the current dem candidacy smackdown, as viewed through the lense of an ex-stripper.

Back in the dark ages when I was, indeed, a stripper - and I happened to be one for several years, so it wasn't as though I just dabbled; I know from whence I speak - I encountered loads of conflict.  From every arena, in every gender-on-gender way.  I saw men fight men; once, when Jay, my best gay boyfriend, drove me to work for an evening shift, he kind of didn't really want me to go in because right before I got out of the car, we watched a stream of dudes exiting the rear of the building, the first of whom was badly bloodied from face to groin.  The second was carrying aloft what appeared to be a javelin, but was, in fact, I kind of remember, a closet pole dowel thingy (you love me for my scientific specificity, huh).  The first guy had evidently stabbed some dude, boyfriend to one of the other dancers, and then got walloped by some yokels.  It was dumb.  Another friend of ours, along for the ride, happened to be an EMT and was all, "do you think I should *gulp* go in?"  I said, sure, yeah, alrighty.  The subtext of that statement was YES PLEASE DO NOT MAKE ME GO IN THERE ON MY OWN.  It ended up fine, and I danced the night away to fun tunes like "Rock and Roll All Night (and Party Every Day)" - it has been my humble opinion for the last few years that the title of that song ought to be altered to "Walk and Crawl All Night, and Potty Every Day," but then, I'm the mother to a toddler who has lately made me want to chew through my chains and bolt.  But that's just this week.

Some other conflict-related situations involved men v. women, or, The Guy Who Booked the Strippers v. One of the Strippers.  Or, The DJ v. The Stripper.  Or, The Club Owner v. The Stripper.  Or, The Cook (Who Refused to Make the Stripper Her Veggie-Only Special-Request Meal because He was a Meat-ologist) v. The Stripper.  Or, The Bartender (Who Didn't Like The Stripper's Attitude Toward Him When She'd Ordered A Drink) v. The Stripper.  Or, The Bouncer (Who Felt That The Stripper Had S'tipped Him Because She Only Gave Him A Twenty At The End of Her Shift, even though He Received a Regular Paycheck and She Did Not) v. The Stripper.  Gee. There were an awful lotta dudes working (and receiving paychecks) in those joints, huh.

And, finally, the conflict that occurred vis-a-vis women.  I.e., The Stripper (Who Thought That Other Bitch was Trying to Steal Her Best Customer) v. The Stripper (Who Assumed that He was Fair Game because He was Just Sitting There, Yo, and It's a Free Motherfucking Country). Or, The Stripper (Whose Stuff Looked as though Someone had Gone Through It and She Could Swear that some of Her New Awesome Lancome Makeup that She just Bought at the Mall was Missing) v. The Stripper (Who Obviously Didn't Need to Steal Shit because She Could Make Her Own Goddamn Money).

Etc.

I personally did not love the conflict (still don't).  I avoided it whenever possible. I used to upend whole barrels of jokes just to avoid it, and was pulling pretty feminist diplomacy stuff outta my, uh, ear, in order to keep the peace, quite often.  I was well known at one club, early in that club's existence, for having super-glued (some faux nail glue is actually just super-glue, and I knew this, even though it was before my nail-tech-ing time) a magnet to the mirror in the dressing room.  I know. Scintillating, right?  But, wait!, the magnet had THINGS on it.  An artist's rendering of a girl who I thought looked kinda like me; nerdy, cat-eye glasses, and a silly, blonde 'do, kinda of an upside-down V shape (I had that late-90s Jenna Elfman haircut, only -- this is true!!  Cred matters, people! -- before she did.  Like, by two years or so.  Well, okay, cred *used* to matter.  In the days when I still got carded for my twelve-pack of PBR at the loke Sevvy.  I know what you're thinking. Those days are gone, Deb.  Let them go.  And I would, Only! I just got carded!  Tonight!  At the local Sevvy!  For a twelve-pack of Poober! And while I *might* have noted that the cashier was wearing glasses without which he may have been rendered legally blind, that is not really the issue at hand, and I'd prefer you didn't mention it when you spread the word that Debbie! Still! Gets! Carded! By! Slightly! Or! In Fact! Excessively! Blind! People! *ahem*). 

Anyway. 

The girl in the picture on the magnet - yes, you remember that story, from about a year ago when I began it?, yes, that one, feel free to backtrack if you're confused, was all pissed off, arms folded, scowling face, nerdy glasses, blonde choppy bob, and the line above her head said "What special layer of hell is this?", all we're-oppressed-by-the-man, yo, or something like that, yes, my token feminist, uh, permanent token to that club's environs.  Whatever.  I can't remember things.  Okay, so I built it up (and built it up, and built it up, and now we're solid, solid as a rock duh-duh-duh-duh), but verbatim is not my forte.  And I just don't! expect! you! to be! so! demanding!, or, at least, I'd appreciate it if you would let this one slide.  I'm trying hard, really hard, DAMN hard, to write more like an adult because I know my style is super sloppy-jo-juvie and I want to grow it up somewhat.  But give a kid, er, A WOMAN, some breathing room, yo.

