy meeting. When we learned the queen liked Broadway musicals, we also invited Kristin Chenoweth to perform at Winfield House. I needed to go early to make sure every detail was sorted. It probably would have been fine if our regular advance team had gone, but I was leaving nothing to chance.
Right when we were about to start sending people off, the Grímsvötn, a very active volcano in Iceland, erupted, creating a giant plume of ash that caused a significant disruption in air travel. Planes had to avoid it at all costs—the ash was so hot it could melt engines—and it was making it very hard for our delegation to get to London. In the week before we were scheduled to depart, Caroline and I were going back and forth over email and trading calls—just a little plume talk between girls. Her son Jack’s high school graduation was the weekend after the trip; she decided she just couldn’t chance not making it back.
Yikes. I was hoping all the others would make it, because you really don’t want poor attendance for the queen. POTUS trusted us with all these details, and the last thing you want is the dreaded Questionable Eyebrow—the one that says, “What the fuck is going on?”
As the delegation started to trickle in, the cold I’d been suffering from at the time morphed into a full-body flu. Right before the dinner at Winfield House, I left the hotel to get a blowout because (1) obviously, and (2) I had the flu and looked like it. POTUS and FLOTUS arrived in London and the trip was under way. As I finished getting ready in my room, Dey and Pho came by for some pregame prep. You can always leave it to them to say, “Um, more blush.” I took two British DayQuil and went down to load the vans and head to Winfield House.
Here is where I have to make a confession: I love the royal family, and I really, really love the queen. The photos of Her Majesty driving her Range Rover with the dogs and her hat and her bag—is there anything better? I spent many weeks leading up to the trip telling anyone and everyone, including POTUS, about how my Oma would get all the German rags when I was a kid so we could read about the royals—in German, which was fine, because I was only in it for the pictures. I appreciate eye-rolling about tabloids, and even about the monarchy, but there is just something about royals. So much history and tradition, and it seems like it all comes from a time that’s quickly passing by. Also, I love tiaras.
When we arrived at Winfield House, everyone looked so rad. We always saw one another in the same boring pencil skirts and cardigans from J.Crew, so the chance to don formal wear was fun when it came around. I was crushing a blush Badgley Mischka (partially because of the flu weight loss). I got all my black-tie dresses from a consignment shop in Georgetown, Ella-Rue, and they would call me when a certain similarly sized woman—size 8 plus butt—would bring in a pile of Oscar de la Rentas or Valentinos. I always sold them back afterward, at only a small loss.
Somehow, I didn’t realize I was actually going to get to meet the queen. When we pulled up to Winfield House and joined a receiving line, I began talking a lot—chalk it up to cold medicine and a quick champagne, or genuine nerves—and I only really remember Pfeiffer saying, “It’s going to be OK, buddy,” which was his way of chilling me out.
Queen Elizabeth II was magical—wearing a fantastic, sparkly, beaded dress and her tiara—and SO friendly. (She said “Hello.”) With POTUS and FLOTUS standing next to her, looking just incredible themselves, I absolutely could not hide my glee. POTUS was looking at me like, “Please don’t knock her down!” and I did not knock her down.
After that, Valerie Jarrett (VJ) introduced me to Colin Firth and his wife, Livia, a stunning Italian eco-fashion activist, and I knocked back another glass of champagne. I suddenly felt very short and cream puffy; Livia was basically a goddess. She’s quite tall (to me, anyway) and was wearing emerald green. The King’s Speech had come out pretty recently, and everyone was gushing to Firth about it. I was sort of silent—not really for any particular reason, except maybe the flu and being completely overwhelmed. Still, our job as diplomats is to entertain and engage our hosts, and I wa
s being a dud.
At some point, probably because she is as gracious and inclusive as she is beautiful, Livia turned to me and asked, basically, “What’s your favorite movie?”
Because I was out of my element and into the cold meds and champagne, I could not tell if she meant, “What’s your favorite movie in life?” or “What’s your favorite movie starring Colin Firth?”
