They say that politics makes strange bedfellows, but George W. Bush and Nancy Pelosi have nothing on me and the woman I shared a bed with at a recent writers’ conference.

The bed I shared was king-sized and the woman, another writer, was one of “them.” By “them,” I mean, the opposite of me in every way except gender. She’s a practicing Catholic with six kids as proof of her devotion to the church. I’m a lapsed Mormon-Southern Baptist-Reincarnationist NKJD (No Kids, Just Dogs). I may have had children in a previous lifetime, but at this point, I can’t really remember.

She’s a Republican, although she doesn’t push her political persuasion on anyone. I’m a Democrat with my feelings posted all over the bumper of my old Honda Accord. And if you give me two minutes alone with someone in an elevator, I’ll gladly debate any political hot topic. In fact, I recently converted my lifelong Republican husband into a Democrat. I’m that persuasive. I worked for Move-On and Kerry Oregon in the last presidential election. She worked for Stay Right Where You Are, We Like it Just Fine Here.

She’s pro-life, I’m pro-choice. We are both, however, pro-chocolate. When I returned home after the conference, I found a bag of milk chocolates in my luggage, to which she had attached an anti-abortion pamphlet. But that’s okay, I slapped a “Friends don’t let friends vote Republican” bumper sticker on the bottom of her purse.

She’s one of the 23% of voters who will like President Bush even if starts dressing up like Elvis and getting into Rush Limbaugh’s stash of prescription medications. I feel about this president the way I do when watching a horror movie, I keep screaming “Don’t go in the basement!, I mean Iran or North Korea.”

She believes most of what the administration says, because as she put it, “I have six kids and I know when I’m being lied to.” I think the reporters of The National Enquirer could easily take over the cabinet jobs under G.W. and continue to make up stuff about alien abductions and 45-pound babies being born to 65-year old grandmothers and no one would notice the difference.

So did we duke it out all weekend? One of us come back black and blue (or black and red, in her case)? You may be wondering just how did it work out with us in such close quarters sharing a bed, a bathroom, and once almost, a toothbrush? Or you may be wondering where you can get some chocolate, now that I brought that up. In a word it worked out… swell! I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather share a hotel room with. Well, maybe George Clooney, but he hasn’t offered.

Sure, the enemy and I were drunk part of the time. But I liked her before she got me all liquored up. And she wasn’t trying to sway my political leanings (or, as my husband suggested, get me to cuddle). And sure, she did help me get undressed. Calm down, it wasn’t like that. I have a bum shoulder and have trouble getting in and out of clothing. Good thing I’m middle-aged and really no longer have the option of falling back on stripping as my back-up career.

It was yet another one of those learning experiences. One in which I learned that it’s not really that difficult to get along as long as you remember that underneath all our beliefs we’re still human. So go ahead, sleep with the enemy. Just make sure the bed is king-sized and there are margaritas available at the bar.