were losing their color, I had four do-gooder celebrities to trail on Capitol
Hill. Two were pretty B-list, so I had no interest in talking to them, but their crazy
communications directors called me with the persistence of my eighth-grade boyfriend
and gave me no choice but to say yes. The third was Chevy Chase, and the fourth was
January Jones, the woman who made wearing a pointy bra acceptable again. The morning
would be long. I would have to do a lot of fake smiling, but I was happy to escape
the newsroom and the mystical sounds of C-SPAN that filled it.
On the drive in from northern Virginia, I pulled up theparking brake at a red light and began searching the car floor for my very serious
media credentials. They identified me, Adrienne Brown, as a hard-boiled reporter for
the Capitolist . I found them affixed with chewing gum to what looked like animal fur. Since I never
locked my car, I figured it must have been taken for a joyride by taxidermists. I
also found part of yesterday’s Chop’t salad, three empty cans of Diet Coke, a Canadian
penny, tiny red underwear printed with the words “thong-tha-thong-thong-thong,” and
enough Bobbi Brown bronzer to turn a family of Swedes into vacationing Brazilians.
Fascinated by the results of my excavation, at the next red light, I dug a little
more. I still had to find my House of Representatives and Senate credentials, which
should have been attached to each other but were more likely attached to a discarded
sandwich.
Many years before I started my gig at the Capitolist, I read an article in the New York Post about a woman who had gotten arrested for smoking a cigarette, making a call, and
shaving her bikini line while driving. I was hysterical. I folded myself into the
fetal position and laughed until my appendix hurt. I mean, who in their right mind
would shave their moneymaker while driving? But now that I was basically a serf, I
knew better. She probably didn’t have time to schedule a Brazilian wax because her
boss wanted her to work until her eyes popped out and shriveled up like raisins.
In Washington, fall meant Congress was still in session and a horrendous number of
school groups arrived with their history classes in hyperactive packs on the Mall.
It also meant there was a month left of crazy traffic before the holiday slowdown,
but I appreciated it. It was my only downtime. I flipped through e-books, sat in on
conference calls, spastically checkedmy BlackBerry, tweeted, and read the style sections of two newspapers as I waited
for the mind-numbing rush hour traffic to carry me to the epicenter of the American
wonk.
I mopped some sticky caffeinated substance off the laminated ID passes I finally found,
popped them all around my neck, and looked for semilegal parking. It was time to head
to one of the marble House offices and act important. Or at least not lost.
My first three interviews were taking place in Cannon, one of the seven almost identical
House and Senate buildings flanking the Capitol. I sprayed my hair with hundred-dollar
hair glue, threw on a practical yet stylish Louis Vuitton capelet, and galloped toward
the building.
I put my bag through the X-ray machine, explained to the baby-faced security guards
why I had three cucumbers in my purse (South Beach diet, not perversion), and headed
down a hall lined by the heavy wooden doors that guard congressional offices. Girls
wearing sensible shoes raced toward their sensible jobs, and young men with good heads
of hair and a fondness for the missionary position looked at me as if I were a space
alien who had just ambled in.
Once I was in the building’s dramatic two-story rotunda complete with Corinthian columns
and a coffered dome, I waited around and watched the B-list celebs eagerly do Fox
and MSNBC interviews. I saw two girls, both from our print competition, both with
video crews, and closed my eyes. If they were here,
Hill. Two were pretty B-list, so I had no interest in talking to them, but their crazy
communications directors called me with the persistence of my eighth-grade boyfriend
and gave me no choice but to say yes. The third was Chevy Chase, and the fourth was
January Jones, the woman who made wearing a pointy bra acceptable again. The morning
would be long. I would have to do a lot of fake smiling, but I was happy to escape
the newsroom and the mystical sounds of C-SPAN that filled it.
On the drive in from northern Virginia, I pulled up theparking brake at a red light and began searching the car floor for my very serious
media credentials. They identified me, Adrienne Brown, as a hard-boiled reporter for
the Capitolist . I found them affixed with chewing gum to what looked like animal fur. Since I never
locked my car, I figured it must have been taken for a joyride by taxidermists. I
also found part of yesterday’s Chop’t salad, three empty cans of Diet Coke, a Canadian
penny, tiny red underwear printed with the words “thong-tha-thong-thong-thong,” and
enough Bobbi Brown bronzer to turn a family of Swedes into vacationing Brazilians.
Fascinated by the results of my excavation, at the next red light, I dug a little
more. I still had to find my House of Representatives and Senate credentials, which
should have been attached to each other but were more likely attached to a discarded
sandwich.
Many years before I started my gig at the Capitolist, I read an article in the New York Post about a woman who had gotten arrested for smoking a cigarette, making a call, and
shaving her bikini line while driving. I was hysterical. I folded myself into the
fetal position and laughed until my appendix hurt. I mean, who in their right mind
would shave their moneymaker while driving? But now that I was basically a serf, I
knew better. She probably didn’t have time to schedule a Brazilian wax because her
boss wanted her to work until her eyes popped out and shriveled up like raisins.
In Washington, fall meant Congress was still in session and a horrendous number of
school groups arrived with their history classes in hyperactive packs on the Mall.
It also meant there was a month left of crazy traffic before the holiday slowdown,
but I appreciated it. It was my only downtime. I flipped through e-books, sat in on
conference calls, spastically checkedmy BlackBerry, tweeted, and read the style sections of two newspapers as I waited
for the mind-numbing rush hour traffic to carry me to the epicenter of the American
wonk.
I mopped some sticky caffeinated substance off the laminated ID passes I finally found,
popped them all around my neck, and looked for semilegal parking. It was time to head
to one of the marble House offices and act important. Or at least not lost.
My first three interviews were taking place in Cannon, one of the seven almost identical
House and Senate buildings flanking the Capitol. I sprayed my hair with hundred-dollar
hair glue, threw on a practical yet stylish Louis Vuitton capelet, and galloped toward
the building.
I put my bag through the X-ray machine, explained to the baby-faced security guards
why I had three cucumbers in my purse (South Beach diet, not perversion), and headed
down a hall lined by the heavy wooden doors that guard congressional offices. Girls
wearing sensible shoes raced toward their sensible jobs, and young men with good heads
of hair and a fondness for the missionary position looked at me as if I were a space
alien who had just ambled in.
Once I was in the building’s dramatic two-story rotunda complete with Corinthian columns
and a coffered dome, I waited around and watched the B-list celebs eagerly do Fox
and MSNBC interviews. I saw two girls, both from our print competition, both with
video crews, and closed my eyes. If they were here,
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