My neighbor’s undies stole the spotlight right outside my 8-year-old son’s window for weeks. When he innocently asked if her thongs were slingshots, I knew it was time to end this panty parade and teach her a serious lesson in laundry etiquette.
Ah, suburbia! Where the grass is always greener on the other side, mainly because your neighbor’s sprinkler system is better than yours. That’s where I, Kristie, wife of Thompson, decided to plant my roots with my 8-year-old son, Jake. Life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead until our new neighbor, Lisa, moved in next door.
It started on a Tuesday. I remember because it was laundry day, and I was folding a mountain of tiny superhero underwear, courtesy of Jake’s latest obsession.
Glancing out his bedroom window, I nearly choked on my coffee. There, flapping in the breeze like the world’s most inappropriate flag, was a pair of hot pink, lacy panties.
And they weren’t alone. Oh no, they had friends — an entire rainbow of undies dancing in the wind, right in front of my son’s window.
“Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or Victoria’s Secret runway?”
Jake’s voice piped up behind me, “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”
My face burned hotter than my malfunctioning dryer. “Uh, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa just… really likes fresh air. Why don’t we close these curtains, huh? Give the laundry some privacy.”
“But Mom,” Jake persisted, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity, “if Mrs. Lisa’s underwear likes fresh air, shouldn’t mine go outside too? Maybe my Hulk undies could make friends with her pink ones!”
I stifled a laugh that threatened to turn into a hysterical sob. “Honey, your underwear is… shy. It prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.”
As I ushered Jake out, I couldn’t help but think, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Kristie. Hope you brought your sense of humor and a sturdy pair of curtains.”
Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry show became as regular as my morning coffee and about as welcome as a cold cup of joe with a splash of curdled milk.
Every day, a new assortment of panties made their debut outside my son’s window, and every single day, I found myself playing an awkward game of “shield the child’s eyes.”
One afternoon, as I was preparing a snack in the kitchen, Jake came bounding in, his face etched with confusion and excitement that made my mom-sense tingle with dread.
“Mom,” he started, in that tone that always preceded a question I wasn’t prepared for, “why does Mrs. Lisa have so many different colored underwear? And why are some of them so small? With strings? Are they for her pet hamster?
I nearly dropped the knife I was using to spread peanut butter, imagining Lisa’s reaction to the suggestion her delicates were rodent-sized.
“Well, honey,” I stammered, buying time, “everyone has different preferences for their clothes. Even the ones we don’t usually see.”
Jake nodded sagely as if I’d imparted some great wisdom. “So, it’s like how I like my superhero underwear, but grown-up? Does Mrs. Lisa fight crime at night? Is that why her underwear is so small? For aerodynamics?”
I choked on air, caught between laughter and horror. “Uh, not exactly, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa isn’t a superhero. She’s just very confident.”
“Oh,” Jake said, looking slightly disappointed. Then his face lit up again.
“But Mom, if Mrs. Lisa can hang her underwear outside, can I hang mine too? I bet my Captain America boxers would look super cool flapping in the wind!”
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Your underwear is special. It needs to stay hidden to, uh, protect your secret identity.”
As Jake nodded and munched away on his snack, I stared out the window at Lisa’s colorful undies display.
This couldn’t go on. It was time to have a chat with our exhibitionist neighbor. 
The next day, I marched over to Lisa’s house.
I rang the doorbell, plastering on my best “concerned neighbor” smile, the same one I use when telling the HOA that “no, my garden gnomes are not offensive, they’re whimsical.”
Lisa answered, looking like she’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
“Oh, hi there! Kristie, right?” she frowned.
“That’s right! Listen, Lisa, I hoped we could chat about something.”
She leaned against the doorframe, eyebrow raised. “Oh? What’s on your mind? Need to borrow a cup of sugar? Or maybe a cup of confidence?” She glanced pointedly at my mom jeans and oversized t-shirt.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself that jail orange wasn’t my color. “It’s about your laundry. Specifically, where you hang it.”
Lisa’s perfectly plucked eyebrows furrowed. “My laundry? What about it? Is it too fashion-forward for the neighborhood?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s right in front of my son’s window. The, um, underwear especially. It’s a bit exposing. Jake’s starting to ask questions. Yesterday, he asked if your thongs were slingshots.”
“Oh, honey. They’re just clothes! It’s not like I’m hanging up nuclear launch codes. Although, between you and me, my leopard print bikini bottoms are pretty explosive!”
I felt my eye twitch. “I understand, but Jake is only eight. He’s curious. This morning, he asked if he could hang his Superman undies next to your, uh, ‘crime-fighting gear’.”
