Maureen Dowd: Talking woman to woman in Hillary’s home

Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren have a private chat about running together

Democratic US presidential candidate Hillary Clinton waves at supporters. Photograph: Adrees Latif

Democratic US presidential candidate Hillary Clinton waves at supporters. Photograph: Adrees Latif

 

Hillary Clinton greets Elizabeth Warren in the cream and coral sunroom of her home on Embassy Row. “Elizabeth, welcome,” Clinton says, smiling stiffly. “I was worried that you were lost since it was taking you so-o-o-o long to finally get here.”

“Hahaha,” Warren replies. “I’ve heard you’re a hoot in private. I know I was the last Democratic woman in the Senate to endorse you but Bernie and I have more in common. We don’t buckrake on Wall Street. People are enthusiastic about us and believe what we say. We’re pure.”

“Pure scolds,” Hillary sniffs. “I guess it hit you, when you saw me fighting for my life against a dyspeptic 74-year-old socialist with one suit, that if you had jumped in, you could have been the first woman president.”

“Yes,” Warren muses. “I only loaned Bernie my progressive hordes. I’m the real leader of the movement.”

“Not anymore,” Hillary says. Warren sighs. “True, my faithful are peeved at me for not running and for endorsing you instead of Bernie.”

Hillary pours coffee. “I know you’re intrigued by the idea of being my vice president,” she says. “I heard you tell our gal Rachel Maddow that you’re prepared to be commander in chief. But I can’t put you on the ticket.”

“Because the country isn’t ready for two wonky women for the price of one?” Warren asks dryly.

“No,” Hillary says, biting her biscotti, “I’m not ready. You, the so-called sheriff of Wall Street, attacked me as the Shill of Wall Street. Why should you get the glass slipper when you were foot-dragging on my glass-shattering moment?”

Warren protests, “I went up against that loud, nasty, thin-skinned, mud-flinging, money-grubbing, racist, sexist, reckless, pathetic loser Trump. You were flailing around, not knowing how to take on that bully until I showed you how on Twitter.”

Sellout

Warren smiles primly. “Speaking of credit, you have to give me some for this: in my last book, I left out the stuff I had in my previous one about you being an unprincipled sellout. By 2014, when that one came out, it looked like you were going to go the distance. My purity sometimes gives way to expediency.

“You know all the Democrats want me on the ticket to add sizzle since the crowds you draw wouldn’t fill this couch. I know you are afraid I will overshadow you and I will. But I can help you reel in all the young women who find you more shifty than nifty. And the Bernie Bros dig me.”

Warpath

Warren bristles: “You have done a fine job here, except that one painting looks crooked, Hillary. I’m surprised you don’t have oil portraits of Goldman and Sachs. And let me give you some free advice: now that Bernie and I have forced you to address income inequality, you might want to hide that $12,495 tweed Armani jacket.”

The senator from Massachusetts stands up. “Where’s the bathroom? Can I squeeze in there with the server?”

Hillary gives that big laugh that indicates she is not amused. “No need to go on the warpath. Let’s bury the hatchet in The Donald.”

Warren sits back down: “You’re right. The sisterhood has to be united in supporting the first woman leading a major ticket against the worst misogynist leading a major ticket. Can you believe Trump said he broke the glass ceiling by promoting women in construction? The only glass he knows is the mirror. And the thrice-married huckster had the nerve to tell evangelicals that marriage and family are the building blocks for success.

“He calls me Goofy? Picture America under this Mad Man. He’d want us gussied up in gingham aprons, baking. Remember that horrible crack he made about Ivana? ‘I think that putting a wife to work is a very dangerous thing,’ he said. ‘The softness disappeared.’ I’ll show him softness disappearing. He also said, ‘When I come home and dinner’s not ready, I go through the roof.’

“A Trump Supreme Court would take away abortion rights and bring back those hideous vaginal probes. Hillary, think about it – they might even outlaw pantsuits. That tyrant would drag women away from their desks and exile them to the kitchen and the nursery.”

Hillary nods rhythmically: “Trump’s the one who belongs in the nursery. He’s so needy.” Hillary ushers her guest to the door. “We’re going to be a great girl squad,” she says, squeezing Warren’s hand. “It will be so easy to beat this airhead. Sorry to cut this short. I need to call Tim Kaine. But I will dictate a nice tweet about you.” – (New York Times service)

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