The news of Airbnb co-founder Joe Gebbia stepping away from his role at Airbnb.org has certainly set tongues a-wagging. While the official line speaks of a desire to dedicate his attention to other endeavors, the world of big business rarely unfolds with such simple explanations.

One could surmise that Mr. Gebbia might be eager to explore new personal or professional projects. After years deeply involved in the growth and evolution of Airbnb, perhaps he feels a pull towards fresh challenges and opportunities that lie outside the scope of the company’s philanthropic arm. This is, after all, a common narrative in the lives of successful entrepreneurs.

However, it’s also prudent to consider the complexities inherent in large organizations and their charitable foundations. Disagreements regarding strategic direction, resource allocation, or even fundamental philosophies on how best to achieve their mission are not uncommon within such entities. It’s conceivable that differing viewpoints on the future trajectory of Airbnb.org may have played a role in Mr. Gebbia’s decision.

Furthermore, the current climate within the short-term rental industry is dynamic and at times, turbulent. With evolving regulations and shifting market demands, it’s plausible that Mr. Gebbia felt a stronger need to refocus his energies on the core business of Airbnb itself. His deep understanding of the company’s foundations and his strategic insights could be deemed particularly crucial during this period.

Whispers within the industry, though unconfirmed, suggest that there might have been some divergence in vision regarding the operational priorities of Airbnb.org. These are, of course, merely rumors, akin to distant thunder on a summer afternoon – noticeable, but their true impact remains uncertain. It’s important to remember that such conjecture should be treated with caution.

Another potential factor could be Mr. Gebbia’s own entrepreneurial spirit. Individuals who have successfully built and scaled a company often possess an innate drive to create and innovate. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were harboring ambitions for a new venture, requiring his full attention and commitment.

Ultimately, the precise reasons behind Joe Gebbia’s departure from Airbnb.org remain within the confines of speculation, barring further official statements. While the publicly stated motivations are understandable, the intricate dynamics of corporate leadership and philanthropic endeavors often involve layers of complexity that are not immediately apparent. Loretta May will continue to keep her ear to the ground, ever watchful for any further developments in this unfolding story.

Y’all, you are NOT going to believe the latest whispers coming out of Myrtle Beach! Remember that little tidbit I shared about Brenda, the sweet host with the beach bungalow, and David, the writer who booked a long-term stay? Well, honey, that was just the appetizer. The main course is serving up some serious drama, with a side of “bless their hearts” and a whole lot of “can you believe this?!”

The Summer Lingers On… and So Does He!

So, David was supposed to check out after those two months, right? Novel finished, sun-kissed and ready to head back to the hustle and bustle. But wouldn’t you know it, that man extended his stay. And then he extended it again. Brenda’s other bookings had to be politely declined, all because Mr. Writer Man couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the South Carolina coast – or, dare I say, from Brenda herself!

Now, I heard through the grapevine (and you know my grapevine is always well-watered with the finest gossip) that their beach walks became longer, their dinner dates more frequent. Brenda started showing David all her favorite local haunts – the little seafood shacks tucked away from the tourist traps, the best spots for catching a glimpse of dolphins at sunrise, even the annual watermelon festival where things can get a little… sticky.

Introducing the Ex-Wife and a Whole Heap of Trouble

Just when things seemed to be heading towards a full-blown romance, with talk of David helping Brenda repaint her porch swing and Brenda teaching David how to make her famous sweet tea, BAM! The plot thickened faster than a bowl of gravy on a hot day.

I heard that David’s ex-wife, a real estate agent from up north with a reputation for being… shall we say… tenacious, decided to pay him a surprise visit. Apparently, she’d heard through mutual friends that David was “shacking up with some Southern belle” and decided to investigate. Oh, honey, the sparks that flew could have lit up the entire Grand Strand!

Brenda, ever the gracious hostess (even when the guest’s ex-wife is breathing down her neck), tried to be polite. But let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like two women vying for the attention of the same man to bring out the claws. Allegedly. But also absolutely.

