The First Lady's Final Farewell and & Party at the White House: A Tour & Toast to Creators

Washington's hottest club is 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. This place has everything. Secret Service posing as party guests. Spiked egg nog that'll knock your stockings off. An astronaut rocking Swiftie friendship bracelets. Badassatron from Transformers. A cat photo sharing space with a priceless Nancy Reagan portrait. Bonus: Instead of Santa Claus, it's Flava Flav in a white tux with a red bowtie and red ball cap.

Dr. Jill Biden’s final Christmas as First Lady is one for the books, and she’s leaving us with a legacy as dazzling as the White House holiday decor. When I got the invite to her farewell extravaganza, I knew it was going to be legendary. After all, Dr. Jill Biden made history as the first First Lady to hold a paid job outside of the White House, and has added interactive learning exhibits to the White House Tour like only a teacher would, educating while entertaining.

Let’s rewind a bit. The first time I met FLOTUS was in February 2020, just before the world turned upside down. She appeared on the morning show I co-anchored with DeMarco Morgan (yes, the same DeMarco now slaying it at GMA!) to talk about her children’s book, Joey: The Story of Joe Biden. Even then, her energy and warmth were unmistakable. Little did we know how much we’d endure in the months to come.

By November of 2021, life was starting to find its rhythm again, even if we were masked and six feet apart, when I received the invitation to share the White House Christmas decorations with the people of LA. Usually, 10,000 visitors per week would tour the festive halls, but with COVID restrictions in place, FLOTUS wanted to ensure everyone could still experience the magic. I teamed up with my favorite producer and editor to create a half-hour special that aired across America on Christmas Day. And, let’s be honest, it felt incredible to represent LA in such a big way.

Fast forward to today. With one month left of the Biden administration, POTUS and FLOTUS are going out with a bang. The exterior of the White House is partially obscured by inaugural preparations, but inside? Pure joy. The rooms are alive with music, laughter, and the sounds of holiday cheer. The US Marine Band performed lots of Christmas classics by The Vince Guaraldi Trio, aka Snoopy's instrumentals, and the guest list included an eclectic mix of stars, notables, journalists and creators from all corners of the internet.

And then, there was POTUS himself. President Joe Biden raised a glass to journalism and spoke with sincerity and heart. “There’s a fundamental change in the way the press works, in the way communication works,” he said. “You all speak straight to the American people, and it matters a lot. You’re empowering people to feel seen and heard, which they don’t feel very much these days.”

The moment hit home for me. Just last month, my son’s third-grade class did reports on past presidents, and he got Franklin Delano Roosevelt. As we studied FDR together, it was fascinating to revisit how his fireside chats revolutionized presidential communication, forging a direct connection with the American people during some of the nation’s toughest times. To then find ourselves standing in the Diplomatic Reception Room, the very room where those chats took place, was a memory I will treasure forever.

As I took it all in, I felt a surge of gratitude for the chance to be a part of this historic farewell, for the privilege of representing LA, and for the stories that connect us across time and even space. Dr. Biden’s tenure as First Lady may be drawing to a close, but her impact will be felt for years to come, especially for her unwavering focus on education and community.

So here’s to the People’s House, the Bidens, and the creators and journalists who keep pushing the boundaries of how we share stories and connect with each other. Washington may be cold in December, but the warmth inside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was undeniable. Cheers to a holiday season filled with love, laughter, and maybe just a little bit of spiked eggnog.

With love from your favorite Angeleno correspondent at the White House

(for a few days at least. she's already back home in The Valley)

Pink Pony Club

I have spent countless nights dancing my feet off at The Abbey in West Hollywood, the famous gay nightclub Chappell Roan celebrates in her hit song, Pink Pony Club. The Abbey is designed like a church, but Madonna's Confessions on a Dance Floor is the closest you'll get to redemption. I once won a foot race outside at The Abbey, and all of us wore heels. I was dressed in a sexy cop costume and stilettos, competing against drag queens - giving yet another meaning to Drag Race. I've spent countless late nights there, with flashing lights and go-go dancers, but it's also a community space where I've had meetings and reunions over a boozy brunch or iced tea, and I'll admit I lean toward the latter these days.

My son was the first to unceremoniously usher me into a new kind of club. It bears no official name, but it's often referred to in code, like Just for Men. Austin pointed at my head and said he didn't like the white. I was dressed head to toe in black, so I flipped my head over, thinking I didn't properly blend my dry shampoo. But when I stood up, looked in the mirror I saw the culprit. A new shock of silvered hair just above my right eyebrow, just like the white stripe that news anchor Colleen Williams sported in the '80s. I tried to tuck it in, and dab it with brown eye shadow, but it just made my scalp look dirty.

So much drama, but have I gone to get my roots done? No. Have I done a single thing about it? Not yet. Could I really that busy, or am I just losing my vanity? I feel an involuntarily pull in a direction that feels unfamiliar. I want simplicity, and ease in my life. I want to go to a concert and cheer on the artist from a comfy chair. I want to skip the stairs, and ride up and down floors while sitting in a little seat, just like the seniors in the commercials. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe it's perimenopause.