(Sidebar: I highly recommend coming up with a more or less real but small-talk-appropriate list of favorite movies, television shows, books, and music for important but irrelevant party chat like this—there’s no reason a pleasantry should turn you into a sputtering idiot who apparently hasn’t seen a single film. My list: St. Elmo’s Fire, sports movies like Miracle, and The September Issue; The West Wing, The Affair on Showtime, and The Facts of Life; The Perfect Storm, because I love the descriptions of weather patterns; and the Grateful Dead, Barbra Streisand, Bruce Springsteen, and Lilith-Fair-type bands like the Indigo Girls. Done.)
I assumed she meant Colin Firth movies. I launched into a dramatic reenactment of my favorite scene from Love Actually, not only in front of the spouse of one of its stars but also in front of Nigella Lawson, Tom Hanks, and, most important, my coworkers, whom I would have to face in the morning. “We love Uncle Jamie! We hate Uncle Jamie!” I cried, in my best British accent. (Which is not a good British accent at all.) Out of the corner of my eye I saw David Beckham laughing. He thought I was either funny or drunk; I later told everyone I was sure he wanted to do it with me. Sorry, Posh.
We went back to the hotel and had a cocktail at the bar, where I continued to (painfully) regale Pfeiffer, Favs (Jon Favreau, Obama’s chief speechwriter), and Plouffe with stories of David Beckham wanting to do it with me. Finally tired of that—and with the combination of fancy booze and British pharmaceuticals going to my head—I went upstairs, threw my shit in a suitcase, and went to bed.
The next morning, I got a knock on the door from Reggie Love. “Boss wants you on Marine One today.”
In other words, POTUS was requesting that, instead of going ahead with the staff in vans to Stansted, I head over to Buckingham Palace to say good-bye to the queen with him and the first lady and then depart with them on Marine One, the helicopter that transports POTUS and FLOTUS to the airport.
This was a problem.
When you travel with POTUS and you are leaving on Air Force One in the morning, you usually put your luggage outside your room the night before so it can be loaded onto the plane in time for departure. Seeing as I was just planning on riding in the staff vans to the airport in advance of POTUS and FLOTUS, who were scheduled to visit Buckingham Palace before meeting us all at the airport, and I still wasn’t feeling that great, I had left out a brown tweed blazer (thank God), a sweater, and jeans for the next day. Jeans and more casual clothes were generally acceptable if no one (read: the press corps or foreign diplomats) was going to see you. POTUS and FLOTUS didn’t really care if you wore jeans on the plane.
But Barack Obama—a truly sneaky dude. He knew I was dying to see Buckingham Palace, and he had succeeded in surprising me with the opportunity to do so. He knew I hadn’t attended the dinner held there on the first night of the trip and how much it would probably mean to me to be able to see the palace in person. He had kicked someone off Marine One so that I would have a reason to go.
So: There I stood, in my jeans and sweater and flats (at least I didn’t have my Birks on), looking at Reg with horror in my tired, slightly hungover, still a little flu-ish eyes, the weight of this amazing gesture pressing down on me. “I’m not dressed,” I said. “I can’t go to Buckingham Palace.”
He replied, simply, “You think I’m telling POTUS that?”
I grabbed my big leather bag (and source of my back problems) and got in the Suburban to roll over to Buckingham, popping two Imodiums to preempt my nervous stomach. We walked into the palace, and while POTUS and FLOTUS said good-bye to the queen, I made a beeline for the drawing room, where there was a safe space behind the couch. I fidgeted, pretended to read a magazine, and prayed the staff would not notice what a rube I was.
Finally, everyone started to make motions like we were getting ready to leave; I could barely take in the place because I was so freaked out. I cozied up to one of the president’s valets, who had some of his bags, and begged to carry one. No way. So I just moved very close to a suitcase and shuffled across the grand lawn and over to Marine One, which was waiting for us.
I took a second to look back, and what a sight. Prince Philip and the queen were saying good-bye, and the entire house staff was lined up on the lawn to wave to POTUS and FLOTUS.
When we were loaded up and lifting off, I breathed a sigh of relief. No one had noticed my outfit!
Then POTUS turned to me, looked down, and said, “Jeans?”
“I’m sorry!” I replied. “I didn’t know!”
He looked me up and down again. “What is that?”
It was the issue of Tatler magazine that I had accidentally stolen from Buckingham Palace when I was too preoccupied with hustling out to the helicopter to remember to put it back.
I learned some important lessons that day. The first: When you are within 10 miles of the queen, carry a damn pair of trousers on your person at all times. The second: Unless you’re going to the Iowa State Fair, always hedge on the side of more professional.
