My neighbor’s laundry became the unexpected star of the show right outside my 8-year-old son’s window. It was an unusual sight, to say the least—lacy, brightly colored underwear waving like victory flags. When my son innocently asked if her thongs were slingshots, I knew I had to do something. It was time to teach my neighbor a lesson in laundry etiquette.

Ah, the joys of suburban living! Where the grass is always greener on the other side—mainly because your neighbor has a better sprinkler system. My husband, Thompson, and I had settled into this quiet neighborhood with our son, Jake, expecting a peaceful life. Everything was going smoothly until Lisa moved in next door.

It all started on a regular Tuesday. I remember it well because it was laundry day, and I was folding an endless pile of superhero underwear, courtesy of Jake’s latest obsession. As I glanced out his bedroom window, I nearly spit out my coffee. There, billowing in the breeze, was a pair of hot pink, lacy panties. And they weren’t alone. A whole collection of Lisa’s intimate apparel was on display, dancing in the wind like a fashion show gone wrong.

“Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or Victoria’s Secret runway?”

Jake peered up at me with curiosity. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”

I felt my face turn as red as my malfunctioning dryer. “Uh, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa just really likes fresh air. Why don’t we close these curtains and, um, give the laundry some privacy?”

Jake, still full of innocent curiosity, continued, “But 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 become a full-blown sob. “Honey, your underwear is shy. It likes to stay inside where it’s cozy.”

Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry habits became as predictable as my morning coffee—and just as unwelcome as a cold cup of joe with curdled milk. Every day, a new assortment of undies graced Jake’s window, and every day, I found myself playing defense.

One afternoon, as I prepared a snack, Jake came bounding into the kitchen, his little face filled with excitement. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have so many different-colored underwear? And why are some of them so small? Are they for her pet hamster?”

I nearly dropped the peanut butter jar. Imagining Lisa’s reaction to the idea of rodent-sized lingerie almost made me lose it.

“Well, sweetie,” I said, trying to keep my composure, “grown-ups just have different preferences for their clothes.”

Jake nodded in understanding. “So, kind of like how I love superhero underwear, but grown-up style? Does Mrs. Lisa fight crime at night? Is that why her underwear is so small? For aerodynamics?”

I choked on air. “Uh, not exactly, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa isn’t a superhero. She’s just very… confident.”

That was it. I had to do something. The next day, I marched over to Lisa’s house, armed with my best “concerned neighbor” smile. Lisa answered, looking effortlessly glamorous, as if she had just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.

“Oh, hi there! Kristie, right?” she said, flashing a polite but uninterested smile.

“That’s right! Listen, Lisa, I hoped we could chat about something.”

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched. “Oh? Need to borrow a cup of sugar? Or maybe a cup of confidence?”

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that assault charges weren’t in my budget. “It’s about your laundry. Specifically, where you hang it. It’s right in front of my son’s window, and he’s starting to ask questions. Yesterday, he asked if your thongs were slingshots.”

Lisa laughed. “Honey, they’re just clothes! It’s not like I’m hanging up classified government documents. Besides, I think I’m doing the neighborhood a favor.”

I clenched my jaw. “Lisa, he’s only eight. This morning, he asked if he could hang his Superman undies next to your, um, ‘crime-fighting gear.'”

Lisa smirked. “Sounds like a learning opportunity. Maybe you should loosen up.”

I was speechless. “Oh, it is ON,” I muttered as I turned on my heel. Lisa wanted to play games? Fine. She had no idea who she was dealing with.

That night, I sat at my sewing machine, determined. Hours passed as I worked on my masterpiece—the world’s largest, most obnoxious pair of granny panties, stitched together with the brightest, most eye-searing fabric I could find.

The next afternoon, as soon as Lisa left, I sprang into action. I strung up my creation right in front of her living room window. It was enormous, a fabric monstrosity so bold it could probably be seen from space.

When Lisa returned, she froze in her driveway, her jaw hitting the pavement. “WHAT THE H*LL??” she screeched.

I strolled outside, grinning. “Oh, hi, Lisa! Doing some redecorating? I thought we were starting a trend!”

Lisa’s face turned beet red. “Take. It. Down.”

I tapped my chin. “Hmm. Not sure. It really adds character to the neighborhood, don’t you think?”

She sighed in defeat. “Fine! I’ll move my laundry. Just take that thing down before my retinas burn.”

We shook on it, and from that day on, Lisa’s undergarments disappeared from Jake’s window view. As for me? Let’s just say I now have a very interesting set of curtains made from flamingo fabric. Waste not, want not!

And Jake? He was a little disappointed 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 granny panties flying in the wind? Well, that’s just Mom, saving the neighborhood one prank at a time.