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  I fretted for three days and didn’t sleep. I owed them an answer and finally prayed I’d wake up with a decision. It worked—look out, Washington.

  Capitol Living

  My room was a crappy little closet in a run-down rental townhouse on Capitol Hill. The water heater was actually in my room, which meant it was probably supposed to be a utility closet and not where someone slept. My mom bit her tongue as we moved my stuff into the place. My roommates were standoffish and kind of mean (my first brush with Democrats suspicious and disdainful of Republicans). They were both from New England and named Katie. We could not have been more different. One of them was sleeping with a married guy from her office, and I hardly saw her. The other Katie and I tried to find some common ground, but we gave up and settled for politeness over friendship.

  Right before Halloween, I stayed in on a Saturday night, and I heard a noise outside. I was just in shorts and a T-shirt and so I slipped my office shoes on and stepped outside. The wind was strong and the door slammed behind me. I was locked out and there was no spare key. I nearly cried in frustration, and I looked ridiculous. Alone, cold, inappropriately dressed, and wearing black loafers with a low heel, I went across the street to where these guys I knew lived in a group house. They let me hang there until one of the Katies came home. A week later, the water heater in my room-closet broke and soaked through my futon and ruined all of my new clothes. After that, I found a different place to live in a house with four other nice and kind young women (I’m still close friends with two of them), and I had a closet all to myself.

  Identifying myself as a Republican was more of a gradual awakening than a lightning bolt. The values of limited government, personal responsibility, and a strong national defense were ideas that fit my thinking and instincts. My dad was probably the first Libertarian-minded person I knew, and he loved to play devil’s advocate and get me to think through my positions on issues. He and my mom canceled out each other’s votes in the Presidential election years—my dad often voted for Republicans and my mom voted for Democrats, though they didn’t talk about their political differences very often in front of us. I gravitated more to Reagan and Bush, not Dukakis and Clinton.

  But I didn’t really understand why I was a Republican. That changed with what else—a book. Soon after I moved to Washington, a friend gave me a copy of What I Saw at the Revolution, by one of Reagan’s best speechwriters, Peggy Noonan. I loved her clear thinking and storytelling, the way she framed an argument, and how she used self-deprecating humor to describe working in the Old Executive Office Building with the worst furniture consigned to her office. From that office she helped craft Reagan’s speeches that inspired America and fully embraced our national exceptionalism.

  As I read, I started to realize what it meant to be a conservative. To me, conservatism was harder—there are no easy answers, reality and logic weigh heavy, and there is a definite core set of principles. Peggy helped me understand that it was okay to be a Republican and be a woman—the two weren’t mutually exclusive. That sounds strange to say now, but think of all the messages sent to young American women, from every angle—Republicans are depicted as evil, mean, and the enemy. Almost every book, magazine, movie, and TV show depicts conservatives negatively—it’s rare to read something positive about a Republican woman, and when you do, then it’s couched as how they’re the rare exception to the rule (note to editors: Being called “the relevant Republican” is not a compliment).

  I followed Peggy’s work for years, and later when I was at Fox filling in for Mike Huckabee, I invited her on as a guest. It was a Saturday afternoon in the fall, a perfect day for walking in Central Park, but she agreed to come into the studios. I tried not to gush but thanked her on air. To my delight, we became friends. I like that she’s a good listener who responds with substance and wit. She smiles with her eyes even when she thinks what she’s hearing is total crap. I’m glad I got the chance to tell her what she gave me, which was the ability to find my voice and to speak with confidence. You could say that Peggy’s book really helped start a career that I never imagined.

  My first job in D.C., however, wasn’t very exceptional. I answered phones and greeted people arriving at the Capitol. I volunteered to give constituents tours of the building, so I could get out of the office. I grew out of that job in about eight days, but the rest of Hill life was fascinating. I went to brown-bag lunches on the merits of a national sales tax and implementation of the Contract with America. It was a policy nerd’s paradise.

