Among the Trump era's savviest insiders, one name stands especially tall: Kellyanne. As a highly respected pollster for corporate and Republican clients and a frequent television talk show guest, Kellyanne Conway had already established herself as one of the brightest lights on the national political scene when Donald Trump asked her to run his presidential campaign. She agreed, delivering him to the White House, becoming the first woman in American history to manage a winning presidential campaign, and changing the American landscape forever. Who she is, how she did it, and who tried to stop her is a fascinating story of personal triumph and political intrigue that has never been told...until now. In Here's The Deal, Kellyanne takes you on a journey all the way to the White House and beyond with her trademark sharp wit, raw honesty, and level eye. It's all here: what it's like to be dissected on national television. How to outsmart the media mob. How to outclass the crazy critics. How to survive and succeed male-dominated industries. What happens when the perils of social media really hit home. And what happens when the divisions across the country start playing out in one's own family. In this open and vulnerable account, Kellyanne turns the camera on herself. What she has to share--about our politics, about the media, about her time in the White House, and about her personal journey--is an astonishing glimpse of visibility and vulnerability, of professional and personal highs and lows, and ultimately, of triumph. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9781982187347 Media Type: Hardcover Publisher: Threshold Editions Publication Date: 05-24-2022 Pages: 512 Product Dimensions: 6.40(w) x 9.40(h) x 1.70(d)About the Author Kellyanne Conway served as senior counselor in President Trump’s White House. She was the founder of the polling company, inc./WomenTrend, a business she had for twenty-one years, and now runs KAConsulting LLC. Kellyanne served as the campaign manager to the Trump-Pence presidential campaign, becoming the first woman to successfully manage such a campaign. She is one of the most quoted and noted pollsters on the national scene. As a “fully recovered” attorney, Kellyanne is licensed to practice law in four jurisdictions. She holds a law degree, with honors, from George Washington University Law School. She is mother to four school-age children.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Chapter 1: Golden Time Chapter 1 Golden Time I have an early memory of my father. The two of us are eating pancakes together, sitting at the kitchen table like normal families do, acting as if the scene was certain to repeat itself a million times over. So here’s what’s strange about that father-daughter breakfast: I’m not sure if it really happened or if it’s only wishful thinking on my part. But I cling to that early, early memory of us because it’s the only one I have. John Kainath Fitzpatrick was his name. I was three when he left for “the other woman” and “the other child.” He and my two grandfathers had eight children with their wives and another eight children out of wedlock with their... nonwives. The men in our family didn’t just have side pieces. They didn’t just have comares, as we say in Italian. They had side families. And it wasn’t a secret to anyone. They all went off to be with those other families, leaving their original wives and children to face their own new normals and fend for themselves. Which is how I came to be raised by a houseful of strong, independent, wonderfully loving women who were pretty sure the whole world revolved around me. I was born Kellyanne Fitzpatrick in Camden, New Jersey, on January 20, 1967. I favored my father’s Irish side, with light skin and bright blue eyes, quickly becoming a stocky and curious little girl who was bursting with energy and thought almost everything was fun. My mother, Diane DiNatale Fitzpatrick, 100 percent Italian, the youngest of four sisters, had expected to devote her life to raising a big, happy family. Instead she was married at twenty-one, had me at barely twenty-three, and was divorced at twenty-six, never to seriously date again. When my father left, she got busy, not mad, ready to do whatever it took to provide for herself and especially for me—shielding me from adult problems and letting me be a kid. Jobs at her father’s Chrysler-Plymouth auto dealership, the local bank, and then a higher-paying position as a gaming supervisor at Atlantic City’s Claridge Casino allowed her the dignity of work and an ability to spoil me by 1970s and 1980s New Jersey standards (read: inexpensively). We moved back in with her mother and two unmarried sisters at the old homestead, 375 Hendricks Avenue in tiny Atco, where the four women shared bedrooms so I could have my own. My grandmother, Antoinette Lombardo DiNatale, was the unquestioned matriarch of our family. She, like my father’s mother, Claire Muriel (Kainath) Fitzpatrick, had the selflessness, patience, and