There were days I thought I was on the Mississippi River because of all the showboating in Congress. We were 435 class presidents, unleashed into the world beyond high school. Everyone was so afraid of becoming a follower that no one agreed with anyone else. People stole each other’s bills and reintroduced them, rather than cosponsoring them. We dealt with such pressing issues as whether it was legal to fly a kite in the District and whether policemen would allow firemen to play in their band....

        The women in Congress had to wage virtually every battle alone, whether we were fighting for female pages (there were none) or a place where we could pee. The assumption was that we should be so appreciative of being allowed into the hallowed halls of Congress, we’d fall on our knees in gratitude for every crumb. There were men’s bathrooms right off the main floor of the House, but the ladies’ room was at the other end of the earth, constructed out of the original Speaker’s lobby in the old Capitol, and it looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the inception of indoor plumbing. Every now and then we would luck out when there was a visiting female dignitary, and the authorities had to spruce it up a bit. I never thought I would be cheering royalty (my Irish father had hung a plaque over our fireplace that read, “We owe allegiance to no king”), but when Queen Elizabeth II visited, we finally got some new curtains and paint in the ladies’ room. I wonder what would have happened if the Queen had strayed onto the outdoor porch off the House chamber. The first time I wandered out there for some fresh air during a debate, I could hear a lot of harrumphing behind me. It seems that the congressmen liked to pull off their trousers and sunbathe on the chaise lounges. They felt “letting” women on the House floor was enough; we shouldn’t also have access to their tanning clinic.

        Not being a Nixon favorite, I was not on the president’s White House guest list. By tradition, he was forced to include me on one occasion, when all the freshmen in Congress were invited to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I was eager to check out America’s best public housing, The early spring evening was quite warm, but there were fires blazing in every hearth, and the air conditioners were turned on full blast. I was told that the president liked fires regardless of the temperature.

        When I saw Nixon up close, I noticed that he was wearing makeup in an orange shade that had streaked and caked, and I had an incredible urge to wash his face. I mentioned this to a newsman, who took me aside and confirmed that ever since the 1960 debates, when Nixon sweated and Kennedy glowed, the president had been applying Man-Tan pancake and powder. I thought it was frightening--it reminded me of the stories about Queen Elizabeth I’s last years on the English throne, her makeup getting more extreme as she became more out of touch. Every day there were new Watergate revelations on the front page of the Washington Post. I think Nixon was losing his grip on reality. He even had tried to put the White House guards in comic operatic outfits, like something out of H.M.S. Pinafore. I guess his theory was: If the place looked regal enough, then the rubbish wouldn’t stick to it.

“This book on how the Congress really works would be frightening if Schroeder’s black humor didn’t have you laughing so hard.” Publisher’s Weekly (starred review)

“Schroeder has written a wickedly funny yet meaningful memoir, a page-turner.” Washington Post

“A better guide may never have been written about how a woman politician successfully balanced her political and personal lives.” New York Times