The Neighborhood Hated My Pink House And Repainted It — But I Won the War of Petty Revenge (2 of 3)

One weekend, I went out of town to visit my sister. I was gone for three days. On Monday morning, I pulled into my driveway and stopped cold.

My house. Was beige.

Beige. Flat, soulless, lifeless beige. The shutters were repainted white. My “HOME” sign was ripped off the porch. Even the trim was dulled down into some washed-out taupe nightmare. I thought I had the wrong address for a second.

I was shaking. My neighbors had literally repainted my house behind my back.

The police were called. Turns out, no one saw anything. No security cameras caught a thing. It was as if beige-wielding ninjas had attacked in the dead of night.

But I knew who it was. The looks on my neighbors’ faces said it all. Some smirked. One even said, “Looks better now, doesn’t it?” Like they were proud of what they’d done.

I was furious. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t lash out. I didn’t key cars or slash tires. I got smarter.

First, I filed a report with my homeowner’s insurance and showed them the receipts for the original paint job. They were just as shocked as I was—and covered the cost to repaint it back. But I wasn’t just going to go back to pink. No, no.

I doubled down.

I hired a professional muralist. A week later, my entire house was transformed into a bright, bold masterpiece. Think cotton-candy skies, pastel rainbows, clouds shaped like cats. It was whimsical, over-the-top, and absolutely unmissable. It made the first version look tame.

People drove from other neighborhoods to take pictures. Kids loved it. Local news even did a story on “the happiest house in town.”