I told her again—I never hired him, and she had no right to decide what happened on my property. Her parting words: “You’ll regret this.” So… I got creative. Julie’s front yard was a rainbow of chaos—gnomes, flamingos, giant “Live Laugh Love” signs. That weekend, while she was out, I boxed up every single decoration and tidied her yard into a clean, minimalist dream. That evening, she came out screaming. “WHERE ARE MY FLAMINGOS?!” I sipped my coffee. “Oh, I cleaned up for you. Your yard was cluttered. Figured you’d be grateful.”

She threatened to call the police. I offered to return the boxes—safe in my garage—if we could agree this was all a misunderstanding. Her face said she got the message. Tyler returned home during the showdown, confused. I gave him $50 anyway. “You did the work. Just remember—always ask first.” A week later, a tray of overcooked cookies and a note appeared on my porch: “These are from Tyler. Not me. –J” Not quite an apology—but close enoughLesson learned: in homeownership, as in life, respect goes both ways. And sometimes, the best way to teach a lesson… is to mow someone else’s metaphorical lawn.