It is pretty juicy, according to an LA Times blog.

I have my own thoughts about Sarah Palin, which I expressed last year (was it only a year ago?) in Phoenix New Times. My feelings haven’t changed. I don’t know if Levi Johnston’s telling the truth, but since all’s game in love and politics, the Vanity Fair piece will at least be worth a read. (Interesting that he was reportedly paid for writing it. I wonder how much is really in his own words?)

I still blame John McCain for the whole Palin thing, but that’s me.

Whether Johnston’s telling the truth or not (and my guess is that it’s shades of gray, as is much of life) I can say one thing definitively: Sarah Palin is no poster mom of a kid with Down syndrome. Not on my wall, anyway.

Several of us got tipsy on strong cocktails at the last McCain party at the Biltmore resort (where the Reagans once honeymooned and the Hollywood stars hung, a beautiful place designed by Frank Lloyd Wright’s students), the night of Super Tuesday, when John McCain became the GOP’s presumptive nominee for president.

But no one could catch a buzz last night, despite the vodka and gin. Maybe because we had a real assignment — blog about the night in real time — and equipment to juggle: the world’s tiniest laptop and an iPhone with a dying battery.

In the end, we couldn’t even get accurate returns; in Big Brother fashion, they were only announcing the states McCain was winning. The foreign press outnumbered the paying guests. No one had a clue.

And worst of all was the feeling that I was there to kick a dying dog.

I wasn’t. Really. But I have written about McCain for a long time — none of it particularly positive — and while I wasn’t there to gloat, I don’t blame anyone for thinking I was.

Actually, all day, I’d been feeling downright magnanimous, in that way you get when you have a strong feeling your candidate is going to win, so why not be gracious? I was thinking a lot about partisanship. Funny, I put up a post Monday night about the notion of people with developmental disabilities voting, and while that drew some response, I heard more reaction to a couple of tossed off lines about my husband Ray’s political affiliation.

I’ve long joked that if you grow up in Phoenix, you better not count Republicans out as friends or you’ll be darn lonely.

And it’s true that some of my best friends are Republicans (not Republican Jews so much, I can never get past that one, though I did see a hilarous yarmulke last night wiht “McCippah” embroidered on it) and certainly some colleagues, even at the allegedly ultra-liberal alt weekly Phoenix New Times where I’ve worked forever.

But a GOP soulmate? My mom jokes that they knew I was in love when I brought home a Republican gun owner/former Catholic. I still don’t love the guns (which are safely locked away, trust me, and no, in 10 plus years of marriage I still haven’t held one) but I do love the Republican, and sometimes I even love him for his views.

I don’t agree with those views much of the time, but yesterday, as I fielded comments from people saying things like, “I just couldn’t be married to my husband if he didn’t support the same candidate I did,” I thought hard about why I was okay with that. (With the possible exception of the McCain thing, and really, that’s different — it’s personal, the guy screamed at my dad. Not cool. Long story. Google “David Grann” and “New Republic” and “Silverman” if you really must know.)

Even though we might differ on the issues — and trust me, on a given day it can be everything from economic policies abroad to whether the girls should still drink from sippy cups — Ray and I completely agree on one thing: We want the best world for our kids. We might have different ways of getting there, but isn’t that the messy manifestation of the American Dream?

I was getting all touchy feely and happy about my mature perspective, as we squeezed toward the lawn of the Arizona Biltmore last night to catch McCain’s concession. That was a surprise — we never thought we’d get into the ballroom, let alone onto the lawn, and the crowd was both disappointed and anxious, wondering if any of us would make it past the metal detectors in time to catch the senator’s parting words.

I was practicing my dour face, dying to hear more details about Obama returns and wishing I was at a victory party instead of a wake — and a wake for a man I was sick of hearing about long before Super Tuesday — when I overheard a woman next to me talking loudly into her cell phone, clearly not caring at all who heard her.

“Yeah, well, maybe he’ll be assassinated in a couple of days,” she said.

There was no doubt about whom she was referring to.

It was her tone — hopeful and bitter at the same time — that stopped me cold. I turned and stared hard at her. She didn’t look back, just pushed past me toward the metal detectors. Soon we all made it through and onto the lawn, for the final few paragraphs of McCain’s speech.

He was downright gracious, the crowd was in tears, the moment was perfect and lovely and afterward people smoked cigars in the cool November night.

We opened the tiniest laptop in the world and posted some pictures, then got a cab and beat it out of there. I couldn’t stop thinking about that woman. I didn’t see her face. But how will I ever forget her?

To quote Sophie, “I’m scared.”

I woke up this morning and realized I’m still hysterical, so I won’t write about Sarah Palin — not yet, maybe not ever. But I’ll dance around the edges.

Last night I walked past our playroom (once the formal — ha! — dining room in our ramshackled but well-loved house) and realized it looks just like a “before” picture for one of those shows, like Clean Sweep. That’s appropriate, since I spend a lot of time looking over my shoulder, waiting for Stacy and Clinton from What Not To Wear to pop out and offer me $5000 to quit dressing like such a schlub.

