Living next to Brenda and Eileen is like being in a constant, low-grade fever dream. They moved in together last year and immediately appointed themselves the unofficial queens of the cul-de-sac. First, it was a series of passive-aggressive notes left on my car about parking “one inch too close” to their precious petunias.
Then came the loud, pointed conversations they’d have in their yard whenever I was outside, about how “some people” let their grass grow a quarter-inch too long. I ignored them, because what else can you do? But last week, they escalated things to a whole new level.
They cornered me as I was getting my mail, both of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder like a two-headed suburban monster. Brenda, the designated talker, informed me that the beige color of my house was “depressing the neighborhood’s property values” and that they expected me to repaint it to an “approved” shade of taupe by the end of the month. I literally laughed in their faces.
I told them that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard and that they had zero authority to tell me what to do with my own property. They just exchanged a look, and Eileen smugly said, “Oh, we have the authority. You’ll be receiving a formal notice.”
Sure enough, a thick manila envelope was taped to my door this morning.
I figured it was some kind of bluff, maybe a fake legal document they printed off the internet. But what was inside was far stranger. It wasn’t from the HOA—we don’t even have one.
It was a single, laminated page. At the top, in fancy script, it read “The Sisterhood of Neighborhood Covenants.” Below that was a list of insane rules, including mandatory lawn watering schedules, a ban on all decorative flags, and, of course, the pre-approved paint palette. The document was signed at the bottom by both of them, and then I saw the final line.
“In the event of noncompliance, offenders shall be subject to public shaming and may forfeit neighborhood privileges including, but not limited to: block party invitations, bake sale participation, and driveway snow-plowing assistance.”
I burst out laughing again. I couldn’t help it. What even were “neighborhood privileges” in a town where everyone mostly kept to themselves and the last block party was five years ago?
But then things got weirder. That afternoon, a box of taupe paint samples appeared on my porch. Inside was a card: “From the Sisterhood.
Choose wisely.” The next morning, my mailbox was filled with pamphlets on exterior design harmony and color psychology. And on day three, someone—I’d bet good money it was Brenda—had left a handwritten note in my hydrangeas that said, “Bad colors = bad neighbors.”
I had reached my limit. Now, I’m not the most confrontational person.
I live alone, work remotely, and mostly just want to be left in peace. But I also don’t respond well to bullying, especially not the suburban tyrant variety. So I decided to do a little digging.
I called the county office and spoke to a very amused clerk named Marie who confirmed there was absolutely no HOA registered to our neighborhood. I asked if anyone had ever submitted a permit or covenant under that “Sisterhood” name, and she nearly snorted. “Ma’am, that sounds like a book club.
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