“Well, then, sounds like a perfect opportunity for some education. You’re welcome! I’m practically running a public service here. And why should I care about your son? It’s my yard. Toughen up!”
“Excuse me?”
Lisa waved her hand dismissively. “Listen, if you’re that bothered by a few pairs of panties, maybe you need to loosen up. It’s my yard, my rules. Deal with it. Or better yet, buy some cuter underwear. I could give you some tips if you’d like.”
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And with that, she slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there with my mouth open, probably catching flies.
I was stunned. “Oh, it is ON,” I muttered, turning on my heel. “You want to play dirty laundry? Game on, Lisa. Game. On.” 
That night, I sat at my sewing machine.
Yards of the most garish, eye-searing fabric I could find lay before me. It was the kind of fabric that could probably be seen from space and might just attract alien life forms!
“You think your little lacy numbers are something to see, Lisa?” I muttered, feeding the fabric through the machine. “Wait till you get a load of this. E.T. will phone home about these babies.”
Hours passed, and finally, my masterpiece was complete — the world’s largest, most obnoxious pair of granny panties. 
They were big enough to be used as a parachute, loud enough to be seen from space, and just petty enough to make my point.
If Lisa’s underwear was a whisper, mine was a foghorn in fabric form.
That afternoon, as soon as I saw Lisa’s car pull out of her driveway, I sprang into action.
With my makeshift clothesline and giant flamingo undies ready, I scurried across our lawns, ducking behind shrubs and lawn ornaments.
With the coast clear, I strung up my creation right in front of Lisa’s living room window. Stepping back to admire my handiwork, I couldn’t help but grin.
The massive flamingo undies flapped majestically in the afternoon breeze. They were so large that a family of four could probably use them as a tent for camping.
“Take that, Lisa,” I whispered, scurrying back home. “Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine. Hope you brought your sunglasses, because it’s about to get BRIGHT in the neighborhood.”
Back in my house, I positioned myself by the window. I felt like a kid waiting for Santa, except instead of gifts, I was waiting for the moment Lisa would discover my little surprise.
The minutes ticked by like hours.
Just as I was wondering if Lisa had decided to extend her errands into a surprise vacation, I heard the telltale sound of her car pulling into the driveway.
Show time.
Lisa stepped out, arms full of shopping bags, and froze. Her jaw dropped so fast I thought it might detach. The bags slipped from her grasp, spilling contents across the driveway.
I swear I saw a pair of polka-dot underwear roll across the lawn. Classy, Lisa. 
“WHAT THE HELL…??” she screeched, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. “Is that a parachute? Did the circus come to town?”
I burst out laughing. Tears streamed down my face as I watched Lisa storm up to the giant undies, yanking at them futilely. It was like watching a chihuahua try to take down a Great Dane.
Composing myself, I strolled outside. “Oh, hi Lisa! Doing some redecorating? I love what you’ve done with the place. Very avant-garde.”
She whirled on me, face as pink as the undies of my creation. “You! You did this! What is wrong with you? Are you trying to signal aircraft?”
I shrugged. “Just hanging out some laundry. Isn’t that what neighbors do? I thought we were starting a trend.”
“This isn’t laundry!” Lisa shrieked, gesturing wildly at the undies. “This is… this is…”
“A learning opportunity?” I suggested sweetly. “You know, for the neighborhood kids. Jake was very curious about the aerodynamics of underwear. I thought a practical demonstration might help.”
Lisa’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Finally, she managed to sputter, “Take. It. Down.”
I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I kind of like the breeze it’s getting. Really airs things out, you know? Plus, I think it’s bringing the property values up. Nothing says ‘classy neighborhood’ like giant novelty underwear.”
For a moment, I thought Lisa might spontaneously combust. Then, to my surprise, her shoulders sagged. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “You win. I’ll move my laundry. Just… please, take this monstrosity down. My retinas are burning.”
I chuckled, extending my hand. “Deal. But I have to say, I think flamingos are your color.”
As we shook on it, I couldn’t help but add, “By the way, Lisa? Welcome to the neighborhood. We’re all a little crazy here. Some of us just hide it better than others.”
From that day on, Lisa’s laundry disappeared from the clothesline in front of Jake’s window. She never mentioned it again, and I never had to deal with her “life lessons” either.
And me? Well, let’s just say I now have a very interesting set of curtains made from flamingo fabric. Waste not, want not, right?
As for Jake, he was a bit disappointed that the “underwear slingshots” were gone. But I assured him that sometimes, being a superhero means keeping your underwear a secret. And if he ever sees giant flamingo underwear flying in the sky? Well, that’s just Mom saving the neighborhood, one ridiculous prank at a time! 