I’ve not seen Sarah Palin’s house, but judging by her look — from her hair down to her heels — it does not resemble mine.

For now, I will say no more. I am going to focus my hysterical energy on cleaning out the playroom and giving the toys the girls have outgrown to the needy families of babies with Down syndrome and teen moms.

Whoops. Did I say that?

“You are a word that begins with the letter H.”

Oh, he’s right. I am hysterical. I called this, months ago, as soon as I heard Sarah Palin’s name — along with the fact that a. she had just had her fifth child, a boy with DS and b. that she was interested in being McCain’s running mate.

I knew it, because the world — my world — is that weird.

I’m going to refrain from saying anything yet — I have to sort out my thoughts and I know how tempting blogging can be for those whose thoughts are scrambled — but I will say this: I have written more than anything (by far) about two topics, in my life.

The first is John McCain.

The second is Sophie — and what being a mom (particularly a working mom) of a kid with Down syndrome means.

And never the two should meet, as far as I’m concerned.

Too late.

You figure all this out. Please. And get back to me.

Meanwhile, here’s a link to the way-more-than-anyone-wants-to-read special report my paper posted on him:

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/mccain

My husband Ray (it’s confusing – my grandfather and my husband and his father AND grandfather are all Raymond) wants to know why I’m not more upset. He keeps nagging me about it.

It’s true, I haven’t said much. And normally I would. I get that (the emotive thing) from my mother. But on my father’s side, this particular grandfather’s side, it’s all about emotional stone walls. Not stonewalling — I’m not sure it’s even that evolved, the emotional thing, to be something that’s actively trying to get out. Stone walls.

I AM sad about my grandfather. Of course I am. But he’s 94 years old and he’s had a good, full life (unlike several other people I’ve run across this summer, who are sick before their time) and more to the point, just the life he’s wanted to have, as far as I can tell.

And he’s been sick for a long time. He’s always bounced back — I’ve taken to joking that he’s going to outlive us all. “Be careful,” warned a dear friend who recently lost her own dad after a prolonged illness. “We were so convinced Dad couldn’t ever die that when he did, it was that much worse.”

Point taken, and that may well be that while I have seen my grandpa and I know he’s not coming back from the place he’s at today (or was last night, when I left the hospital) I still can’t work on the obituary some of the family asked that I work on.

Talk about writer’s block.

So I’ll write this, instead. Maybe then I can trick myself, quickly, to switching over to the obit and get it done before I realize what I’m doing. (And before the kids wake up.)

Anyhow, last night I found myself in the hospital cafeteria, eating dinner with my grandfather’s three kids — my dad, aunt and uncle. I can’t remember the last time (if ever) it was just the four of us, no siblings, no tiny children.

There was a crying toddler and my dad made sure to sit on the other side of the room. Which I worried would be uncomfortable, because with these three, you could easily eat a whole meal in dead silence. Some of us might prefer the distraction of a wailing baby; these are just not chatty people. But tonight everyone was making an effort, probably because of the dire circumstances. Plus, it’s political season, and my family does love to talk about politics.

“Boy, Amy, that was a really great story on John McCain,” my Uncle Tom said. (Yes, really, I have an Uncle Tom.)

(Here’s the story: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2008-08-07/news/postmodern-mccain-the-john-mccain-some-arizonans-know-and-loathe/%20/2)

I beamed. You write a story and put it out there for 100,000-plus readers (not including that whole silly Internet thing) and really, you can never get enough validation, even after all the years I’ve written for Phoenix New Times (day job) and other places. Particularly validation from certain critical quarters.

My uncle’s a big conservative, so it really meant a lot.

Before the words were all of the way out of his mouth, my dad jumped in. “You want to read a really great story about John McCain? Check out yesterday’s New York Times.”

And he proceeded to go on (and on and on) about a story he’d already mentioned to me at least once that day, about how McCain’s campaign is falling apart.

Really and truly, I do not consider myself in competition with the New York Times. Nor do I fault them for a great story (I’m sure it was; I don’t need to read it, now that my dad’s quoted practically the whole thing to me) or fault my dad for liking it.

But the timing did suck just a teeny, tiny bit, considering he stepped on that compliment from Tom, and considering he’s my freaking DAD. He’s supposed to be the proud one. I looked around the table, hoping neither my aunt or uncle had noticed.

I don’t think they did. Why would they? The incident was Vintage Silverman.

There are all kinds of stories lurking out there about how my grandfather never praised my father. (Or, for that matter, any of his kids.) I believe it. On the few occasions I’d bring a report card over to show Grandpa, he’d stare at it, screw up his face and say, “Why’dya get that B plus?” No mention of the 5 A’s. (Not that THAT happened very often on my report cards! Probably not after third grade or so.)