I didn’t get a Buckingham Palace selfie—I was tweaking out too much to think of it, though I have no idea if that would have been allowed. (Another tenet of preparedness is to always know the rules beforehand, even if you want to break them.) But I did, at least, get a souvenir out of the whole thing. That issue of Tatler is in a box somewhere in Manhattan Mini Storage. I’m pretty sure Lily Collins was on the cover.
CHAPTER 3
Independence, or You Can’t Just Tagalong
In 1994, the Republicans decided they were going to win back Congress, and to do it they began a campaign that came to be known as the Republican Revolution. The Republican Revolution was designed to unite the party and provide an alternative to Bill Clinton. Written by Newt Gingrich, the House Minority Whip, and another guy, Dick Armey, with some flair from Ronald Reagan’s 1985 State of the Union address thrown in, the revolution’s manifesto was known as the Contract with America, and it outlined what the party would do if they won the majority in the House of Representatives during that year’s election. What they would do: Create or uphold systemic obstacles for the lower classes, women, and minorities, mainly. (They made their intentions very clear—the Contract’s welfare reform plan was called the Personal Responsibility Act. There was also a Family Reinforcement Act and a crackdown on crime.) Newt went on a tour of the United States to promote it.
At the time I was an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Vermont, and although my family wasn’t super political, I had felt the excitement of the 1992 election and even thought about going to Bill Clinton’s inauguration, though I was ultimately too scared to make the trip to DC. More important, I was extremely impressionable. I was raised to think and act for myself, but I still often did things because all my friends were doing them—not to be cool, really, but because I was curious and wanted to try. So when it was announced that Newt would be visiting Burlington as part of the Contract for America campaign, and a group of people from my dorm said they were going to protest, I was like, sweet, I’m there.
The University of Vermont has a reputation for being liberal, and of course the state produced Bernie Sanders, but in general it’s not exactly like socialists are hanging from the rafters. About a hundred people had come to hear Newt speak. We showed up downtown outside the place where the event was being held and waited to make our move.
After the event ended and Newt was in his car and trying to leave, we pushed forward, yelling and chanting and shaking our fists. As his car was moving slowly through the crowd, I got caught up in it, and then I did what felt natural: I jumped on the hood.
It was totally exhilarating, d
espite my previous ambivalence. There I was, a lowly freshman, making a political impact on top of the despicable Newt Gingrich’s chauffeured vehicle. I was only there for a couple of seconds before rolling off and letting someone else have his turn. I felt like the coolest person in the world.
Unfortunately, a bunch of liberal college students hopping on the roof of a car had little effect on the Contract with America campaign. The Republicans won 54 seats in the House, giving them the majority for the first time in 40 years, and nine Senate seats. The next year, Newt became the Speaker of the House and Time magazine’s Man of the Year.
Still, I was hooked. It probably helped that I didn’t get in any kind of trouble for doing it—all in all, it was a pretty low-stakes protest—but maybe that was a blessing. It made it feel easy—and fun—to get involved in politics, and I couldn’t wait to do something like that again.
I recognize that many people would not just fling themselves onto a controversial politician’s car in front of a bunch of people they were trying to impress, but I have always just kind of gone for things. I am stoked—and lucky—that I was born in the ’70s. If I could have picked any other time to be born, it probably would have been the early ’60s, so that I could have toured with the Grateful Dead in 1978. That summer, the Grateful Dead played Red Rocks Amphitheatre outside Denver, and it was said (and I agree) that they “elevat[ed] the Red Rocks beyond their already spiritual planes.” I loved listening to those shows.
That said, I wouldn’t want to stray too far from my actual generation. In the ’70s, people were still chill. I don’t want to be too nostalgic, especially because the present day has a lot of benefits—women’s rights, Google Maps—but I think the idea that times were simpler “back in the day” is true in a lot of ways. Whatever anyone tells you about how technology and social media have made us disconnected from reality is probably right, but I think you can boil all these kinds of arguments down to the fact that people are no longer chill. They are goal-oriented. They are aware of all the things they could or believe they should have. They are aware of all the things that could go wrong. This awareness makes a lot of things—dating, finding a job, dating a person you meet at your job, planning a trip for the president of the United States—much harder.
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