A Beachfront Confrontation and a Plate of Fried Green Tomatoes

I heard the confrontation happened right there on Brenda’s front porch, with the salty air doing little to cool the simmering tension. The ex-wife, all sharp angles and designer sunglasses, apparently made some rather… unkind remarks about Brenda’s age and her “simple country life.” Brenda, bless her heart, just smiled sweetly, offered her a glass of iced tea, and then, with a voice as smooth as butter, suggested they discuss things over a plate of her famous fried green tomatoes.

Now, I don’t know exactly what was said during that little porch-side summit, but I heard that Brenda, in her own quiet way, made it clear that her connection with David was genuine and that the ex-wife’s unexpected arrival was, shall we say, unwelcome.

A Change of Heart or Just a Change of Scenery?

After the ex-wife’s dramatic departure (complete with a slammed car door and a screech of tires, I hear), things between Brenda and David seemed to shift. The easy laughter was still there, but there was also a newfound seriousness in their conversations.

David, I’m told, started spending more time alone, walking the beach deep in thought. Brenda, ever the intuitive soul, gave him his space, but I heard she confided in her best friend, Martha, that she was worried he might be getting ready to leave for good.

Then came another twist! David didn’t pack his bags for the north. Instead, he started looking at properties in the area. Yes, you heard that right! Mr. Writer Man, who came to Myrtle Beach just to finish a book, was considering putting down roots.

From Guest to… Neighbor?

Can you even imagine? The whispers around town went into overdrive. Was he buying a place for himself? Was he planning on asking Brenda to join him? The suspense was thicker than a Lowcountry boil!

I heard Brenda and David had a long talk one evening, sitting on the porch swing under the twinkling stars. The details are a little hazy, but what I gathered is that David confessed that his time in Myrtle Beach, and especially his connection with Brenda, had changed him. He realized he was tired of the lonely city life and that he’d found something truly special with Brenda.

A Second Chance at Love, Southern Style

Now, I’m not saying they’re ringing wedding bells just yet, but I did hear that David made an offer on a charming little cottage just a few blocks from Brenda’s bungalow. And Brenda? Well, she’s been seen with a smile that could light up the whole Eastern Seaboard.

It just goes to show you, darlings, that life is full of surprises. Sometimes, the most unexpected connections blossom in the most unlikely places. And sometimes, a long-term rental can lead to something far more permanent.

So, what’s the moral of this story? Maybe it’s that you should always be kind to your guests, you never know who might just steal your heart (and extend their stay indefinitely!). Or maybe it’s that fried green tomatoes can solve just about any problem. Whatever it is, this Myrtle Beach saga is far from over, and you know I’ll be here to keep you all in the loop.

Welcome to Staystra.com

Now I don’t like to talk about people—but some of y’all are doing the absolute most in these vacation rentals, and somebody needs to say it. Lucky for you, sugarplum, I’ve got the time, the receipts, and the moral obligation.

Welcome to Staystra.com, your new unfiltered front porch for everything happening in the wild world of short-term rentals. I’m Loretta May Jenkins—former church secretary, lifelong gossip, and the reason three HOA boards have blocked me on Facebook. I’m here to bless your inbox with the truth behind the throw pillows.

This ain’t your typical real estate blog, honey. This is where we talk about the real stuff:

• That guest who tried to cook brisket in the Jacuzzi? Covered.
• That host who left 37 passive-aggressive notes around the condo? Exposed.
• That HOA feud that ended in drone surveillance and a restraining order? Baby, I’ve got the court docs.

At Staystra, we’re not just spilling tea—we’re cataloging chaos. Think of us as the petty Yelp for STRs with a moral compass and a magnifying glass. You’ll get:

• Weekly tales of STR absurdity (names changed, drama intact)
• Host horror stories that’ll make you hug your cleaner
• Guest behavior so bad it deserves its own TSA watchlist
• And yes, the occasional redemption arc—because sometimes, people do get it right. (Allegedly.)

If it happens in an Airbnb, Vrbo, or “just a little guest house behind my cousin’s place,” and it smells like drama? I’m on it faster than a Facebook mom can say, “Not in this neighborhood.”

So grab your wine glass, put your security cams on high alert, and subscribe like your future 5-star rating depends on it.

Because if you’ve ever rented a house, cleaned up after someone else’s bachelorette party, or had to explain to a neighbor that no, those weren’t your goats—then darling, this is your people.

