Sometimes moving into a new neighborhood brings fresh starts and new friendships. Other times… it brings you neighbors who threaten to hose down your imaginary cat and steal your kids’ soccer balls. In this funny true story, I share how a backyard feud turned into one of my favorite (and pettiest) victories — proving that sometimes, fighting fire with laughter is the best revenge.
When Bob and I moved to Milwaukee on 1989, we thought we had hit the jackpot. A charming four-bedroom ranch on Belmar Drive in Franklin, complete with a massive backyard practically begging for Adam and Andy to come tear it up with a baseball and a wiffle bat. It was perfect — or so we thought. Then… we met the neighbors.
The day after we moved in, I was elbow-deep in paint, trying to cover a kitchen yellow so violent it could have been used in psychological warfare. As I slapped on a new coat, I spotted a woman marching across our backyard like she was General Patton reclaiming territory. She had a steel-gray bun wound so tight I swear it could’ve been used to launch small artillery.
Hoping for a warm welcome, I slid open the patio door, plastered on my best new-neighbor smile, and said, “Hi, I’m Laura!” as I extended my hand.
She looked at my hand like I had just offered her a dead rat.
“I enjoy having cardinals visit my backyard,” she barked. “If your cat comes into my yard, I will hose it.”
Blink. Blink
“Uh… we don’t have a cat,” I said, blinking in confusion.
She narrowed her eyes like I had just confessed to kicking her grandmother. “I’m sure I saw your boys playing with a cat yesterday.”
“Nope,” I said, forcing a smile. “No cat here.”
“Your dog then,” she snapped. “I’ll hose your dog.”
Now she was starting to grate on me. It didn’t help that her pants — a loud floral explosion — made her look like a couch from 1973. Summoning all my Midwest Nice, I explained, “That must’ve been my brother’s puppy. He brought it over when he helped us move.
She sniffed, unimpressed. “As long as you know: any animal of yours comes into my yard, it’s getting hosed.”
I gave her my sweetest fake smile. “Hose away. We don’t have any pets. NONE.”
Without another word, she spun on her orthopedic heels and waddled back to her house, leaving me standing there thinking, Well, what a jackass.
A couple of years later, the “friendly” neighbors installed an inground pool — along with an enormous, hideous fence that looked like it belonged around a prison yard. Mr. Mean, as all the neighborhood kids came to call him, wasted no time calling Adam and Andy over to inform them, “If your balls come over this fence, I’m keeping them.”
When I heard about it, I didn’t lose my temper.
Nope. I got creative.
I told the boys to dig out every old, flat, dead ball they could find in the garage. Baseballs, soccer balls, kickballs — you name it. Then, under cover of darkness, they launched them over the fence into the enemy pool. It was neighborhood diplomacy at its finest.
These neighbors had a routine: early morning swims, accompanied by gospel music so loud it rattled the windows. Picture a Sunday sunrise service… except hosted by angry trolls. One Sunday morning, while flipping pancakes, I spotted them slipping into their pool.
And that’s when inspiration struck.
I set down my spatula, picked up the phone (this was before iPhones and caller ID), and dialed their number.
We all watched from the window as Mrs. Mean, who had just floated to the pool’s edge, dragged herself out like a furious, dripping walrus and stormed toward the house. Right as she reached the patio door — click — I hung up.
She stood there dripping wet, staring at the silent phone like it had personally insulted her.
The boys sitting at the kitchen table watching the hilarity of next-door three of us were doubled over in laughter. Bob rushed down to see what was so funny and I shushed him. “I’m not done yet.”
Ten minutes later, just as she relaxed back into the pool — I dialed again.
Another walrus-worthy exit. Another mad, dripping shuffle to the house. Another hang-up at the perfect moment.
The boys howled. Even Bob cracked a grin.
I cleared the breakfast dishes and thought, One more time won’t kill anyone. Sure enough, when I called again, she made her third glorious dash out of the pool, grumbling like a wet hen.
That’s when Bob — always the voice of reason — said, “Laura, you’re being just as much of a jackass as they are.”
He wasn’t wrong. But, it felt sooooo good.
Sometimes, you’ve just got to fight petty with petty. And that Sunday morning? Victory was sweet. And slightly chlorinated.
