For weeks, my neighbor’s underpants stole the spotlight outside my 8-year-old son’s window. When he naively questioned if her thongs were slingshots, I decided it was time to put an end to this panty parade and teach her a valuable lesson in laundry etiquette.

Ah, suburbia! The land of manicured lawns, passive-aggressive HOA emails, and, apparently, impromptu lingerie exhibits. Life in our quiet cul-de-sac was as smooth as a freshly paved driveway—until Lisa moved in next door.

It all started on a Tuesday. I remember because I was buried under a mountain of tiny superhero underwear, thanks to Jake’s latest obsession with dressing like the Justice League. As I stood in his room folding laundry, I made the mistake of glancing out the window.

And nearly choked on my coffee.

There, fluttering in the breeze like an indecent flag of victory, was a hot pink lace thong. Not just one, but an entire collection of vibrantly colored undergarments, waving proudly in the sun. It was like Victoria’s Secret had set up an outdoor exhibit exclusively for my backyard view.

“Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or a fashion show for the scandalously confident?”

Jake’s voice piped up behind me. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”

I fumbled for an answer. “Uh, sweetie, Mrs. Lisa just… really likes fresh air.” I grabbed the curtains and yanked them closed. “Why don’t we give her laundry some privacy?”

Jake, ever the curious child, wasn’t convinced. “But Mom, if Mrs. Lisa’s underwear gets fresh air, shouldn’t mine go outside too? Maybe my Hulk undies can make friends with her pink ones!”

I swallowed back an inappropriate snort. “Honey, your underwear is… shy. It prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.”

Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry line continued its daily performance. Each morning, a new set of barely-there garments took center stage, leaving me in an endless cycle of playing the human curtain to shield Jake’s innocence.

One afternoon, while making Jake a peanut butter sandwich, he burst into the kitchen, eyes wide with bewilderment. “Mom,” he started in that tone that usually 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. Hamster lingerie. That was a new one.

“Well, honey,” I stammered, “people have different tastes in clothes. Even the ones we don’t usually see.”

Jake nodded, looking contemplative. “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. “Uh… not exactly, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa is just very… confident.”

Jake’s face fell, disappointed. Then, it brightened 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!”

And that was the moment I decided it was time to talk to Lisa.

The next morning, I marched next door and rang the bell, plastering on my best “concerned neighbor” smile. Lisa answered, looking like she had just walked out of a shampoo commercial.

“Oh, hi there! Kristie, right?” she said, flipping her impossibly perfect hair.

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

She leaned against the doorframe, eyebrows raised. “Oh? Need to borrow some sugar? Or maybe a cup of confidence?” Her eyes flicked to my mom jeans and oversized T-shirt.

I ignored the jab. “It’s about your laundry. Specifically, where you hang it.”

Lisa’s brows furrowed. “My laundry? What about it? Is it too fashion-forward for the neighborhood?”

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that jail orange wasn’t my color. “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 asking questions.”

Lisa smirked. “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 eight. This morning, he asked if he could hang his Superman undies next to your, uh, ‘crime-fighting gear.’”

Lisa waved 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.”

I stood there, stunned. “Oh, it is ON,” I muttered under my breath. “You want a laundry war? You got one.”

That night, I set up my sewing machine.

After hours of labor, I had created the world’s most obnoxious pair of granny panties—bright, floral, large enough to function as a parachute. If Lisa’s laundry was a whisper, mine would be a foghorn.

The next afternoon, when Lisa left for errands, I snuck across our lawns and hoisted my masterpiece onto a clothesline directly in front of her living room window. The monstrous undergarment billowed gloriously, practically visible from space.

Back in my house, I took my spot by the window, waiting for the moment of truth.

Minutes passed. Then—showtime.

Lisa pulled into her driveway, stepped out, and froze. Her mouth dropped open as her shopping bags hit the pavement. A polka-dot thong rolled into the street.

“WHAT THE HELL…?” she screeched, her voice echoing across the neighborhood. “Is that a parachute? Did the circus come to town?”

I strolled outside, feigning surprise. “Oh, hi Lisa! Love the new decor. Very avant-garde.”

She turned to me, face redder than my oversized creation. “YOU DID THIS!”

I shrugged. “Just embracing the neighborhood trend.”

“This isn’t laundry!” she shouted. “This is a prank!”

“A learning opportunity,” I corrected sweetly. “You said it yourself—nothing wrong with airing things out. Hope you brought sunglasses because it’s about to get BRIGHT around here.”

Lisa gaped at me, then exhaled sharply. “Fine. You win. I’ll move my laundry. Just… please, take this monstrosity down.”

I extended my hand. “Deal. But I have to say, I think flamingos are your color.”

Since that day, Lisa’s lingerie parade has mysteriously disappeared. Jake was a little disappointed that the “underwear slingshots” were gone, but I assured him that superheroes keep their undergarments a secret.

And me? I now own a truly unique pair of flamingo curtains. Waste not, want not, right?