Stay tuned. Stay nosy. Staystra.

— Loretta May

Now, y’all know I have properties scattered here and there. Little investments, places for folks to rest their heads. My Vail condo is usually my pride and joy. It’s got those mountain views, a fireplace that crackles just right, and furnishings that didn’t come from the bargain basement, if you catch my drift. It attracts a certain clientele – folks celebrating anniversaries, families on ski trips, maybe the occasional well-heeled couple looking for a romantic getaway. Usually quiet, usually respectful. Usually.

But back in the winter of 2023, oh honey, the usual went right out the window and skidded down the iciest slope it could find.

Meet the Guests: Sugar Wouldn’t Melt… Or Would It?

The booking came through like any other. A group of four adults, mid-30s, wanting a long weekend escape. Names sounded normal enough – no “Sparkle” or “Chaos” in the bunch, thank goodness. The booking message was polite, asking about ski rentals and hot tub hours. Seemed perfectly lovely. Mature, responsible, probably owned sensible winter footwear. Allegedly.

I have my “boots on the ground” up there, my dear friend Martha, who handles the check-ins and keeps an eye on things. She met them, said they were all smiles and polite “yes, ma’ams.” Dressed nicely, too. Looked like they stepped right out of one of those fancy outdoor clothing catalogs. Martha, bless her trusting heart, thought they were just peaches. Peaches! Little did we know these peaches were about to get… fuzzy. And sticky. And leave glitter in crevices I didn’t know existed.

The Quiet Before the Storm (Or Was It?)

The first couple of nights seemed fine. No frantic calls from neighbors about wild parties, no noise complaints filed with the HOA (and trust me, that HOA has ears sharper than a bat’s). Martha drove past once or twice, said the lights were on, looked cozy, nothing out of the ordinary.

Now, looking back, maybe the lack of complaints was suspicious. Maybe they were masters of contained chaos? Or perhaps the condo’s soundproofing is just that good. Which, frankly, is a terrifying thought considering what we found later. What in tarnation were they doing in there that required such… discretion? My mind, it wanders to places best left unexplored, but let’s just say it involves less conversation and more… well, activity.

I picture them, huddled inside, whispering their nefarious plans. “Okay, Brenda, you distract the neighbors with polite chit-chat about the weather while Kevin deploys the… uh… party supplies.” It’s like a bad spy movie, but instead of secrets, they’re smuggling in forbidden levels of tacky.

Check-Out Day: Unleash the Kraken (of Cleaning Supplies)

Check-out time was 11 AM sharp. Martha usually swings by around 11:30 AM to start the turnover for the next guests, who were arriving later that day. Plenty of time, usually. Usually.

She called me around 11:45 AM. And honey, the tone in her voice wasn’t her usual cheerful “All clear!” Oh no. It was that tight, high-pitched sound that means trouble. The kind of sound you make when you open a Tupperware you forgot in the back of the fridge for six months.

“Loretta,” she started, her voice strained. “You… you need to see this. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t know if anyone needs to see this.”

“Martha, spit it out! What’s wrong? Did they break something expensive?” I braced myself. A broken TV? A wine stain on the rug? Child’s play, compared to what was coming.

“Broken? Oh, I wish. Loretta, it looks like a unicorn exploded. And then maybe… wrestled a flock of angry geese? And then… maybe they tried to glue it all back together?”

My mind raced. Unicorn? Geese? Glue? What in the Sam Hill was she talking about?

“Martha,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, channeling my old church secretary patience. “Start from the beginning. Slowly.”

“Okay,” she took a deep breath. “I opened the door, and the first thing that hit me was the smell. It’s kinda sweet, but… chemical-like? Like cheap perfume and maybe… maple syrup? It’s confusing.”

Maple syrup? In Vail? Were they making pancakes on the ceiling? The plot thickened, like poorly mixed gravy.

“Then,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly, “I saw the glitter. Loretta, it’s everywhere. Not just a little dusting. It’s like they bathed in it. It’s ground into the rugs, it’s on the sofa, it’s on the kitchen counters, it’s in the shower.”

Glitter. The herpes of the craft world. Every host’s nightmare. But this sounded… excessive. Weaponized glitter.

