Tim You Suck

Not at all surprisingly but still quite annoyingly, it happened again. An old white entitled dude booked a spot at the ranch, told me to my face things were great, then wrote a shitty review. I’m well aware that despite decades of work in therapy, I still get mighty reactive to criticism, particularly when lodged by a man. Sure enough, I continue to feel the sting of his bullshit though he’s been gone for days.

As I often do when I am feeling angry and defensive, I called my friend Carol. I love Carol for many reasons, her bluntness being high on the list. She directly reminds me that if I can learn to not take things personally I am going to be way better off. She’s twenty years ahead of me in The Game of Life. Though I can’t always absorb her words in the moment—I get defensive about my defensiveness—the fact that I seek out her opinion marks great progress on my part. Specifically, the fact that I seek out her opinion to actually take into consideration, versus how the younger me too often viewed advice as something to be rebelled against.

One nice part about being a Crone is that I finally do truly understand now that my friends really do have my best interests at heart. That they aren’t picking on me when they show me repeating patterns to which I have blind spots, that they really want me to cease the repetition so that I might gain peace. And so, even if I feel that gut feeling to shut them down, push away their wisdom, at least I also know enough to file it away until I can calm down and revisit it later, maybe even apply it.

So why do I let Old Tim the crap guest get stuck in my craw? When Carol points out that I am still fighting with my father, though he’s been dead for ages, I both know she is right and I dislike that she is right. Why can I not put that man to rest?

As I followed the E. Jean Carroll trial I got some clues. Her rapist’s defense was classic. Denial. Didn’t do it. Didn’t happen. She’s a liar.

I’m not even close to being alone in feeling resonant rage at this. It is not simply that a sole man (Trump/my “father”) committed crimes, then denied them. What chaps my ass the most is that this is the norm, not the exception. And what exacerbates my ass rash is the constant inner battle between deciding when to stand up for myself and when to walk away.

Sexism continues to thrive. Worse, women have been so conditioned to internalize and participate in it that even someone like me—a hardcore feminist—will unwittingly get sucked in and commit subconscious self-harm. Which I did with with Tim the Entitled AirBnBer. 

He began our brief regretful relationship by peppering me with a bunch of questions before booking. Was there an a/c? Did it work? Was there a fan? I told Tim the same thing I tell all the guests, information that is writ large all over my listings pages, though it seems a lot of people fail to read the details. I told him the a/c was so-so. I always undersell the ranch because I have come to understand that despite my repeated proclamation that this is NOT the Four Seasons, everyone comes with different expectations. 

Overwhelmingly, this works in my favor. A quick glance at other reviews shows the vast majority of guests have a wonderful time. Lots of people say the same thing—that I’m living in paradise. That they loved their stay. I’m so grateful for these guests, so pleased they see what I see here: the magnificent beauty of nature. So why let Tim get to me? Why not focus on the 99% five-star reviews? 

I try to parse this.

I arrived home from work a few minutes after he got here. He wanted to tell me all about his life, his journey, him him him. A little bell went off in the back of my head—he reminded me of my last ex-husband, the raging narcissist most content when commandeering unwitting strangers into hearing how magnificent and talented he was. 

I handed Tim the fan he had requested and asked him if everything was okay with his camper. He replied that it was. The next day, despite knowing about my strict no cancellation policy, he cornered me, asked to check out a day early, and wanted some money back. In that moment, I was air traffic controlling about fifteen different ranch chores and in a nanosecond I did some calculations. I could give him back some money and send him on his way. Or I could wind up stuck in a twenty-minute conversation in which he tried to justify his rule-breaking request while reminding me how cool he is. I agreed to a partial refund just to get rid of him. Then he wrote the shit review.

So yeah, I continue to learn the hard way that violating my own boundaries is just going to get me a kick in the teeth. And I know I acquiesced in large part because I just didn’t want to deal with his shit. 

In his review, Tim falsely reported that the bathrooms were out of order, explaining he knew this because he overheard me say to another guest that my plumber was on the way. In fact a plumber was on the way to do work in the main house. The AirBnB loos were working just fine. Tim also insisted his bed had not been made. This stumped me, as, in addition to being CEO, I am also the housekeeping department and I know that bed was made.

I wasted more time thinking hard about his complaint. Last week I had a wonderful, goofy stoner guest staying here. When he extended his visit, I had to shuffle him around. Is it possible he napped in the camper without me knowing and left it a mess? I really hoped not but I take guests’ concerns seriously so I allowed for the slim possibility something might have been off in Tim’s camper. 

Then I revisited my initial conversation with him. “Is everything okay?” And his response that yes, everything was great. 

