My HOA President Fined Me for My Lawn – I Gave Him a Reason to Keep Looking
When Larry, our HOA dictator with a clipboard, punished me for having a lawn that was half an inch too long, I had no idea who he was playing pranks on. I made the decision to present him with a lawn that was both ridiculous and compliant with the standards, making him regret initiating the argument.
My neighborhood used to be the kind where you could wave to your neighbors, enjoy a peaceful cup of tea on your porch, and not have to worry about anything for decades.
Subsequently, Larry managed to seize control of the HOA presidency.
Alright, Larry. You know the one: middle-aged, ironed polo shirt-wearing, clipboard-obsessed, thinking the universe revolves around himself. It seemed as though someone had given him the keys to a kingdom the moment he took office.
Or, anyhow, that was his understanding.
I’ve now spent twenty-five years living here. brought up three children in this home. buried a spouse as well. Do you know what I discovered?
A woman who has raised children and a man who believed barbecue sauce to be a vegetable shouldn’t be messed with. Clearly, Larry missed that memo.
He’s been after me ever since I missed our valuable HOA meeting the previous summer. As if hearing two hours of monotonous talk about paint hues and fence heights was necessary. I had more essential tasks to complete, like seeing my begonias blossom.
Everything began a week ago.
As I went about my business on the porch, I noticed Larry, with his clipboard in hand, striding up the driveway.
I said, “Oh, here we go,” immediately sensing a rise in blood pressure.
He didn’t even bother to say hello as he halted at the base of the stairs.
He said, “Mrs. Pearson,” in a tone that was rife with superiority. “I’m afraid you’ve violated the HOA’s lawn maintenance standards.”
I tried not to get too angry and blinked at him. “Is that accurate? The grass has just been cut. only completed it two days ago.”
“Well,” he continued, sounding as though he was going to report me for a crime, “it’s half an inch too long.” Regarding this, HOA standards are quite explicit.”
I fixed my gaze on him. A half-inch. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I could tell otherwise by his smug little smile.
“Mrs. Pearson, we have standards here. What sort of message is sent if we allow one person to get away with ignoring their lawn?”
Yes, I could have given him a hard tug right then. However, I didn’t. Rather, I simply grinned and replied, “Larry, thanks for the heads-up. I will make sure you get rid of that excess half-inch.”
Within, though? I was furious. This individual thought he was someone else. A half-inch?
I’ve made it through PTA meetings, leaky diapers, and a husband who once attempted to toast marshmallows with a propane torch. I was not going to be bullied by Larry the Clipboard King.
I sat in my armchair that night, thinking about the whole incident. I reflected on all the occasions in my life when I had been advised to “follow the rules,” and how I had been able to subtly defy them in order to maintain my sanity.
It’s okay if Larry wanted to play hardball. That was a game that two could play.
It dawned on me then: the HOA handbook. That dusty old foolish nonsense Larry used to quote all the time. Over the years, I hadn’t given it much thought, but now was the right time to get to know it.
After about an hour of flipping through it, there it was. as evident as day. Naturally, tasteful lawn decorations were quite permissible as long as they adhered to certain dimensions and arrangement rules.
Alright, Larry. You unfortunate, sad soul. You were unaware of what you had just let loose.
I went on a lifetime shopping spree the very following morning. It was magnificent. Gnomes are what I purchased. Giant gnomes, nevertheless, not just any gnomes. One was fishing in a small makeshift pond I had built up in the garden, and the other was holding a lantern.
And a whole flock of toy flamingos, all pink. I grouped them together as if they were organizing a tropical uprising.
The solar lights followed. I strung a couple in the trees and lined the garden path. My yard resembled a hybrid of a fairy tale and a Florida souvenir shop by the time I finished.
What’s the best thing, then? Each and every component was entirely HOA-compliant. There was not a single rule broken. I reclined in my lawn chair and observed the sun setting behind my creation.
