For demonstration purposes only
For weeks, my neighbor’s underwear became the center of attention outside my 8-year-old son’s window. When he innocently asked if her thongs were slingshots, I realized it was time to put an end to this panty spectacle and teach her a lesson in laundry decorum.
Ah, suburbia! The grass always seems greener on the other side, often because your neighbor’s sprinkler system is far superior to yours. That’s where I, Kristie, wife of Thompson, decided to settle down with my son Jake. Life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead until Lisa, our new neighbor, moved in next door.
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It all started on a Tuesday, which I remember because it was laundry day, and I was folding a mountain of tiny superhero underwear thanks to Jake’s latest obsession.
As I glanced out his bedroom window, I nearly choked on my coffee. A pair of hot pink lace underwear was fluttering in the breeze like the world’s most inappropriate flag.
And they weren’t alone. Oh no, they were part of a full rainbow of undergarments 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 a Victoria’s Secret runway?”
Jake’s voice piped up from behind me, “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”
My face turned hotter than my malfunctioning dryer. “Uh, sweetie, Mrs. Lisa just… really enjoys fresh air. How about we close these curtains, huh? Give the laundry some privacy?”
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“But Mom,” Jake insisted, 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 be friends with her pink ones!”
I stifled a laugh that threatened to turn into a 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.”
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Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry display became as routine as my morning coffee, though far less enjoyable.
Every day, a new set of panties appeared outside my son’s window, and I found myself awkwardly playing the game of “shield the child’s eyes.”
One afternoon, while preparing a snack in the kitchen, Jake burst in, his face a mix of confusion and excitement, sending my mom-sense into overdrive.
“Mom,” he began, in that tone that always preceded an unexpected question, “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?”
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I nearly dropped the knife I was using to spread peanut butter, imagining Lisa’s reaction if she knew her delicates were being compared to rodent-sized garments.
“Well, honey,” I stammered, buying myself some time, “everyone has different preferences for their clothes. Even the ones we don’t usually see.”
Jake nodded as if I’d just shared profound wisdom. “So, it’s like how I like my superhero underwear, but for grown-ups? 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 replied, a bit 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 on his lunch, I gazed out the window at Lisa’s colorful underwear display.
This situation couldn’t continue. It was time to have a word with our exhibitionist neighbor.
For demonstration purposes only
The next day, I marched over to Lisa’s house.
I rang the doorbell, putting on my best “concerned neighbor” smile, the same one I use to assure the HOA that “no, my garden gnomes are not offensive, they’re whimsical.”
Lisa answered the door, looking as if she had just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
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“Oh, hi there! Kristie, right?” she frowned.
“That’s right! Listen, Lisa, I was hoping we could talk 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 is not my color. “It’s about your laundry. Specifically, where you hang it.”
Lisa’s perfectly groomed brows 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 revealing. Jake’s starting to ask questions. Just yesterday, he wondered 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!”
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“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.”
And with that, she slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there, mouth agape, likely gathering 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. The kind of fabric that could be seen from space and might even attract extraterrestrial life!
“You think your little lacy numbers are something to see, Lisa?” I muttered, feeding the fabric through the machine. “Wait until you get a load of this. E.T. will be calling home about these babies.”
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After hours of sewing, I completed the world’s largest and most obnoxious pair of granny panties.
They were big enough to serve as a parachute, loud enough to be heard from space, and just ridiculous enough to make my point.
If Lisa’s underwear was a whisper, mine was a fabric-covered foghorn.
That afternoon, as soon as I saw Lisa’s car leave her driveway, I sprang into action.
With my makeshift clothesline and gigantic flamingo underpants ready, I dashed across our lawns, ducking between plants and lawn ornaments.
With the coast clear, I hung my creation just in front of Lisa’s living room window. Stepping back to admire my work, I couldn’t help but smile.
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The enormous flamingo undies fluttered triumphantly in the afternoon breeze. They were so large that a family of four could easily use them as a tent while 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 at home, I positioned myself by the window, feeling like a kid waiting for Santa, but instead of gifts, I was anticipating Lisa’s reaction to my little surprise.
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The minutes dragged on like hours.
Just as I began to wonder if Lisa had turned her errands into a surprise holiday, I heard the familiar sound of her car pulling into the driveway.
It’s showtime.
Lisa stepped outside, arms full of shopping bags, and froze. Her mouth dropped so quickly, I thought it might detach. The bags slipped from her fingers, scattering their contents across the driveway.
I swear I saw a pair of polka-dot panties rolling across the yard. Lisa, you are so classy.
“WHAT THE HELL…??” she screeched, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “Is that a parachute? Did the circus come to town?”
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I burst into laughter. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched Lisa rush up to the enormous undies, grabbing at them in vain. 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 spun around, her face as pink as 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 sputtered, “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 boosting property values. Nothing says ‘classy neighborhood’ like giant novelty underwear.”
For a moment, I thought Lisa might spontaneously combust. Then, to my surprise, her shoulders slumped. “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 resist adding, “By the way, Lisa? Welcome to the neighborhood. We’re all a little crazy here. Some of us just hide it better than others.”
Since that day, Lisa’s laundry has been absent from the clothesline in front of Jake’s window. She never brought it up again, and I never had to deal with her “life lessons” either.
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And me? Let’s just say I now have a rather unusual set of curtains made from flamingo fabric. Don’t waste, don’t want, right?
Jake was a bit disappointed that the “underwear slingshots” were no longer on display. But I explained that sometimes being a superhero means keeping your undergarments a secret. What if he ever sees huge flamingo undies flying through the sky? Mom is just protecting the neighborhood with outrageous pranks!