In what may well be my last real conversation with my grandfather, a couple weeks ago, I joked that he belongs to a lot of synagogues. He held up three fingers, and chuckled. (He’s not particularly religious, but that’s a whole other story.) We talked about my father’s bar mitzvah, in Cedar Rapids. My grandfather went on and on about what a great job my father did.

But he’d never told my father.

We’re bound to repeat history — unless we have Susie Sealove Silverman for a mother. The woman emotes from every orifice, 24/7, in a very, very good way, and she’s my role model. Sometimes, like with my grandpa, I do feel my dad’s side come out — and stick. But I’m working on it.

So forgive me if I tend to tell my children they’re the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen, the best smelling, the smartest, the kindest — all before 9 in the morning. Hey, anyhow, it’s true.

I do need to remember — and share with you — the reason I do know my dad loves me (well, there are a lot of reasons, but there’s one that will go down in history, sort of). It’s the part of the McCain story I had to promise my mother I wouldn’t put in a local newspaper, this time around, this time when the f-er might actually get elected president:

http://archive.salon.com/mwt/feature/2000/06/13/secret_hero/index.html

Anyhow, I called the guy, and got his voicemail message. I wish I’d taped it. I used to keep a tape recorder hooked up to my phone at work (it’s legal to tape calls within this state, even without telling the person you’re taping — Linda Tripp’s problem was that she lived in Maryland, where it was not legal) but I rarely do that kind of phone interview anymore. I don’t even know where my tape recorder is.

So I can’t tell you exactly what this guy’s message said, but it went something like this, delivered in a hearty, super-annoying, trying-too-hard tone:

Hey there! Thanks for calling, please leave a message for THE GUY’S NAME AND COMPANY. And don’t forget to support a person with Down syndrome for president, since at least that way we’d get some someone loving and hate-free in the White House.

OK, I hate shit like that. Really. If I still said such things, I’d say, “How retarded.”

First, I hate it because as much as I love Sophie, it would be nice to go a full 15 minutes during the day without having to stop and dwell on her challenges.

I never knew the topic of Down syndrome comes up so often in random, everyday life. Or for that matter (and this will confirm how hyper-sensitive I am, I fully admit it) the word Down. The first time this happened was when Sophie was a few days old (must have been weeks, I was driving, post-C-section) and I drove past this enormous sign in Phoenix (I just passed it today, in fact) that said DOWNS Florist.

More to the point is the time I profiled this really odd pop culture enthusiast (for lack of a better description) in town who had done everything from production for South Park to promotions for some truly grotesque, bizarre performance artists. He also had a lot of really smelly parrots.

Sophie was a few months old at the time. This guy popped in a video one day, during the course of an interview, showing off his work, and suddenly there was a film montage of close-ups of people with Down syndrome at the Special Olympics. He just liked the way they looked, he said. (A la Crispin Glover, yet another future topic….)

ANYHOW. I picked a big fight with this kid with the obnoxious message and he of course pulled the, “I’m close to someone with Down syndrome” card and I snottily shot back, “Well, I can guarantee you don’t take care of someone with Down syndrome every day or you would never say something so stupid” and snottily got off the phone. (Ha! I was right. I later heard he has a COUSIN.)

[NOTE: I never said I was a nice person.]

The thing is, in this culture, we’re raised to believe that our kids can be the next President of the United States. Or a doctor or a lawyer or something else equally snobby requiring really expensive degrees. But not our kid with Down syndrome.

Yes, I am quite certain that Sophie will achieve greatness. (Frankly, I think she already has. I’m quite convincd she read the words “Muppets in Space” tonight.) But she will not (and for this I do thank someone up there) be President of the United States — the worst job in the universe, as far as I’m concerned. Can you imagine what kind of FREAK you’d have to be to imagine you could lead the Free World? (Yes, you can, you’ve been watching way too much cable news.)

So no, I don’t want her to be president. I’m not even sure I want her to be Prom Queen.

But I certainly don’t need to be reminded of my daughter’s challenges in the middle of the workday, from some loser who thinks it’s cute to trivialize the developmentally disabled to make his anti-war point.

Yes, I’m cranky. I’m also cranky about the presidential election in general and the fact that John McCain — Arizona’s not-so-favorite son, the politician I covered not quite to death in the 90s and stupidly left for political roadkill in the 00s — is in it. (More on him later, unless I can avoid it.)

For a moment tonight I even thought that maybe that voicemail guy was right, that sweet Sophie WOULD be better than mean McCain. Then Sophie, who had been cuddling against me on the couch, suddenly punched me in the boob and yelled, “Pretend fight!” — cracking herself up and making my point. 

At least, one of my points. I’ve lost track.

I was reminded today of a bittersweet (now I just recall it as sweet) moment right after Sophie was born, also involving voicemail. My dear friend Rob, who lives across the country and hadn’t yet heard that Sophie had DS, called to leave a message congratulating us on Sophie’s arrival and explaining that the baby gift was in the mail.

“I found the perfect gift!” he said, between giggles. “A baby tee shirt that says, ‘Smarter than President Bush’.”

I dreaded calling Rob back, to tell him.