In addition to the clear online descriptions about the accommodations, I also leave a note in every unit. The note includes my personal phone number and a direct request that if anything needs tending to, to please alert me immediately and allow me the time to fix it. This is not a hollow request. I am an excellent hostess. If I can’t fix something immediately—rare—I offer upgrades to another unit or a refund. 

So if Tim had simply communicated to me his issues, I would have addressed them. But any AirBnB host will tell you that there’s a certain type of guest who lives to complain, to trash hosts publicly. It’s sport for them. 

Before lockdown, I used to take annual trips to Monhegan Island off the coast of Maine. I went so many times that I became friends with the locals and with the seasonal help that worked at Monhegan House, where I always stayed. One waiter told me a great story once, an anecdote that helps me in times like this to remember how fucking crazy a lot of people are. 

She told of customers who would return for a second season, look at the menu, and point to the spot where a certain item had been listed the previous season but no longer was offered. Acting as if the item still existed, pointing to the spot for emphasis, they would read aloud words that weren’t actually there, as if they might trick the server into tricking the chef to do their bidding. 

I know why I take Tim’s bullshit personally. Because it goes beyond the fact he insulted my home and my business, and did so in a public forum in a way that will surely cost me. I take it personally because it reminds me that I have spent nearly 60 years in a vagina-equipped body that has too often signaled to men—at least 99% of them white men—that they are entitled to demand things that are not on the menu and then to whine about it when they don’t get what they think they deserve.

My anguish over this goes deep. Because I truly cannot count the times I have acquiesced, and often did so subconsciously, to the ridiculous demands of entitled men. I know why I did this, but the answer brings no solace. I did it because I was brainwashed to do so from the moment I took my first breath. 

It has taken six decades to start to clearly see the truth of this matter. My outrage is less about being lied to—though that is enraging—and more about having been convinced to buy the lies, believe them, live as if they were true. To lie to myself, even if unintentionally. And so, in this case, the truth is not setting me free. It brings pain with it as I reflect on all the ways I tricked myself into going along. 

I continue to waffle over standing my ground and acting on my outrage. The more polarized and divisive the world becomes, the less I am convinced that action is the way to go. This in turn frightens me on a certain level. If not for the fighters throughout history, there would be no progress at all. 

And yet the cost of fighting seems to be growing steeper. The older I get, the more inclined I am to not fight. Toward that end, I recently spoke to an attorney about the brutality rained down upon me in Shitville. I told him before the meeting that what I was seeking was not a reason to file a suit for all the damages, but rather I was seeking all the reasons not to. That might sound like a funny reason to talk to an attorney, but when I want to understand a subject in which I am out of my depth, I want to hear from an expert. 

The lawyer was happy to oblige. He reminded me that the idiots abound, cruelty is real, and there are people who get off on being mean. And that a lot of those people are politicians. In fact, the sustained assault against me was initiated by a politician, a white man, a narcissist not interested in justice for the people but power for himself. 

I am grateful to E. Jean Carroll for deciding to fight, for taking the risk, for dealing with the blowback that no amount of financial compensation can shield her from. I am grateful that she took on this burden not only to defend herself but to speak out on behalf of every woman who has ever been raped, then gaslighted, shamed and blamed. I admire her and I hurt for her, and for me, and for all of us who continue to live in a world where so many men continue to rape women literaly and figuratively and then just carry on with their lives while we are left to deal with lifelong fallout. 

For now, though, I think the fight has gone out of me. Which isn’t to say I’m going to stop taking personally the bullshit of the Tims of the world. But I am plumb tuckered out from fighting back. The older I get, the more keenly aware I am of how truly fast time zips by. So I will do my best to focus on the real shit, the kind that plops out the asses of the animals. That’s the kind of shit I love because, as it was once pointed out to me, it’s the shit that proves the animals are still alive. 

NOTES:

*Y’all I am woefully behind promoting the concert out here on May 20th. Last month was such a doozy with back-to-back crises. It is my great wish that the show is packed because the band is great, there will be local artists and other vendors selling at an Art & Flea Market, and I just love inviting people to see this place. Toward that end, I’m continuing my buy-one-get-one ticket deal. All you need to do is email me and I’ll tell you how to get this deal. 

*Business is slowly moving back to what is was pre-lockdown. I need to keep the momentum going. I am hosting smaller weddings again. But what I’m most enjoying is how many smaller parties people are booking—baby showers, graduation celebrations, memorial receptions. If you will help me get the word out—I love hosting gatherings and my prices are excellent. Word-of-mouth is my buddy. Please help me get the word out.

*If you are in a position to support this substack via a subscription ($7) per month, I hope you will consider it. All the writing money goes to help me care for the critters. If you aren’t up for a paid subscription, another way to help is by sharing this with others. Honestly, I’m just grateful for the readership.

*Tip jar is on venmo @spike-gillespie.

Thanks!