I’ve lived on this street twenty-five years. Raised kids here. Buried my husband here. Planted every petunia in this yard with my own hands. We used to wave to the mailman and gossip about tomatoes over the fence. Then Gregory Mayfield seized the HOA presidency and started goose-stepping around like the cul-de-sac was his personal fiefdom.

He marched up my drive without a hello. “Mrs. Callahan, your lawn exceeds the three-inch limit. I measured three and a half.” He said it like he’d cracked a cold case.

“Thank you for the heads-up, Gregory,” I told him sweetly. “I’ll mow that terrifying half-inch tomorrow.”

He clicked his pen, scribbled like a court stenographer, and strutted off. The smile slid off my face the second he turned the corner. If he wanted rules, he’d get rules—applied with the precision of a lawyer and the flair of a circus.

I dusted off our HOA handbook—a thrilling volume that legislates everything from mailbox beige to acceptable mulch. Buried in that snoozefest was my golden clause: lawn décor, permitted if “tasteful” and within specific dimensions. Tasteful, of course, lives in the eye of the beholder.

The next morning, I went shopping.

By sunset, my yard had… evolved. A sunbathing gnome in sunglasses cradled a margarita. Another fished beside a tiny fake pond. A lantern-bearing giant glowed at dusk like he’d lost his way from the North Pole. A colony of flamingos—blushing pink and unapologetic—grazed near the beds like they were plotting a coup. Solar lights twinkled along the path and tucked into the geraniums. It looked like a fairy tale wandered into a Florida souvenir shop—and every single piece was perfectly within the rules.

Gregory’s sedan rolled by slow that evening. He craned his neck, brow knotted, jaw working. I waved. “Evening, Gregory!”

He turned tomato red and hit the gas.

A week later he was back on my porch, scandaled anew. “Your mailbox paint is chipping.”

We both stared at the glossy, pristine box. Not a nick. “Gregory,” I said, “this isn’t about paint.”

“I’m simply enforcing standards,” he sniffed, jaw twitching like a shorting outlet.

“Whatever helps you sleep.”

Which is when I escalated.

I installed a motion-activated sprinkler system. I added more gnomes (one in a hammock with a beer), expanded the flamingo flock into a regiment, and tucked extra lights into the roses. The sensors tripped the moment a trespasser’s loafer touched my grass. When Gregory attempted a close inspection, the system sang to life, arcing water like the Bellagio. He stood sputtering in a clipboard monsoon while I tried not to fall off my porch laughing.

That alone was worth the money.

Then the neighbors noticed. Mrs. Jenkins wandered over, called the yard “whimsical,” and went home with two gnomes of her own. Mr. Torres said he hadn’t seen Gregory that rattled in years. A pink bird sprouted in the Patels’ azaleas. Fairy lights bloomed along the Andersons’ porch. Within weeks our cul-de-sac looked like joy itself had taken up gardening.

Gregory couldn’t cite fast enough. His clipboard, once ominous, became punchline material. Fines turned into neighborhood merit badges. The tighter he gripped, the sillier and more united we got.

Most mornings now, he has to drive past gnomes dozing in hammocks, flamingos glaring down his street like tiny plastic sentries, and lights winking in broad daylight just to spite him—each item measured, placed, and perfectly lawful. He can’t touch a thing.

Me? I sit on my porch with my sweet tea and watch people stop to laugh, chat, trade décor tips, and remember how to be neighbors again. The HOA handbook sits on my side table like a well-trained pet.

Keep circling, Gregory. I’ve got a yard full of ideas and a rulebook that says “tasteful” is up to me.