  In D.C. you don’t just make friends, you establish contacts. It’s where you build your network, and because of that first job in Washington, I eventually became the White House press secretary.

  It started at a hockey game. Now anyone who watches The Five knows that sports aren’t my strong suit. But a couple of weeks into my D.C. life, I heard about a night out with a group of folks from my home state who were going to watch the Colorado Avalanche play the Washington Capitals. I joined them—it was free, after all, and I needed to meet some people.

  I sat next to Tim Rutten, who worked on the Senate side. He asked me what my dream job in D.C. was, and I told him that I hoped to work my way up to being a House press secretary one day. He said that I was in luck because Representative Dan Schaefer of Colorado needed a new press secretary and preferred someone from his home state with any sort of media experience. My stomach sank because I thought it sounded like the perfect opportunity, but the timing was wrong. I’d worked for McInnis for less than two months and thought it would reflect badly on me if I left so soon for another job. Tim said I was crazy and arranged for me to meet Schaefer’s office.

  He was right. Three weeks later, I was working for Schaefer. Far from being irritated, McInnis was happy for me, and he’s been one of my supporters ever since. His reaction taught me to be willing to open doors for others, especially your employees, for promotions or new jobs, no matter how inconvenient it may be for you.

  So almost overnight I was an instant press secretary—just add water. I didn’t know what I was doing. The good thing was that my chief of staff, Holly Propst, was one of the best managers I’ve ever had. She taught me how to write statements and press releases, and she made sure I understood the policy so that I didn’t screw anything up along the way to passing legislation. She let me listen in on her calls with reporters so that I could hear the way she handled interviews. She gave me enough rope to hang myself but was there to make sure I never did.

  Believe it or not, one of my first calls was from the late Mike Wallace of 60 Minutes. The message came in on a pink “While You Were Out” slip. I had no idea what the call was about, but I knew that if 60 Minutes is calling, you better alert your boss. Holly said to sit on it and see if he calls back. Sure enough, he called again the next day. This time, Holly told me to return the call, explain that I was new to the job, and find out what he wanted.

  When I called the number, Mike Wallace didn’t answer the phone. It was Tim Rutten, the guy who helped get me the job, playing a prank on me. I renamed him Tim Rotten.

  Working on Capitol Hill was a great way to get my career going, and I recommend it to everyone regardless of whether they want to work in politics. And it turned out the job was also a great way to meet my future husband. On assignment for the Congressman on August 17, 1997, I boarded a flight from Denver to Chicago and my life changed forever.

  It’s a strange but good thing when you feel closer to some of your loved ones well after they’ve passed on. And the longer I live on the East Coast, the more I appreciate the West. I’m very grateful for the unique upbringing I had and for attentive parents who made sure my sister and I were exposed to lots of different experiences and ways of life. Really, you would never have picked me out of a crowd and said, “She’ll be the White House press secretary one day.” And that’s what makes America so great—one day you’re sitting on a barnyard fence thinking you’ll never leave home and the next thing you’re sitting on Marine One
with the President of the United States after his last visit with the Navy SEALs. God bless America indeed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Love at First Flight

  Quarter Life Crisis

  When I turned twenty-five in 1997, I should have felt on top of the world. I was young, healthy, and had a good circle of friends at work and through my church. I was the spokesperson for the House chairman of the Energy and Power Subcommittee, and had great relationships with the Hill reporters. I had paid off my student loans, didn’t have any credit card debt, and lived on my own in an English basement apartment in a Capitol Hill row house. So why was I so nervous and worried all the time? I didn’t know what it was called, but I was having what many young women go through: a quarter life crisis.