“And feathers,” she added. “Little fluffy ones. White ones, pink ones. Stuck to things. Like, really stuck. There’s a clump on the lampshade. And… Loretta… there’s something sticky on the ceiling above the living room sofa.”

Sticky. On the ceiling. My beautiful, textured ceiling. “Sticky like what, Martha? Like soda? Like…?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question.

“I don’t know!” she wailed. “I poked it with the end of the broom. It’s clearish. And very, very sticky. And there are… strands of glitter in it.”

Lord, give me strength. Glitter. Feathers. Suspicious ceiling goo. Maple syrup perfume. This wasn’t just messy; this was performance art. Bad performance art.

The Receipts: Oh, Honey, There Were Receipts

Martha, bless her thorough soul, started taking pictures. She knew Loretta needed her receipts! And let me tell you, the pictures were something else.

• Exhibit A: The living room rug. Once a tasteful beige, now looked like a disco ball had imploded on it. Streaks of blue, pink, gold, and silver glitter formed abstract patterns that Picasso would’ve called “a bit much.”
• Exhibit B: The kitchen counter. A faint dusting of… flour? Sugar? No, upon closer inspection (via zoomed-in photo, thank you Jesus), it was more glitter. Mixed with what looked suspiciously like… sprinkles? Like the kind you put on cupcakes? Why were there sprinkles on the counter? Were they decorating something? Or someone? Don’t answer that.
• Exhibit C: The bathroom. Towels crumpled on the floor (standard bad guest behavior), but one towel had a peculiar dusting of… yes, glitter and a few stray pink feathers clinging to it for dear life. What happens in the bathroom usually stays in the bathroom, but this evidence was screaming for attention.
• Exhibit D: The Ceiling Splotch. A close-up of the aforementioned sticky substance. Clear, vaguely ominous, with defiant sparkles of glitter trapped within its gooey matrix. Like a tiny, disgusting galaxy. What was it? Hair gel? Body glitter glue? Maple syrup used in ways God did not intend? The possibilities were horrifying.
• Exhibit E: The Bedroom Discovery. Underneath one of the beds, Martha found a small, empty bottle labeled “Body Shimmer – Edible Cherry Flavor.” Edible. Body. Shimmer. Cherry. Flavor. Read that again. Let it sink in. Along with it? A single, long, false eyelash. Just lying there. Judging us.

I felt faint. This wasn’t just a party; it was some kind of… amateur sparkle-themed burlesque show gone wrong? A food fight involving only glitter and sticky substances? A ritual sacrifice to the god of tacky crafts? The mind boggled.

Operation De-Sparkle: Calling In the Big Guns (and Vacuums)

There was no way Martha could handle this alone, not with new guests arriving in mere hours. I told her to call in the emergency cleaning cavalry – a local crew I keep on speed dial for just such apocalyptic events. They charge extra for biohazards and glitter infestations, and honey, this qualified as both in my book.

They arrived armed with industrial-strength vacuums, special solvents, prayers, and probably a healthy dose of skepticism. Martha reported back throughout the afternoon.

The glitter required multiple passes with the heavy-duty vacuum, followed by meticulous lint-rolling and possibly some kind of sticky-tape sorcery. They found glitter inside the heating vents. They found glitter inside the coffee maker’s water reservoir. They found glitter between the pages of the guest information binder. How?! Were they reading house rules while simultaneously rolling in the stuff? The audacity!

The feathers were plucked, vacuumed, and cursed. Apparently, they clung with the tenacity of a barnacle to a ship’s hull.

The mysterious ceiling substance? That required a ladder, a scraper, and a lot of disgusted noises from the cleaning crew chief, a stern woman named Helga who’s seen things that would make a sailor blush. She eventually got it off, but not without taking a bit of the ceiling texture with it. Another repair added to the growing bill. Helga’s professional opinion? “Some kind of novelty body glue, maybe? Or cheap hair gel. Definitely not food.” Thank heavens for small mercies, I suppose. Though the thought of “novelty body glue” on my ceiling isn’t exactly comforting.

And the smell? It took airing the place out for hours and deploying an ozone machine (usually reserved for smoke damage) to get rid of that sickly sweet, chemical funk.