My gnome army and the flamingo force were surrounded by a warm glow as the glittering lights came to life. It was simply magnificent.
But this was not going to go down easy for Larry, poor Larry.
I knew I had him the moment he set eyes on my yard. His automobile was crawling down the street when I noticed it since I was watering the petunias. His windows rolled down, and he narrowed his eyes to look at my grass from top to bottom.
It was fascinating to watch his tensed jaw and tightly clasped fingers on the steering wheel. He slowed to a crawl and relaxed in his lawn chair, seemingly carefree, while gazing at the gnome sipping his margarita.
I waved to Larry, extra sweetly, as though I had no idea that I had just declared war.
He looked at me, his face taking on the hue of a sunburned tomato, and then he drove off without saying anything.
I laughed so hard that the squirrel in the oak tree was terrified. You’re correct, Larry. It is not yours to touch.”
I figured maybe, just maybe, he would forget about it for a few days. Me being silly. A week later, he was back, stomping up to my door with that clipboard and looking like he’d just been knighted with his HOA President insignia on.
Without even trying to make small talk, he said, “Mrs. Pearson, I’ve come to inform you that your mailbox violates HOA standards.”
I gave him a blink. “The mailbox?” With a head tilt, I looked at it. “That was painted two months ago, Larry. It is immaculate.
He narrowed his eyes as if he were looking for a fault in it. “The paint is chipping,” he wrote on his clipboard with an insistence.
I took another look at the mailbox. No chips to be found. But I knew this had nothing to do with the mailbox. This was intimate.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I crossed my arms and said. “All this over half an inch of grass?”
Larry answered, “I’m just enforcing the rules,” but his expression suggested otherwise.
I cast a close look at him. Yes, Larry. Whatever aids in your nighttime slumber.”
He pivoted and strode towards his car as though he had just made a monumental announcement. I was filled with rage as I watched him leave. Oh, he believed he could prevail in this? Alright. Start the games now.
I came up with a plan that evening. Larry was going to get into a fight if he wanted one. The following morning, I went back to the garden store and bought additional gnomes, flamingos, and a motion-activated watering system for amusement.
When I was finished, my yard resembled a ridiculous carnival. A group of gnomes of all sizes stood together with pride; some were fishing, some were carrying little shovels, and my new favorite was relaxing in a hammock while sipping a tiny beer.
The flamingos? With the help of solar lights, they had organized their own army out of pink plastic and were marching across the grass.
The crowning achievement, though? The sprinkler system. Larry would come by to check on my yard any time he felt like it, and the motion sensor would go off, shooting water everywhere. Naturally, it was all by mistake.
I laughed so hard I almost fell off the porch the first time it happened.
Larry arrived prepared with his clipboard in hand, only to have a jet of water blast him in the face. Sputtering like a drowned cat, he withdrew to his car, drenched from head to toe.
His expression of utter indignation validated every dollar I had invested.
The best thing, though? The neighbors became aware of it.
They started coming over one by one to remark on my “creative flair.”
Three homes down, Mrs. Johnson said she cherished the “whimsical” ambiance. Mr. Thompson laughed and said he hadn’t seen Larry become that agitated in a long time. Before long, it went beyond simple praise. The neighbors began hanging decorations on their lawns.
A few garden gnomes were there at first, but then flamingos started to appear all over the cul-de-sac, lights started to twinkle in each yard, and someone even built a little windmill.
Larry was unable to keep up.
His clipboard turned into a farce. The locals turned the once-dreaded fines into a badge of honor, and the more he attempted to tighten his control, the more the community eluded him.
Larry was forced to drive by our lights, flamingos, and gnomes every day, even though he was well aware that we had defeated him in his own game.
And me? I grinned as I observed the pandemonium take place.
With the help of lawn ornaments and pure malice, the entire neighborhood had joined together. And poor Larry, all he was left with was a sodden clipboard and no authority to support it.
Larry, if you are reading this, please continue your search. I could come up with a lot more concepts like these.