  Looking back, it seems ridiculous that I had such a lack of confidence. By almost every measure, things were going my way, but I couldn’t enjoy the moment because I was so worried about the future. I loved my job, though after a couple of years I’d learned enough about being a Hill press secretary that I could do it in my sleep. I didn’t know what was next, and I was anxious to move up the ladder. I couldn’t advance my career in the Congressman’s office because there was nowhere to go. I resisted the pull to work for a trade association or lobbying shop on K Street, the well-worn path that Hill staffers take. I also wasn’t enamored with the House GOP leadership at the time—they just weren’t my style. My options felt narrow.

  On the personal side of things, I hadn’t had a boyfriend in years. I had many friends that I hung out with a lot, but the dating scene in D.C. was pathetic. (It still is, right, ladies?) I remember thinking that there just weren’t that many men I was interested in around Washington. Most of the guys didn’t look like they’d ever worked outside a day in their lives—soft hands, limp handshakes, pale skin, and pudgy middles. The good-looking ones were either already hitched or married to their political ambition with little senses of humor. It was slim pickings for a single woman. And so, facing career limitations and no romantic possibilities, I felt stuck.

  I didn’t realize that I had company. Believe it or not, it’s common that young women around age twenty-five (which now seems so young!) go through the kind of crisis that men go through later in life, when they realize that the dreams of their youth aren’t coming true and that those dreams may not have been so great in the first place. She hasn’t been swept off her feet nor is she on her way to having two kids with a loving husband, a second home in the mountains or at the beach, and a growing retirement account. A few years out of college, she’s already received a couple of promotions at work but then feels like she’s treading water and can’t reach the sides. The college scene is way behind her but she doesn’t feel grown up. She’s not sure she even wants to grow up—it looks boring and hard. But the clock ticks. She puts more pressure on herself and worries that her best years are behind her.

  Right before my twenty-fifth birthday, I took a personal inventory (I love lists). I felt I was falling short in several categories. It looked something like this:

  • Dating: Need to try to get out more. Stop going to “hang outs” with the gang. Cast a wider net. Don’t lower expectations!

  • Career: Next stop—work for leadership? No. Campaign in 2000? No experience. Chief of staff role? Maybe but not qualified—have to fund-raise. Trade association? Ugh. Lobbying? Yuck. Leave D.C.? Yes/no… but where?

  • Personal growth: Travel—seen nothing of the world. Need to get out more. Take some classes? Get another degree? Read the Iliad!

  • DIET!

  How overwrought it all seems now—What should I do? Where should I live? What should I study? How do I keep from being tied down? How can I keep myself from getting stuck in a rut? Where could I meet a strong, solid, handsome guy? What if I’ve made too many mistakes to turn things around? What if I fail?

  I needed to chill out. But at least I wasn’t alone in thinking things over. Chewing over big life decisions is what young people in America have the freedom to do—we can redefine our goals and change course, move away, and try something new. Far from being stuck, I was perfectly positioned to succeed.

  I itched to travel overseas, something I didn’t have a chance to do as a kid beyond a beach vacation in Mexico and a trip to England with my godmother when I was sixteen. When we took vacations, it meant the ranch, which suited me just fine. But as an adult, I started reading a lot of travelogues and wanted to be in the writers’ shoes—I can still remember passages from Blue Highways, Under the Tuscan Sun, Notes from a Small Island, and also A Year in Provence. I started to realize how sheltered I’d been from the world. But was I too old to change that?

  After years of structure, I suddenly longed to be spontaneous. I wanted to be able to leave town at a moment’s notice, so I stopped accumulating stuff. I only had one cup, glass, plate, bowl, and a single set of silverware. To cook things, I had a pot for oatmeal in the morning and soup in the evening. I also had a fajita skillet that was given to me by my landlords (it was a wedding present they never used). I didn’t use it to make fajitas—I made toast on it.

  I wasn’t quite a grown-up but I didn’t want to conform to my previously held visions of adult life. Looking back, I felt as if I’d done all of my maturing in junior high and high school when I put every effort into being able to succeed. After all that hard charging to achieve “success,” I was now resisting conformity. I didn’t want to get stuck, so I tried to ignore my instincts to have my life planned out. I wanted to be a free spirit and not so consumed with what I was going to do next.