The whole cleanup took nearly five hours. Five! A normal turnover takes two, max. The incoming guests had to be delayed, compensated with a bottle of wine (the good stuff, not the cherry-flavored shimmer kind), and profusely apologized to.

The Confrontation: Please Sir, Can I Have Some More… Money for Cleaning?

You bet your sweet bippy I contacted those guests. Oh, I was polite at first. Years as a church secretary teach you to start with honey before you bring out the vinegar.

I sent them a message through the platform, complete with Martha’s photographic evidence. The glitter tundra, the sticky ceiling galaxy, the lone eyelash of judgment, the incriminating empty bottle of edible body shimmer. The receipts, y’all!

“Dear [Guest Name],” I wrote, sweetness dripping from every word (digitally speaking). “Hope you enjoyed your snowy getaway to Vail! Our cleaning team encountered quite an unusual situation after your departure. It appears some… uh… festivities involving glitter, feathers, and a rather tenacious sticky substance occurred. The extensive cleanup required significantly more time and specialized resources. Attached are some photos and the invoice for the additional cleaning fee of $XXX.”

I hit send and waited. And waited.

Their response, when it finally came nearly 24 hours later, was a masterpiece of deflection and faux innocence.

“Oh my gosh, we are SO sorry if things were a bit untidy! We did try to tidy up before we left. Maybe the wind blew some things around? And we did have a small pillow fight, perhaps that explains the feathers? LOL! Not sure about glitter or anything sticky though, that’s strange! Must have been the guests before us?”

The guests before them?! Bless their lying hearts! The audacity! The unmitigated gall! Did they think I was born yesterday? Did they think Martha hadn’t done a thorough cleaning before their arrival? Did they forget about the EDIBLE CHERRY BODY SHIMMER RECEIPT?!

Wind? Blowing glitter into the heating vents and the coffee maker? A pillow fight explaining glue on the ceiling? Honey, please. Even my six-year-old nephew tells more believable fibs.

I replied, the vinegar starting to bubble. I pointed out the timestamped photos, the specific nature of the mess (body shimmer doesn’t just appear!), and the fact that the previous guests left the place immaculate (because Martha checks!). I reiterated the cleaning fee charge.

Their response? Radio silence. They ghosted me harder than a bad date after realizing you actually listen to talk radio.

Of course, I went through the platform’s resolution center. Sent them the photos, the invoice, the messages. Explained about the edible body shimmer (I think the support agent might have snickered, but who can blame them?). Thankfully, after reviewing the mountain of glittery, sticky evidence, the platform sided with me and covered the extra cleaning costs. Justice, served cold and sparkling.

The Moral of the Story (If You Can Call It That)

So, what did we learn from the Great Vail Glitter Bomb Incident of ’23?

1. Never Judge a Guest by Their Catalog-Ready Outerwear: Sometimes the most respectable-looking folks hide the wildest glitter-loving souls.
2. Glitter is the Enemy: Ban it. Confiscate it at the door. Treat it like the hazardous material it is. Edible body shimmer? Don’t even get me started. Grounds for immediate eviction and possibly an exorcism.
3. Document Everything: Photos, videos, sworn affidavits from traumatized cleaning crews – get your receipts! They are your best friends when dealing with… creative guests.
4. Ceilings Are Not Canvases: Especially not for sticky, glittery substances of unknown origin. Keep your art projects, edible or otherwise, confined to appropriate surfaces, y’all. Like… paper. Or maybe just… don’t?
5. Sometimes, You Just Have to Laugh (and Bleach): Because in the world of short-term rentals, you’ll encounter things that defy explanation. You clean up the mess, charge the fee, tell the story, and pour yourself something strong.

It was a mess, y’all. A sticky, sparkly, feathery mess that required industrial-strength cleaning and a whole lot of head-shaking. It cost time, money, and probably a few of poor Martha’s brain cells. But hey, it makes for one heck of a story, right?

Now, I don’t like to gossip, but between you, me, and the fence post, I still shudder when I see a bottle of craft glitter. And I can’t look at maple syrup the same way again. Bless their sticky, sparkly hearts. They tried it. Allegedly. But also absolutely.

Where is the lie?