(This essay originally ran in the Subscriber’s Newsletter this past Friday; to get exclusive access to essays from American Thinker’s editors, subscribe here.)
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I’ve been on a bit of an anti-woman kick in my writing (see here and here)—not because I actually hate women (I am one), but because I’ve been dealing with a lot of awful women in recent weeks. One such exchange comes to mind, and there’s a point in it I’d like to make.
Every summer, I buy a pool membership pass at a local country club because it allows me some suntanning time, and my 8-year-old logs lots of swimming hours. But let me be clear: This is not some fancy-schmancy club—snobby people are not my people.
The club simply has a high enough dollar amount to keep out undesirable demographics, but it’s nothing special. In fact, it’s really quite dumpy compared to other country clubs I’ve been to in my life. (I grew up spending a few weeks of every summer in the Midwest, swimming and playing at a very nice country club on Lake Mendota, right across the way from the Capitol building in Madison, which my Grandpa Sam had founded.)
Anyway, earlier this week, I had a girlfriend join me for some pool time at the local club, as the season is about to end. Since she’s not a member, she simply pays a guest fee each time she goes—she’s been coming throughout the summer because we have other mutual friends who are also members.
The pool was entirely empty, so we had the whole place to ourselves…and then the pool manager, who had been glaring at us from the window upstairs, came down to make sure we paid our $7 guest fee (one that my friend has always paid).
At this point, the woman in question—let’s call her Miserable Judy—asked who I was. This is my third summer here, and we’ve had a number of interactions before, many of which have been unpleasant because she’s just a horrendous person. So I told her and gave her my member number.
She then turned to my friend, whom she also knew, and said, “You’re a guest? And who are you here with?” I made a show of looking around the completely empty pool deck and told her, “Obviously me.” Duh, you wretched wench.
She then launched into an accusatory assault on my guest, saying she’d “abused the guest policy,” which would not be allowed next summer. (Oh! So Miserable Judy did know who we were!)
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I told her we had no idea there was a limit on how many times guests could join us, and she huffed and puffed back to her office. At that point, I grabbed my phone to check my membership agreement—of course, there was no such policy.
After leaving the pool, I confronted her and told her that was untrue, since nothing in the document mentioned a limit. She said, “Well, it’s going to be policy next year.”
What a friggin’ b-word. In my house, we call them “get to no” women. (Yes, some men are like this, but they’re few and far between—this seems to be a trait almost entirely confined to the female sex.)
Someone wants a “yes” on something? Why be cool and give them an easy yes, when you can jump through hoops to get to the answer “no”?
Someone is hoping you can bend the rules a tad to help them out? A “get to no” woman is overjoyed at how rigid and strict she now gets to be.
The female who gleefully says “no” to the excited child who’s just a fraction “too short” for a meandering coaster at the kiddie carnival; the opening employee at the DMV who stood in the heated entryway, smirking, and watched me shiver outside this past winter at 07:59:37 a.m. because, technically, the office isn’t open until 8:00:00; or Miserable Judy, who wants to chase off business because she loves no more than yes.
The irony with Miserable Judy is that allowing paying and polite guests access to the pool only benefits the club—my friend routinely patronized the restaurant, and now, instead of the $700 or so she spent over the summer, the club is set to get a big fat $0 out of her.
And this club can’t afford to turn down money: The golf course looks shabby, the weeds by the pool are knee-high, the concrete pool decking is cracked and unsightly, and the building desperately needs repairs. If you didn’t know it was a country club, you’d never know by looking at it; you would absolutely mistake it for a public pool.
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Everyone hates a “get to no” woman (and man), so don’t be one!
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