Dirty Sexy Politics

^{Chapter 2} The Suspense Wasn’t Killing Me

I was dead asleep when I heard the television click on in the next room. Shannon and Heather were in their twin beds, and I remember waking up with a jolt and yelling out, “Is Romney on TV yet?”

Silence.

I heard the voice of Dana Bash, the correspondent on CNN, giving a report. But the exact words were garbled.

The suspense should have killed me, but it hadn’t—not yet, anyway. I do remember having extreme anxiety as soon as I woke up and feeling, suddenly, very angry that I still had no idea who my father’s running mate was. It was mystifying how unplugged-in I was. It was galling, and seemed a little crazy, that I, the candidate’s daughter and a campaign blogger, had no idea whether I would be campaigning tomorrow with Romney, Pawlenty, or some random politician I’d never met.

“Is it Romney?” I called out louder.

They didn’t know, they said. It wasn’t part of the broadcast.

“How can that be possible?”

Why didn’t Dana Bash know? Dana always knew—always—what was going on. She was the CNN correspondent on the campaign and a very classy one, actually one of the very few journalists I always enjoyed being around because she respected the concept of “off the record.”

Still in bed, and in my pajamas, I grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand and called my mother.

“Mom, who is it?”

She paused.

“Mom, do you know?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” she said.

“What!?”

“We don’t want anyone to know.”

Now, let me say my mother and I have a very open relationship. She has stuck by me, defended me, nurtured and supported me. Aside from some dorky outfits she used to put on me when I was little, she has never tried to meld me into her clone. Ever since I can remember, she has been my biggest, most loyal cheerleader. We’ve had our ups and downs, like any mother and daughter, but we worked through things by talking. Communication was essential. But that morning, she let me down.

To make matters worse, my dad clearly had a hand in the decision to cut me out too.

I clicked off the phone and immediately started crying. Crying became bawling, which evolved quickly into uncontrollable sobbing. I am sensitive, way too sensitive for politics probably, and really emotional by nature. I can’t fight it and I don’t want to. I’d rather have big feelings than shut down and become dead inside. I’ve seen what that way of dealing with life does to people, how it plays a direct hand in the disconnection between politics and people.

Shannon and Heather surrounded me. You couldn’t ask for better friends. They tried to console me and at the same time, make me get in the shower because I was going to have to be onstage that day, in just a few hours, and stand alongside my father and mother and the new, wrongfully secret, vice presidential running mate.

Shannon tried to keep things light. “You need to bathe!”

I kept sobbing.

“You’ve got to pull it together!”

I was still overcome.

“People are going to be watching you, girl.”

It was hard to fathom why my parents would let me down so much.

“Get showered, get serious, and get some mascara on!”

Eventually, I ended up getting in the shower, but couldn’t find the will—or whatever it takes—to wash my hair. I know in the scheme of things it doesn’t matter, and it won’t say on my tombstone, HAD DIRTY HAIR WHEN SHE MET SARAH PALIN, but girls, you know those mornings, and you know the feeling. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I take the time to shampoo? Not to mention that part of my job—as daughter-of and political prop—is to have clean hair, but I’d already failed at that.

Next, I had to decide what to wear, just as my bags were being taken away.

I should explain. Presidential campaigns have something called “bag call.” We had to pack and leave our suitcases outside our hotel rooms ninety minutes before departing for the day’s events. It sounds so organized and tidy. But in reality, it’s a giant pain in the ass. There were often things that I needed to get ready in the morning—my cosmetics and toiletries, to start with. If I didn’t get showered and dressed well ahead of schedule, I would have to pull out everything I thought I’d need that day before surrendering my suitcase. The result was that I, like most of the women on the campaign, lugged around a giant purse or tote bag with my pajamas and toiletries in it, or whatever hadn’t made it into my suitcase by the time the advance team took them away.

That morning, knowing that bag call was imminent, I rushed to my suitcase and began pulling out things that would look good onstage. I rummaged and rummaged—sometimes it was just a challenge to find anything that was clean—and eventually pulled out a black cotton Theory dress. I’m not sure why I picked it, except that it was black and, since I was dealing with campaign weight gain, it fit.

I put on the Theory dress, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and I started sliding toward another emotional crash, thinking about how I still didn’t know who the running mate was and that, on a day so important, I was going to look like a hot mess.

Shannon and Heather were glued to CNN, waiting for the announcement. As soon as I emerged from the bathroom, Shannon shot me a look. “Don’t you have anything else to wear?”

“I thought there was a rule about cotton and linen,” Heather said.

It’s true. There is an unwritten rule, which I had always dangerously ignored. I have been told that you shouldn’t wear silk or linen or cotton onstage at a political rally. It’s better to stick with knits. I never understood it, or even wanted to. But knits can withstand the heat of the stage lights and there is virtually no possibility of undergarments showing through in pictures. So the threat of embarrassments, like bra or thong exposure, is almost nil. Looking back, it explained why political women of both parties seemed to gravitate to the St. John knits uniform.

