The weekend is approaching, we're busy sorting out some glitches with PayPal, so we decided to treat you to a fictional account of how Sarah Palin's mind works, only far closer to real life than Going Rogue.
We'll be back with hard biting, informative and well researched posts as soon as we have resolved some practical problems.
Get yourself a nice drink, seat comfortably and enjoy this interlude.
Sarah Palin stretched out luxuriously and tilted the leather recliner as far back as it would go. She looked around the rented private jet and smiled at her plush surroundings. She had done it. Success was finally hers. Of course, she still had those sudden, jarring attacks of anxiety, but overall this was a one hundred percent improvement from her situation just one year ago, when she was Governor of Alaska. God, how she had hated every minute of it: the meetings, the myriad complex issues she could never quite grasp, and the sheer tedium of working for a paycheck that was increasingly insufficient to cover the demands of her lifestyle. Add to that the humiliation of losing her bid for the Vice Presidency; a reversal of fortune that had resulted in hair loss, weight loss, sleeplessness and an eerie, foreboding feeling that she might just lose her grip on reality. When she had heard that a multi-million dollar advance for her tell-all memoir was in the works, she was afraid to believe she might actually be delivered from her hellish existence. But then one sunny afternoon, she received a phone call from her new agent and learned she would be able to escape Juneau, debt, and Todd. People could mock her freakish resignation speech all they wanted, but she could not WAIT to get her makeup kit out of the Governor's mansion (that was really all she had to remove, because that was all she kept there.)
Before the deal with the publisher, Sarah had been stuck in a vicious cycle: she would go to work, bluff her way through as few meetings as possible, and at the end of the day (or quite often, at around three p.m.) she would return home frazzled, frustrated and exhausted. She would barricade herself in her bedroom, alternately watching YouTube videos of her failed interviews from the campaign and determinedly shopping online to numb her subsequent anger and turmoil. Slowly but surely, Niemen Marcus, Nordstrom, Macys and Bloomingdales had become her dearest friends--her lifeline as it were. Locked inside her bedroom, she would text her children, instructing them to complete various household tasks while she viewed her online shopping baskets. Finally, late at night, she would fall into a fitful slumber. Early in the morning, the alarm would ring, and she knew another challenging day was unavoidable. The credit card debt from the shopping binges was mounting, causing her more anxiety, triggering more impatient and angry outbursts at the office, which in turn resulted in further virtual shopping trips to Nordstrom and Victoria's Secret to soothe her angst.
During the presidential campaign, she had known no greater bliss than to have unlimited funds with which to shop. Finally, she could get everything she wanted and absolutely no one stood in her way. High heeled black patent leather boots, tight skirts, lacy lingerie, leather jackets, push-up bras with bigger padded cups--they were all hers for the taking, and shopping for them was a thousand times more interesting than learning key information about some group called “Hamas”. If only the campaign had allowed her to meet personally with the donor whose credit cards she had maxed out, she would have been able to convince him that it was all right, and that she had done nothing wrong. She even had it all planned out in her head, how she would greet him at the door of her hotel suite in a towel, claiming that she thought he was scheduled to arrive an hour later and that he had caught her dripping wet, fresh out of the shower. But the McCain campaign kept her away from him just as they had tried to block her access to the media. Well, who would have the last laugh now? She would write about everything that had irritated her, list each and every person who had dared cross her--and then humiliate them. God had always been on her side from day one, she mused, and He had given her the power to destroy anyone in her way, because she was the most important person in the world right now. She fantasized about the shopping sprees she would enjoy after her book's publication. Just thinking of paging through the Neiman Marcus catalogue and ordering one of everything gave her a shiver.
Meanwhile, unfortunately, it did seem that too many people in town were on to her. None of them would be able to hold her accountable, but she was sure she could feel their judgment when she walked into a room: the strange looks, the sudden silences, the awkward greetings. That's why she liked to give speeches to huge crowds. She could keep everyone at a distance and avoid all that annoying personal interaction. She stretched her stubby legs again and looked down at her feet as she wriggled her misshapen toes inside a new pair of Jimmy Choos. I am on my way to my publisher, in a private jet, she reassured herself. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord…Living well is the best revenge...Revenge is a dish best served cold. Sarah repeated these sayings, which she had learned from various refrigerator magnets, until she felt calm and in control. She reached for her glass of wine, but it was empty. As she poured another generous glass of perfectly chilled chardonnay, her blackberry vibrated and she looked to see who was calling: it was Bristol.
Reluctantly, she answered her phone, “What, honey.” A frantic voice on the other end of the line let out a barrage of complaints, worries and fears. Sarah sighed. When was this girl going to learn? “You made your bed and now you have to sleep in it”. “There is no free lunch” “Don't retreat. Reload”. Her mind started to search for more platitudes, but disdain for her fertile eldest daughter suddenly became too much for her at this particular moment. “You know what? You have a nanny, a new car and a charge card, so I simply don't have time to listen to any perceived whine.” Her voice was shrill, as if she was at a campaign rally, standing behind a lectern. She waited for Bristol to cower and apologize, but instead heard her utter seven shocking words: “I will tell everyone everything right now.”
Sarah froze. She had raised her glass of wine halfway to her plump, Restylane-injected lips, and it remained suspended in mid air for several seconds. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned (which Sarah was) but in this instant her white hot rage, normally directed at her squeaky-voiced husband, now targeted her eldest daughter. At the same time, Sarah felt paralyzed by an all-encompassing, overwhelming fear. She tried to get a breath, and instead choked as if she was sucking on an empty oxygen tank. How dare she? And was Bristol capable of doing what she said? Sarah's mind darted back to the time when Bristol had agreed to an interview with Greta--she had been up to something even back then. All of Sarah's plans, all she had accomplished could be completely demolished. She needed all the power she had amassed, and she was not about to lose it. Furious and shaking, she repressed her anger. “I have to go--we are landing. I will talk to you as soon as I can.” She managed to say, and then hung up the phone.
Thirty-five minutes and two Valium tablets later, Sarah had completely masked her emotions. She dialed her daughter. “Bristol, honey, I have great news for you” she said in a low, slurred voice, “I am building you a house of your own, and setting you up in your own public relations firm. You will make appearances, and you will be the president of your own company! Oh, and you can get a consult with my plastic surgeon--get anything done that you want. The world is literally your oyster. Now, don't you feel better?” Of course, Bristol was instantly happy--the glamorous images of a career and surgical makeover completely took her mind off all the troubles of raising two children. Well, then, Sarah thought. Once again, disaster averted.
She hung up the phone and took a mirror out of her overnight bag along with a huge clump of clip-on hair. Clumsily, she fastened the hair onto the back of her head then teased it to great heights. She brushed more lip gloss over her lipstick and smacked her lips, smiling at her reflection. “Americans are tired of politics as usual and they are lookin' for that common sense conservatism.” she said aloud, rehearsing for tomorrow's interview with Greta. It was one more step toward taking over her time slot. At first she smiled at her reflection, so pleased with herself. But an unpleasant feeling tugged at her, and she remembered how during the last interview, she had sensed that Greta seemed wary of her. She must remember to compliment her nonstop during their time before she show. It was a tactic she learned well during childhood: lull your prey into a false sense of security before you go in for the kill. God knows, living by that rule had always served her well.