Girls knew I didn't enjoy the conflict.  They knew I stayed outta the way of the crazier stuff.  And not 'cause I was a chicken.  I just knew how to verbally (and/or non-verbally) sidestep the more bizarro items of business.  I worked daily around people who were, quite literally, cracked out, or high on very large doses of methamphetamine of various qualities/types, or just hiiighly illegal amounts of marijuana and booze.  (And, yes, sometimes, I might have joined in on the marijuana antics.  And the booze.  I enjoy martinis.  What.)  The point is that I managed to navigate the sketchy-ass waters of all this potential conflict, daily, and not once, not even ONCE did I get into a physical fight, ever, and only once do I recall getting into a verbal fight with one of the other women, that we were able to reach a nonviolent conclusion to, and only occasionally do I recall having to throw a glass of beer in a fella's face, and remind me to tell you about one of those incidents sometime because LORDy but they were some doozies, those stories.  It took a lot for me to get pushed to a place where I would react, particularly by the patrons of the establishments where I worked.  I mean, sometimes, you knew, just knew, they were there more for that to be titillated by, a confrontation with one of the dancers, than to see a pretty girl drop [her pants] like [they're] hot.  Fresh-out-the-dryer hot.  And so you didn't let them have it.  I mean, *I* didn't.  Because I could generally tell those were the abusive guys, and I wouldn't take their bate and give them what they wanted so they could get all worked up and hate on some girl and then go home and beat up their wife or girlfriend or daughter.  In fact, I made it sort of a personal challenge to see if I could work those particular people around to leaving the joint in a decent, accepting mind frame.  But that's again something for another post.

I'm trying to accomplish the feat, if you haven't noticed by now, of suggesting that just because I'm a woman does not mean I have to fight dirty.  Nor does it mean I can't fight dirty, even THOUGH I'm a woman.  The nature of my being female is not involved.  You see, I can use my brain in any of those situations, which makes me human.  Just like Hillary.  Also, just like Barack. Both of those people possess brains, and both of them are, in my opinion, expected to rely on those brains to demonstrate that they are capable of more than idiotic, dirty, low-down tricks that result in abusive confrontation to accomplish their objectives.

See, there's good conflict, the kind that breeds thoughtful interaction, and there's gross, can't-take-it-back conflict; the kind that makes people get divorces and also possibly try to run one another over with cars and whatnot.  I think we've passed beyond the realm of good conflict, which I was rooting for until recently, because I thought it was benefiting the nation, to have the two remaining Democratic candidates continue to press on and prove their worth, demonstrate their reasons, show us into the cavernous recesses of their platforms (just 'cause we want to know they even *have* platforms, unlike some older dudes who are running on - uh, something that we're not certain of), really prove they've got the stuff to lead us out of our current dark state as a nation.  But I think we're in a place beyond that healthy engagement of two worthy adversaries; we're witnessing one of the two become ugly, irreparably so, in their attempts to wound the other.

I want to see a woman as President of the United States of America.  I want to see her do it without utilizing manipulative, unfair tactics that only the slimiest candidates would resort to.  In other words, the kind of candidate I DON'T want to see become PotUS is the kind that fights dirty.  The kind that resorts to trickery right outta the Rove playbook.  I want to see a woman play fair, because she's SMART enough to do so, and win her office based on those merits.  I certainly know (note that I did not say "believe") there are lots of women who are capable of it.  Tina Fey, I'm looking at you.  Don't EVEn pretend you're not entertaining the idea.  You entertain so well.  Okay.  We'll discuss it later.  When not everyone is still caught up with the fact that I brazenly admitted to being a stripper in the same post that I tried to convince them, using cogent, adult-y arguments, as to how Hillary has gone too far.  Yes.  Your Hillary.  I know.  I'm not doing this as smoothly as I'd hoped.  Still friends, then?  You -- you want me to adhere to the terms of the restraining order?  I -- okay.  Sorry, Tina.  You can - you can still prank-call me anytime you want.  Alright?  Tina?  Tiiiiiiinnnnnnnnaaaaa!!!  *falls to knees, sobbing*

(abrupt segue away from imaginary reenactment of Streetcar Named Desire where Tina Fey is Stella, who happens to also be running for president, and I am Stanley Kowalski, and back to entry about whatever the fuck it is I'm trying to say)

Hillary, your Tracy-Flick-esque antics have finished this, at least for me.  I'm with the thinking candidate that doesn't respond with low, squalid behavior when the other candidate initiates it.  I'm with Barack Obama - he's earned my respect for refusing to sink, to cave, regardless of the relentless, outside-the-bounds-of-fairness punches.  And I don't have to say the thing I've been saying all along; that I'll vote for whoever the Democratic nominee is, even if it's Hillary.  Because Hillary - you're out.  Done for.  Toast.  You can't win - the numbers just aren't there.

Well, unless the Republicans REALLY start to give you a boost by showing up and voting for you in order to keep the skirmish alive, as ordered by Rush Limbaugh.  Because then you're just a Republican. 

And I was never going to vote for a Republican.

*****

Updated to say:  Has Hillary reached the Nader, er, nadir of her campaign (because I really don't want to watch it get even uglier)?  Just wondering.

Comments

[Glennia]

That is just about the best description of conflict resolution styles and situations that I have ever read. I can totally imagine you as Jimmy Carter of the strip club, shuttle diplomat in high heels and spandex, keeping the peace. (OK, the image of Jimmy Carter in spandex and heels just crossed my mind, and I must now go bleach my brain).

Anyway, this is a great post. The more I know you, the more I *heart* you.

[Cristina]

The title of this post was great. I hope you cross-posted on Momocrats. LOL

[Mary]

Those last three sentences were just fucking GOLDEN. You rock.

[slouching mom]

Spot on. Yes, yes, YES!

Tracy Flick! Perfect!

Hillary's gone too far. And no, I'm not saying that because she's a woman. Puh-leez.

[daisybones]

I adore this post, every spirally beautiful inch of it.

[Gwen]

Klonopin! Wait, no, that wasn't the topic anymore.

How can someone as smart as Senator Clinton be so damn near-sighted and stupid? She is willing to destroy the party that nurtured her to win the presidency. Or so it seems to me. I suppose she probably thinks the same thing about Obama, like, why did this boy show up and ruin *my* party?

You've made me want to post about strip clubs .....

[Major Bedhead]

Fantabulous, Deb. I love, love, love this.