And yet, there I was, in black cotton.

It was a short dress too, and well above my knee.

Strung out, sleep deprived, and now panicked that I had made a tragic wardrobe mistake, I ran out into the hotel hallway to find another dress to wear. Tears began welling up in my eyes and rolling down my cheeks as I bent over my bulging suitcase and unzipped it. The contents spilled out onto the floor, underwear included.

At that very moment, two campaign staffers, Mr. Burns and Blond Amazon, walked by, carefully stepping away from me and my stuff. I despised both of them, which made this entire incident so much worse, and also is why I am not using their real names and will be sticking to nicknames for now.

I called one of them Mr. Burns due to his uncanny resemblance to the bald and very mean character on The Simpsons. But this only expresses a fraction of the contempt and disregard that I had for him. Mr. Burns was, and always will be, my least favorite person on the campaign. I know I will later claim that Steve Schmidt was my least favorite person on the campaign, but I really do mean it about Mr. Burns. My father loves him, so a protective cloud swirls around Mr. Burns. But I must say he is truly one of the most unpleasant people I have ever met.

An investment banker who joined the campaign temporarily and then never left, Mr. Burns was obsessed with control and access and took great pride in being on the inside. He kept a very tight grip on his various power centers, but his main concern seemed to be the seating arrangements for the passenger vans and the three campaign buses—aka the Straight Talk Express.

Mr. Burns expressed his feelings about you by your placement on a particular bus. The first bus, where my mom and dad rode, was the nicest by far—luxurious leather seats, clean and comfortable, stocked with potato chips and Diet Cokes, and driven by the amazing Jay Frye, who leaned down from his height of six foot five to give me a huge hug every time he saw me. The second bus was loaded with important media and plugged-in staffers. The air was heavy, the talk intelligent, the atmosphere was urgent and intense, no-nonsense and only occasionally outrageous. And then there was the third bus, which was old and rank-smelling, populated by hair and makeup people, insignificant media or out-of-favor ones, campaign surrogates that nobody wanted to deal with, and an assortment of other disenfranchised types who seemed lonely and forgotten. It was like the Island of Misfit Toys.

I’ll confess, I always tried to get along with Mr. Burns, hoping for a better place on the bus, hoping that he’d let me bring Shannon and Heather into the first bus so we could ride with my parents. I was loyal to my friends and refused to sit on the first bus without them—something that kept me from riding in official motorcades and caused me to get left behind at quite a few places. But increasingly, it was hard to be fake-nice to Mr. Burns. To me, he had become a cartoon.

Blond Amazon was my nickname for the other staffer who was walking down the corridor that morning, a super-tall and aggressively blond woman, as you might suspect, who exuded a one-of-the-guys toughness on a daily basis during the campaign. I have a very good relationship with her now—I adore her, essentially, and she has become more supportive of me—but during the campaign, probably due to the stressed-out environment that made me feel threatened and negative all the time, I loathed her passionately, dreaded seeing her, and sometimes referred to my clashes with her as “Another Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman.”

Making matters worse, Secret Service agents would sometimes confuse me with Blond Amazon at rallies, which I found more annoying than I can say—particularly since she is a foot taller than I am. What kind of recruitment and training is going on, anyway, when a Secret Service agent can’t distinguish two blond women who are a foot apart in height?

And there she was, the invincible Amazon, striding down the corridor with Mr. Burns.

I was crouching on the floor. My clothes and unmentionables were strewn about, and I had my hands on several dresses—still worrying about what to wear that day.

“Do you know who it is?” I blurted out.

Blurting might be the wrong word. It might have been somewhat louder. I could have been screaming.

Advance guys were swarming around the halls by then, picking up the suitcases and dealing with bag call. I started to gather up my clothes and stuff them back into my suitcase.

Blond Amazon and Mr. Burns kept walking, like I was a phantom or an escapee from a nearby mental ward, which, at that point, I probably looked like.

“Do you know?” I insisted, a bit louder.

I don’t remember the exact answer, if there was one. My actual memory is that they just walked on, neither of them truly acknowledging me, like I was roadkill that you drive by without braking for a better look.

Mr. Burns signaled to me, finally, that he knew who the running mate was. He nodded, or winked. He might have made a hand gesture. More than anything, he communicated that he was enjoying the fact that he knew and I didn’t.

Overcome with fury, I yelled out, “Screw you both!!” then grabbed a black knit dress and flew inside my hotel room. With the door safely closed, I lost it—to the point of wailing. My own bad behavior made me feel worse, as it always did. There was no escaping the reality of my incredibly rude and inappropriate screaming in the hallway, as witnessed by more people than I care to think about, particularly two people whom I disliked with unimaginable intensity. Screw you both!

All I wanted in life was to be important enough, and trusted enough, to know who my father’s running mate was.

Was that too much to ask?

Had I been so untrustworthy, so spoiled and difficult?

The fact that my nemesis, Mr. Burns, the Bus Roster Nazi, was more inside and trusted, and more important… well, that really was the last kicker.