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.”