  The quarter-life crisis rumbled beneath the surface in secret, but I did talk about it at one of my favorite places in Washington—Reformation Lutheran Church on Third and East Capitol Streets, a stone building that blended twentieth-century Washington architecture with medieval Christian features. It was right behind the Supreme Court and next to the Folger Shakespeare Library. It was mostly a politics-free zone, and I spent a lot of time there.

  I was part of a singles group that got together a few times a month (there was one marriage that came out of that group). On Tuesdays, we tutored kids from southeast D.C. in Anacostia who really needed our help with reading, math, and general guidance on life. I worked with a nine-year-old girl who struggled to read. When her frustration got to be too much, I let her draw pictures or braid my hair. She made a portrait of me that I hung in my office for years—the biggest feature being my backside (I took that as a compliment). Once a year we pitched in to help one of our friends who organized a major home renovation and repair. It reminded me of going out to help resettle refugees with my mom. Volunteering always gave me what I call Perspective (with a capital P). During all of that personal turmoil, the church helped me feel grounded.

  We also took time for ourselves. On Wednesdays, we had a Bible study in the church’s basement and went potluck for dinner. Every other weekend, we did an activity like taking long bike rides or hiking in the Shenandoah Valley. Our group functioned like an extended family for many of us who had moved to D.C. from somewhere else. It was at one of those sessions that a woman I admired noticed my restlessness. She asked me what was bothering me and I was open regarding my worries about my age (though she was about forty-five, she didn’t laugh at me) and my changing views about what my life would be like. She gave me great advice that I’ve since passed on—she said to remember that God told us not to fear. “Fear not. Say that to yourself—‘Fear not.’ ” She suggested I write it down and carry it in my back pocket so that it was always there if I needed it. I did that and it kind of helped. Eventually, after my twenty-fifth birthday, I stopped worrying all the time. I’d pulled through it. But just as I settled down, God shook things up again.

  Taking Off!

  On August 17, 1997, I was booked on a midmorning flight back to D.C. after a round of editorial boards I’d done with Congressman Schaefer at the Rocky Mountain News and The Denver Post. My sister drove me to the brand-new Denver International Airport, and s
he and I misjudged how long it would take to get there from downtown. I kept glancing at my watch but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make her any more nervous than she already was. I made it just in time to board before the flight closed. I handed my ticket to the agent and noticed just one person behind me in line. A year later that man became my husband.

  No seriously, that really happened. How? Well, since everyone prefers his version of the story, here’s Peter McMahon’s take on when we met (and I suggest reading this in a proper English accent):

  Sunday, 17th August 1997. I had been in Denver on business and was flying to Chicago, about a two-and-a-half-hour flight. Having been at a party the night before, I arrived at the airport rather late and was the last person to board.

  Walking down the jetway, I saw a cute young blonde in front of me, her ponytail swinging as she walked and I thought to myself “I hope I sit beside her.” And then I saw Dana. I’m kidding! As she showed her boarding card to the attendant, I smiled because we were indeed seated next to each other.

  As Dana was getting her bags organized, I asked her, “Would you like me to put your bag up above?” She declined with a smile, and so I settled in my seat. In the same way as a dog who finally catches the car and doesn’t know what to do with it, now that I was sitting beside Dana, I didn’t know what to say, so I quietly opened my book and started reading.

  Dana then asked me a question about the book, John le Carré’s The Tailor of Panama, and we started talking. Conversation came very easily, and before we knew it, we were almost telling our life stories. She was clearly much younger than me, so pretty that I considered her out of my league, and lived in America. In addition, I was coming out of a marriage and was in no way seeking any kind of relationship. So I did not hit on this cute girl in any way, yet I found her incredibly attractive and found myself unexpectedly captivated and intrigued by this extremely smart, very pretty girl.