Gregory, our HOA’s clipboard king, had no clue what storm he kicked up when he fined me for grass a half-inch too long. Half an inch. I’ve survived PTA politics, three teenagers, and a husband who once tried roasting marshmallows with a blowtorch. And this man thought a ruler and a popped-collar polo would bring me to heel?

I’ve lived here twenty-five years. Raised kids, buried my husband, planted every petunia. We used to gossip over tomatoes with the mailman. Then Gregory Mayfield took HOA presidency and started marching like the cul-de-sac was his fiefdom.

He stormed up my driveway. “Mrs. Callahan, your lawn exceeds the three-inch limit. Three and a half inches.” Like he cracked a cold case. “Thanks, Gregory. I’ll mow that terrifying half-inch tomorrow.”

He scribbled notes and strutted off. If he wanted rules, he’d get rules—lawyer precision, circus flair.

The next day, I transformed my yard. A gnome sunbathing with a margarita, another fishing by a fake pond, a glowing lantern giant lost from the North Pole, and a flamingo colony plotting a coup. Solar lights twinkled everywhere. All “tasteful,” per the handbook.

Gregory cruised by, jaw clenched. I waved. He turned red and sped off.

A week later: “Your mailbox paint is chipping.” It wasn’t. “I’m enforcing standards.” I just smiled.

Then came the sprinkler system. Motion-activated. The moment Gregory stepped close, it blasted him with water. Clipboard drenched, he sputtered while I laughed on my porch.

Neighbors loved it. Soon, flamingos and gnomes popped up everywhere. The tighter Gregory gripped, the sillier—and closer—we became.

Now, every morning, he drives past our whimsical fortress of “tasteful” rebellion. And I sip my tea, watching neighbors remember how to be neighbors again.

Keep circling, Gregory. I’ve got plenty more ideas.