Dude, check your driveway. She's lost her mind.
I replied with the photo of the flags. His response came back instantly:
Oh my god, she's making runways now.
I actually laughed, but the morning comedy show wasn't over yet.
A few minutes later, I heard the familiar clack-clack-clack of Karen's sandals marching down the street. I didn't have to turn around to know it was her; her footsteps were as recognizable as her voice. She appeared at the bottom of my driveway, clipboard hugged against her chest like a holy artifact.
"Good morning," she said, voice tight with fake politeness.
"I'm sure it is," I replied, still holding her neon orange flag like evidence.
She adjusted her sunglasses. "I see you've discovered the preliminary markers. The HOA has initiated a vehicle access evaluation for community safety."
"On my property?"
"Property lines," she said, waving a dismissive hand, "are fluid when it comes to safety concerns."
I raised an eyebrow. "Fluid?"
"Yes. And as acting HOA president, I have full authority to take precautionary measures when a resident refuses compliance." She nodded toward my truck. "And your vehicle's defiance is well-documented."
I almost choked on my own air. "My truck's defiance?"
"It refused universal access," she said, as if that sentence made sense in the English language.
I let the silence sit for a moment, mostly because I couldn't decide which part to address first. Eventually, I gestured at the flags. "You put these here yourself?"
"Of course I did," she said proudly. "The board was unanimous."
My eyes narrowed. That was a lie, or at least a major exaggeration. I knew the board was tired of Karen's antics: they'd whispered complaints, exchanged knowing glances, even apologized to me behind her back.
"Is that so?" I asked. "Unanimous?"
"Well," she shifted slightly, "unanimous in spirit."