Even my social media viewing habits are changing. I shake my head as I scroll, thinking "they sure don't make them like they used to."

This phrase would've had me rolling my eyes in my twenties. But lately, I marvel at videos of intricate vintage appliances, the craftsmanship of old buildings and clothing, and spend hours watching the restoration of rusted toys. Could you even imagine today's toys being restored? Sturdy metal trucks have been replaced by mass-produced plastic parts, appliances are meant to be replaced, and most clothing is made out of polyester instead of natural fibers. We won't be passing down our Shein sweaters.

I must confess, it's not just about quality. It's also about nostalgia. I love a bougie candle, and real perfume over the Dossier dupe, but nothing will ever measure up to the intoxicating scent of my Strawberry Shortcake doll from the '80s.

My nostalgic cravings only intensify at Christmastime. I want to be surrounded by fading, dusty, bits and bobs that remind me of childhood. I turn into a sentimental wreck and watch Hoarders with sympathy for the collectors who only have issues narrowing down their choices.

The moment I "dropped my basket" or "the switch flipped" came during a bout of homesickness. I was living across the country in Atlanta, Georgia as a news reporter. It was August, and I found myself browsing EBay for Christmas decorations. I ordered a white plastic Christmas tree and dozens of boxes of vintage ornaments and put them up as soon as they arrived. It helped! It's never too early to celebrate the holidays.

This holiday season, my yard is decorated with Blo Molds. Like five, okay? But let's talk about my latest finds. Last weekend, I discovered two 1960s Jewelbrite ornaments at the Sherman Oaks Antique Mall. Holding the tiny scenes in my hands transported me to decorating our family tree in the '80s. I loved the dioramas of birds perched in fake snow, or the nativity, and Santa with his sack of presents. Remember the shoebox dioramas we built in school? Do kids even do that anymore? It’s not like we’re short on boxes these days, thanks to daily deliveries.

If you wait long enough, what's old is new again. Before the earth-tone monochrome trend, we were living fifty shades of brown in the '80s. I’d polish our wood-paneled walls and kitchen cabinets with Lemon Pledge until they gleamed. We walked on taupe tile floors and wooly brown carpet, while cream-colored cottage cheese ceilings offered the only break from the brown.

Inside our home, I remember lots of goose art. Hand-painted wooden geese on the walls, or geese tucked into dusty blue plaid baskets that sat on the ground, and my mom wearing her Dooney & Bourke purses. One brown and cream, the other navy and brown, to liven things up.

But the real star of the '80S home was the stereo. Towering speakers flanked the television, and master control sat protected behind glass like a treasure in an art museum. Tap the magnetized metal and pop that baby open and shut. Sleek, but never simple, with fat volume knobs, chunky radio dials, cassette decks, and a CD player, all kept spotless with weekly wipes of Windex. We listened and admired from overstuffed brown leather couches, while our pool table waited for company to come over.

But at Christmastime, the house grew warmer, and not just because of the Santa Anas. The lights made everything more colorful and joyful, it wasn't thanks to Santa Claus. It was the women of the house. My dad was a mechanic, and had no interest in working with his hands at home, so my mom and I were on our own. We were a team, stringing endless strands of lights and adding too many layers of ornaments to the tree - loads of shiny glass balls, my parents’ first garland, and ornaments handmade by us kids.  

If she was upset that dad didn't help, I never knew. She loved to "do around the house," and wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty. She once got a hernia after digging a hole, picking up and planting a tree by herself.

I’ve never pushed myself that far, but I’ve come close. For many years, I stood on a ladder for hours, armed with a staple gun like Clark Griswold, carefully securing dozens of strands of lights. It was satisfying to make sure the staples clamped the wire without piercing it, like the precise bite of vampire teeth. At night, the house glowed with a warm haze, and inside, life felt a more beautiful. Each foam angel, satin ornament, and sweet hymn blurred the edges of reality and filled me with hope.

Have you noticed nostalgia is everywhere this season? I went through the Taco Bell drive-thru the other day, and my Diet Pepsi was decorated with a monochromatic '80s label. My heart skipped a beat. I can still remember the taste of the waxy rim of the paper cups, unrolling the edges with my teeth. But alas, like so many other things, this new cup is plastic.

They sure don’t make them like they used to.

But if I need a pick me up this holiday season, I know The Abbey is waiting for me on Santa Monica Blvd. in WeHo, where the music is bumping, the lights are low, and none of the go-go dancers would care that I am a newly crowned member of the silver haired club.

Pink Pony Club

I'm gonna keep on dancing at the

Pink Pony Club

I'm gonna keep on dancing down in

West Hollywood

I'm gonna keep on dancing at the

Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club

I'm gonna keep on dancing

Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw famously said, "Youth is wasted on the young," but I believe the true gift of aging lies in savoring the memories of youth, which can be nearly as fun as creating new ones.