poise of a woman who had trudged through the Great Depression, foreign wars, and battles at home. Grandmom, as we called my mother’s mother, suffered through a devastating car crash in her forties that took the life of her sister-in-law and left Grandmom bedridden for a year. She was told she would never walk again. She heard what the doctor said, then willed her way through it with prayers to St. Jude (the patron saint of lost causes), a fused hip, the hint of a limp, and zero self-pity. My father’s mother had crippling arthritis and buried two of her eight grandchildren, one from leukemia at age eight and another from an automobile accident at eighteen. Despite my father’s long absence, I maintained loving relationships with his sisters, Aunt Gail and Aunt Ruth, and their children, Gaillynn, Tony, Sammy, Diana, A.J., and Jillese, and later my father’s son Scott. Grandmothers Antoinette and Claire did nothing for the glory, for the praise, for the honor, or for the money. Nothing. They were ladies with limited formal education and endless wisdom. They certainly had plenty to complain about. But to this day, I never remember either of my grandmothers complaining about anything. They smiled through their physical pain and emotional scars. They made our lives easier. And they would remain friends and travel buddies for decades past their children’s divorce. They were just spectacular. That stone rancher at the corner of Route 30 (White Horse Pike) and Hendricks Avenue was bursting with love. Grandmom and my aunts Rita (“RoRo”) and Marie (“MiMi”) all took a daily hand in raising me, as did the aunts’ married sister, GiGi (for Angela, whom we also called Angie), who stopped by nearly every afternoon with her two children, my first cousins and first friends, Renee and James (“Jay”). Together these vibrant women were South Jersey’s version of TV’s “Golden Girls,” with housecoats, biting humor, late-night dessert benders, and life lessons. Grit was practically a genetic trait with them, but so was an ability to make everyone feel welcomed, special, and loved. Our wooden kitchen table was like the town square. Visitors filled their bellies and eased their burdens. Laughter was the theme song. My mother’s sisters were charitable with their time and modest treasure, frank in all their attitudes, and, as I can see looking back, way ahead of their time. Aunt Angie and her husband, Uncle Eddie, owned Mama D’s Italian Specialties and the Country Farm Market, thirty yards in front of my house. Aunt Rita had been a technician in a doctor’s office for decades and then owned a “custard” (soft-serve ice cream) shop and mini-golf course with Angie and Eddie next to the market. MiMi, who’d helped her father run his businesses, later returned to teaching eighth-grade math. She was known to her students as strict and mean because she didn’t take excuses for late assignments and didn’t try to be their friend. Then, years later, when they’d run across her around town, they’d often remark, “Thank you. You cared about us. You prepared me for high school. You taught me how to think.” These women didn’t preach equality. They lived it. Why march in a parade or label yourself when your back door swings open for all comers, your heart and home open to all? My values and compassion for others were instilled by them, their careful nudging, our shared Catholic faith and their adherence to the Golden Rule. They knelt for the Lord and stood for the flag. Their love was unsparing and unconditional. What all that meant for me was an unshakably secure upbringing despite whatever circumstances might have pointed the other way. Whenever I felt awkward or unsure of myself, as all kids do, those women were right there for me, telling me how unique I was, that I could do and be anything, and that if I changed my mind (or couldn’t cut it in “the real world”), I could always come home. Most parents and loved ones convey this to their kids. Mine absolutely meant it. As millions of women know, you don’t need to have a child of your own to love children. We all spoil someone else’s son or daughter at some time. My aunts Rita and Marie forwent marriage and motherhood and instantly had the center of gravity in their home shift to the needs of a little one. GiGi found herself with a niece/third-child combo. Led by Mom and Grandmom, this circle of selfless women took all the love they had inside them and lavished it on me. FROM THE DAY I started talking, I didn’t stop. Probing. Pontificating. Polling people. Performing every chance I got. Constantly asking questions that started with “how come...?” I’d line up my dolls and stuffed animals like I was in a courtroom and they were my jury. They all sat there in stunned silence as I played judge, prosecutor, defense counsel, and all the witnesses. I loved to mimic whatever I’d just seen on television, and we certainly watched a ridiculous amount of it. I had an aptitude for remembering names and numbers, dates and data. I