Later that day, I walked down to my mailbox and found an even bigger envelope, stuffed to the brim, sealed with an official-looking HOA sticker. Inside were photocopied petitions, each with a few signatures scribbled on them and a cover sheet titled Unity Through Shared Resources Initiative. At the top, in handwritten cursive, was Karen's name—looped, dramatic, and unmistakably hers.
I flipped through the pages. 13 signatures. 13 people who either hated confrontation, owed Karen favors, or were tricked into signing something they didn't read. And next to each signature was a box labeled, "Yes, bring our neighborhood together." No "No" box. No option for dissent, because of course not.
The kicker was a paragraph describing the voluntary annexation of neighboring properties into the HOA. The word voluntary was in quotation marks, as if mocking the concept of consent.
I stared at the papers, baffled by the creativity of Karen's entitlement. She didn't just want access to my pool anymore. She wanted jurisdiction over my backyard, my house, and apparently my future grandchildren.
A knock came at the door. I opened it to find Roger, HOA president and full-time disaster avoider, standing on my porch looking like a man who'd aged a decade in a week. He held another envelope in both hands like it was radioactive.
"Hey," he said, voice unsure. "Just delivering some documentation."
"You mean Karen's fanfiction?"
He sighed, defeated. "She's pushing hard. Claims she found an old clause in the original HOA charter about expanding boundaries. She wants a neighborhood vote."
"Roger," I said carefully. "Do you believe this clause actually exists?"
He swallowed. "I believe Karen believes it exists."
I almost felt bad for him. Almost. I crossed my arms. "We both know my parcel predates the HOA. It is legally outside your jurisdiction."
"We do know that," he agreed quickly. "Pero Karen thinks—"
"Karen thinks rules are suggestions and property lines are decorative."
He nodded, eyes darting toward her house as if she might be watching us through binoculars. And honestly, given her track record, she probably was.
He handed me the envelope. "I'm required to give you this. Consider it a formality."
I didn't take it immediately. "What happens if Karen succeeds in getting enough signatures?"
Roger sighed loudly. "A meeting would be held. A vote would be held. But legally none of it would matter unless you signed off."
"So, this is just a social pressure stunt?"
He nodded. "A big one."
I finally took the envelope and closed the door behind me. For a moment, I just stood there staring at the absurdity in my hands. 13 signatures and a dream. Karen was trying to annex my pool like it was a lost territory in the HOA empire she had appointed herself queen of.
Well, if she wanted to play politics, I'd give her a civics lesson.
I spent the next few hours making phone calls: first to the county zoning office, then to the assessor's office, then, for good measure, to a lawyer I'd kept on retainer ever since Karen first tried to accuse me of violating a fictional noise ordinance.
Every official I spoke to responded the same way: "No, they can't do that." "No, HOA authority is limited to its own parcels." "No, they can't forcibly absorb your land." "No, even if every neighbor votes yes, you still have to consent."
One woman at zoning even laughed and asked, "Is this one of those crazy HOA stories? My sister dealt with something similar. She ended up building a moat."
"A moat sounds reasonable," I said.
Armed with confirmation, I drafted my counterattack. I printed out the official county parcel map, highlighted boldly in red. Then I laminated it. Then I added a metal sign underneath: This property is not subject to HOA governance. Trespassers will be prosecuted.
But I wasn't done. I then created 60 flyers—one for every home in the neighborhood. Each flyer had the map of the HOA boundary, my lot clearly marked outside it, and a short message: Attempts to annex this property into HOA authority without owner consent constitute harassment and will be met with legal action.
Short, clear, and deliciously devoid of glitter.
I walked door to door delivering them. Some neighbors raised eyebrows. Some apologized for signing Karen's petition without realizing what it was. One woman confessed that Karen told her my pool was being rented to tourists overnight.
"Tourists?" I repeated. "There's not even a guest room."
"She said they sleep on the patio furniture," the woman replied, embarrassed.
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. "Ma'am, I don't even let myself nap on the patio furniture."
When I got home, I found Karen standing at the edge of my driveway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, lip trembling in righteous fury. She wasn't alone either; two of her friends flanked her like a pair of angry bookends.
"You're causing division," she said without greeting.
"You're trespassing again," I replied.
She gestured wildly at the flyers some neighbors were already holding. "You went door-to-door."
"Door-to-door? Yes."
"Spreading lies about me."
"Everything on that flyer is verifiable."
"That's not the point," she snapped. "You're making me look bad."
I held her gaze. "Karen, you're making you look bad."
Her jaw clenched. "This isn't over."