Dear Condi, Never mind launch codes, let's talk dress codes!
By Beth Teitell
Wednesday, November 17, 2004

If you hang out with a certain kind of person, and I do, here's the kind of insight you're privy to: It was yesterday, a little past noon, and the president of the United States was appointing Condoleezza Rice as the first black female Secretary of State.
     The gravitas of the moment was not lost on the viewing audience.
     ``She's going to need a whole new wardrobe,'' my private pundit noted.
      ``Shush,'' I said, trying to listen to Bush talk about how Dr. Rice would be confronting outlaw regimes.
     ``I mean, as National Security Adviser, she basically worked at home - except for a few hearings,'' my friend whispered. ``She could have done her job in her pajamas. Now she's like a traveling saleswoman.''
     On the TV screen, the president was threatening terror networks. In my ear, a couture discussion was under way.
     ``Condi could wage a sort of designer diplomacy. Take the hard line with Chirac, but wear Chanel. Embrace Berlusconi in your Armani, or better yet, Oscar. OK, Putin would be a harder sell, subliminally speaking, but I suspect anything red would do.''
     Kim Jung Il crossed my pal's mind. ``Suppose she was sitting next to him at some dinner,'' she mused, ``what kind of gown would she wear? Something that said, `gown,' yes, but also, `I'm going to rip those nukes out of your hands.'
     ``I don't know why,'' she added, ``but I'm reminded of that priceless episode of `Animaniacs,' when Dot is going to redesign the uniforms for the army of Anvilania, and she says `Hmmm. . . . we want something that says, `I'm going to destroy you,' but with a sense of fun.' ''
     The president was extolling Dr. Rice's numerous attributes, now harnessed for diplomatic service, but that was drowned out by my personal color commentary:
     ``And the expense account!'' my friend boomed. ``Just think of it! `Yes Mr. President, I did drop 20 large in Paris, but I had to, had to, HAD TO have that Dior dress for the G8 summit. I mean, I can't sneer at the Kyoto treaty in just anything.'
     ``I wonder if the secretary of state gets `free days?' You know, when she travels, and there's an itinerary, meeting, meeting, ribbon-cutting, meeting, press conference, meeting - will she get `free time' where she can just shop and hang out?''
     Condi seemed to have taken the stage, and was talking about how she was ``humbled'' to be succeeding Colin Powell. I think.
     ``I bet she'll get a lot more calls from friends in this job than as boring old National Security Adviser. `Condi? Honey, if you've got an extra sec in London, could you pick me up some leg cream from Neil's Yard? It's the best and I can't get it here.' ''
     And then, the press conference was over, and as the president and his appointee turned and walked away, one of the more worldly people in the room started to speak. Finally, I thought, someone's going to say something pertinent.
     ``She's going to have to do something with her hair.''