Palin, Clinton, and one cup of coffee: let the conversation begin

Sarah Palin's newly released book, "Going Rogue," undoubtedly addresses many things.

There's probably a lot about Alaska- how she misses the job she resigned from in July, and how the views from her backyard are quite international. It probably mentions something about pigs and lipstick. President Barack Obama is definitely in there, as is David Letterman, probably on the same page and in some convoluted metaphor. Don't forget "Joe the Plumber," either.

But of all the trite remembrances and reconfigurations of an election gone wrong, what most stood out to me from the summaries provided by every media outlet in the world, was Palin's hypothetical claim that a cup of coffee with Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton wouldn't end with a shared point of view.

There's the understatement of the century.

In an interview on "Meet the Press" this Sunday, Clinton said that she would "look forward" to sitting down with Palin and chatting about politics over coffee. It was the Washington equivalent of "Bring It On: Washington vs. Wasilla."

But despite the fact that busy schedules and clashing personalities will delay this caffeinated chat indefinitely, it begs the question as to what the two biggest female political heavyweights in the U.S. today would talk about in some corner café-or (more likely) some richly decorated office.

Picture this.

Clinton, decked in a brightly-hued pantsuit, sipping assertively from a grande chai latte while chatting with a primped Palin. Patriotic Palin requests an "all-American coffee" from a stunned barista, leaving conservatives nationwide grinning. The paucity of moose milk from most Starbucks locations south of Wasilla leaves the former Alaskan governor with nostalgic pangs for home. Clinton's fingers tap nervously on the wooden table as she listens to "Levi this," and "Levi that." She's got an international crisis somewhere to take care of, and this conversation is keeping her from Israel, Copenhagen, and Myanmar.

No doubt the two appear to have a few things in common. Palin and Clinton are both women who have tried to define themselves in a political game that tends to pin people into a corner and keep them there. When Clinton arrived in the White House as First Lady in 1993, she had already declared to a nation of soccer moms that she had no intention of "baking cookies" or standing by her man like Tammy Wynette.

Palin, on the other hand, has forged an identity that runs in the opposite direction. This is a "hockey mom" at her most average, Palin supporters claim; only this mom can bake cookies, saddle five children, and bring down a "bridge to nowhere" faster than you can say "you betcha."

But back to that coffee.

There'd be the inevitable post-mortem 2008 campaign conversations. "You did your best," Palin might offer.

"Was that really your best?" Clinton would say.

No doubt they'd dish on the men they faced or worked for during those bitterly-fought months. Palin would complain about John McCain's war stories, while Clinton would writhe over Barack Obama's spellbinding speeches.

"They were just a bunch of pretty words," Clinton would grumble. "I had to take shots like a champ with old men in bars in Pennsylvania to woo voters. He just had to open his mouth."

"I know how you feel, Hill," Palin would lament. "McCain couldn't give a speech to save his life, and I got short-changed at the post-lose party. No speech for Sarah, I guess."

But look at them now. These are no losers, wallowing in their own self-pity. These are two political rock stars, one wearing campaign-financed Prada and the other donning every cultural costume imaginable. Palin pens (sort of) a page-turning plea to the American public, while Clinton racks up frequent flier miles trying to mend the cracks widened by the previous administration.

As their coffees turn cold, the two women look at each other and see themselves-in reverse. And there's a comfort in that. After all, what would Clinton be without the Palins of the world, wearing pencil skirts and pumps and winking at an audience? And where could Palin go without the cold, East Coast attitudes of a short haircut and an even shorter temper?

Truth is, Palin and Clinton (and their respective supporters) need each other like coffee needs cream. Without the other, each would seem all the more bitter, all the more like lard. Maybe a cup of joe and a curt conversation would help each leader plan their next campaign-or at least their next published work.

Leaving the coffee shop together-but very, very separately-Clinton points coyly to a stack of newspapers for sale in the corner.

"Just 75 cents, Sarah. You want me to pick you up a copy for the helicopter ride home?"

"No, thanks," Palin replies, brusquely. "I read so many newspapers; I couldn't possibly choose just one."