For weeks, my neighbor’s laundry was a daily sight outside my 8-year-old son Jake’s window. When he innocently inquired whether her thongs were slingshots, I knew it was time to end this panty display and teach her a lesson in laundry discretion. Ah, suburbia! Where the grass is greener, primarily because your neighbor’s sprinkler system is superior to yours. I’m Kristie, Thompson’s wife, attempting to enjoy a simple life with our kid, Jake. Things remained quiet and predictable until Lisa, our new neighbor, moved in next door.
It all began on a Tuesday, which I remember vividly since it was laundry day. As I folded Jake’s superhero briefs, I looked out the window—and almost choked on my coffee. There, blowing in the breeze, was a pair of neon pink lace panties that looked like an indecent flag. But it was not all. Oh no! A rainbow of tiny undergarments fluttered in the breeze directly in front of my son’s window.
“Holy guacamole,” I said, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or a Victoria’s Secret runway?” “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?” Jake inquired, his small face filled with genuine wonder. I felt my cheeks burning. “Uh, sweetie, Mrs. Lisa simply enjoys fresh air.” Let’s close the drapes to give her laundry some solitude.” “But Mom,” he replied, “if her underwear requires fresh air, shouldn’t mine as well?” Maybe my Hulk undies may become friends with her pink ones!”
I restrained a laugh. “Honey, your underwear prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.” As I hurried Jake out, I thought, “Kristie, welcome to the neighborhood. I hope you brought your sense of humor and a nice pair of curtains.” Days stretched into weeks, and Lisa’s washing show became as usual as my daily coffee, albeit much less enjoyable—like a cold cup.
Every day brought a new set of underwear, and I found myself engaged in a continuous game of “shield the child’s eyes.” One afternoon, while I was preparing lunch, Jake wandered in with that familiar expression of perplexity that every parent knows indicates trouble. “Mom,” he asked, “why does Mrs. Lisa have so many colorful underwear?” And how come some are so small? “Are these for her hamster?”
I nearly dropped the peanut butter knife, imaging Lisa’s response if she realized her delicates were hamster-sized in my son’s head. “Well, honey,” I managed, “people simply have different clothing preferences. Even the ones we don’t often see. Jake nodded, as if he understood what I was saying. “So, it’s like how I enjoy superhero underwear? Perhaps Mrs. Lisa is a superhero. Is her underwear too small for aerodynamics?
I nearly choked, torn between amusement and dread. “Not quite, sweetheart. Mrs. Lisa simply has a, uh, distinctive style.” “Oh,” Jake said, little disappointed. But then he brightened. “Mom, if Mrs. Lisa can hang her underwear outside, can I, too? “I bet my Captain America boxers would look great flapping in the wind!” “Sorry, buddy,” I replied, ruffling his hair. “Your undies have to keep their superhero powers secret.”
As Jake strolled off, I looked out at Lisa’s colorful laundry and thought, “This has got to stop.” The next day, I marched over to Lisa’s house, wearing my best “concerned neighbor” smile, which I save for HOA meetings. She opened the door, as if she had just stepped out of a shampoo advertisement. “Oh, hello there!” “Kristie, right?” “Yes! “I hoped we could talk about something,” I responded.
She leaned against the door, her eyebrow lifted. “What’s on your mind?” Need a cup of sugar? “Or perhaps a cup of confidence?” She gave my mom’s jeans a look that nearly screamed makeover.I took a deep breath. “This is about your laundry. Specifically, where do you hang it? Lisa scrunched her brows. “My laundry?” How about it? “Are the colors too bold for the neighborhood?”
“It’s only that it’s just outside my son’s window. He’s starting to ask a lot of questions, like why you have slingshots out there. Lisa laughed. “They are just clothing! It’s not like I’m revealing nuclear secrets. “However, my leopard bikini bottoms are quite wild.” I felt my eye twitch. “Jake is only eight. He’s curious. This morning, he requested if he may hang his superhero underwear outdoors with yours.
Lisa shrugged. “This sounds like a learning moment. You are welcome! And why should I care what your son thinks? This is my yard. Maybe you should loosen up. “Excuse me?” I replied, shocked. Lisa rolled her eyes. “If a couple sets of panties disturb you so much, that’s your issue. Deal with that or acquire some nicer underpants.” She slammed the door, leaving me angry at her doorway.
“Oh, it is on,” I grumbled as I returned to my residence. “Do you want a laundry war, Lisa?” “Game on.” That night, I took out my sewing machine and dug out the loudest, most eye-catching fabric I could find—the kind visible from space. If Lisa thought her lingerie show was remarkable, she had yet to see anything. By morning, I had made the world’s most irritating pair of granny panties. Large enough to be a parachute and audible enough to wake the dead.
When Lisa left her house, I sprung into action, hanging my masterpiece on a line directly in front of her window. The gigantic flamingo undies fluttered beautifully in the breeze, and I stood back to admire my job. “Let the games begin,” I muttered, as my enormous flamingo underwear reflected the sunshine, creating a spectacle visible from miles away.
“Take that, Lisa,” I said quietly, running back to my house. “Let’s see how you like getting a taste of your own medicine. Better get your sunglasses ready, because things are going to get BRIGHT around here. Back at home, I positioned myself by the window, feeling like a child on Christmas Eve, waiting for her to see my creation. Instead of presents, I was waiting for Lisa’s reaction to my small surprise.
The minutes crept by. Just as I was wondering if Lisa had chosen to take an impromptu vacation, I heard her car come into the driveway.She stepped out, arms full of shopping bags, and froze. Her mouth dropped so quickly that I believed it might strike the pavement. The bags slipped out of her hands, spilling goods on the driveway. I swear I saw a pair of polka-dot panties fall across the lawn. Lisa, you’re classy.
“WHAT THE HELL…?!” She screeched loudly enough to rattle the windows. “Is that a parachute?” Has the circus moved in?” I collapsed in laughter. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I watched Lisa rush towards the huge underpants, desperately attempting to wrangle them. It was like witnessing a Chihuahua try to tackle a Great Dane. I got myself together and headed outside. “Oh, hello, Lisa! Are we redecorating? I have to say, I adore your daring new style. “So avant-garde.”
She spun around, her face blushed as pink as my enormous creation. “You! This was you! Are you insane? “Are you trying to signal airplanes?” I shrugged. “I just thought I’d air some laundry. Isn’t this what neighbors do? “I assumed we were setting trends around here.” “This isn’t laundry!” she exclaimed, waving angrily at the huge underwear. “This is… this is…” “A teaching moment?” I suggested innocently. “Jake was really interested in underwear aerodynamics. “I thought a live demonstration would be educational.” Lisa’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish panting for oxygen. Finally, she spluttered.
I tapped my chin, carefully. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I like the breeze. Really lets everything out, you know? Plus, I believe it is increasing home values. Nothing says ‘classy neighborhood’ like oversized novelty underwear. For a brief minute, I feared Lisa could spontaneously combust. Then, to my amazement, her shoulders slumped. “Fine,” she said with gritted teeth. “You won. I will shift my laundry. Just… please take down this monstrosity. “My retinas are burning.”
I chuckled and extended my hand. “Deal. But I must say, I believe flamingos are your color.” As we shook hands, I couldn’t help but say, “By the way, Lisa?” Welcome to the neighborhood. We are all a little insane here. “Some of us simply hide it better than others.” Lisa’s laundry has been missing from the clothesline in front of Jake’s window since that day. She never addressed it again, and I never had to cope with her “life lessons” either.