For weeks, the focus outside my 8-year-old son’s window was my neighbor’s underwear. I realized it was time to put an end to this panty parade and give her a severe lesson in laundry etiquette when he naively inquired as to whether her thongs were slingshots.
Suburbania, ah! For the most part, your neighbor’s sprinkler system is superior to yours, therefore it’s always greener on the other side. I, Kristie, Thompson’s wife, made the decision to establish myself there with my 8-year-old son, Jake. Before Lisa, our new neighbor, arrived in next door, life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead.
On a Tuesday, it began. Jake’s latest interest caused me to fold a mound of tiny superhero undies on laundry day, which is why I remember.
I almost choked on my coffee when I looked out his bedroom window. A pair of hot pink, lacy panties was there, flying in the breeze like the most unsuitable flag in the world.
They weren’t alone, either. My son’s window was directly in front of a rainbow of underpants swirling in the breeze, indicating that they had buddies.
I mumbled, “Holy guacamole,” and let go of my Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or Victoria’s Secret runway?”
“Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?” Jake said, echoing from behind me.
Even burning than my broken dryer was the burn on my face. “Oh, my dear. Mrs. Lisa simply enjoys the fresh air. How about we draw these curtains? Let the laundry have some solitude.”
“But Mom,” Jake insisted, his eyes bright with naive inquiry, “shouldn’t my underpants go outdoors too since Mrs. Lisa’s likes fresh air? Perhaps her pink underwear and mine might become friends.”
I suppressed a chuckle that was on the verge of becoming a sob of hysteria. “Your underwear is bashful, honey. It would rather remain indoors, where it is comfortable.”
I thought, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Kristie,” as I escorted Jake out. I hope you packed a solid pair of drapes and your sense of humor.
As the days stretched into weeks, Lisa’s laundry show became roughly as welcoming as a cold cup of coffee with a dash of curdled milk and as routine as my morning java.
Every single day, a fresh selection of underwear appeared outside my son’s window, and I was forced to play the awkward game of “shield the child’s eyes.”
Jake rushed in one afternoon as I was in the kitchen making a snack. His excited and perplexed expression made my mom-sense quiver with fear.
In the tone that always came before a question I wasn’t expecting, he said, “Mom,” “why does Mrs. Lisa have so many various colored underwear? And why do some of them have such little stature? Using strings? Are they for her hamster as a pet?”
Imagining Lisa’s reaction to the idea that her delicates were rodent-sized, I almost dropped the knife I was using to spread peanut butter.
“Well, honey,” I stumbled, buying myself some further time, “everyone has different fashion tastes. Even those that we normally don’t see.”
Jake gave me a wise nod, as though I had given him some really important advice. “So, it’s similar to how I enjoy wearing my superhero undies, but with adult clothes? Is Mrs. Lisa a nighttime crime fighter? Does it explain why her pants are so tiny? For the sake of aerodynamics?”
I gasped for breath, torn between dread and laughter. “Well, not quite, my dear. No, Mrs. Lisa is not superhuman. She simply exudes confidence.”
“Oh,” Jake remarked, with a somewhat disheartened expression. Then his expression brightened once more.
“But, Mom, is it okay for me to hang my underpants outside if Mrs. Lisa can? My boxers from Captain America would look awesome fluttering in the wind, I bet.”
I murmured, “Sorry, buddy,” and ruffled his hair. “Your panties are unique. To, um, protect your secret identity, it must remain hidden.”
I looked out the window at Lisa’s colorful underwear display while Jake nodded and ate his snack.
It couldn’t continue. It was time to talk to our neighbor who is an exhibitionist.
I marched over to Lisa’s place the following day.
I pressed my best “concerned neighbor” smile on as I answered the doorbell, the same one I use when I tell the homeowners association that “no, my garden gnomes are not offensive, they’re whimsical.”
Lisa responded, appearing as though she had just walked out of a shampoo advertisement.
“Oh, hello! “Kristie, correct?” She scowled.
“You’re correct! I hoped we could talk about something, Lisa.”
She raised an eyebrow and leaned against the doorframe. “Oh? What are you thinking about? Do you need a cup of sugar? Or perhaps some self-assurance?” She gave my mother’s pants and baggy t-shirt a sharp look.
Reminding myself that jail orange wasn’t my hue, I inhaled deeply. It has to do with your laundry. In particular, where it is hung.
Lisa wrinkled her nicely groomed eyebrows. “My clothes? How about it? Does the neighborhood find it too trendy?”
“Well, it’s only that my son’s window is directly in front of it. The underpants in particular. It’s a little revealing. Jake is beginning to inquire. He inquired yesterday as to whether your thongs were slingshots.”
“Oh, sweetheart. They’re only garments! I’m not hanging up nuclear launch codes, exactly. However, my leopard print bikini bottoms are very explosive when we’re together.”
My eye flickered. “Jake is just eight, but I get it. He wants to know. He asked to hang his Superman underwear next to your “crime-fighting gear” this morning.
“So, it seems like the ideal chance for some schooling. Thank you! Here, I’m essentially managing a public service. And why should your son matter to me? I own the yard. Get tougher!”
“Excuse me?”
Lisa dismissively waved her hand. “Hey, you might need to relax if a few sets of underwear are causing you that much anxiety. My yard and my rules apply. Take care of it. Alternatively, purchase some more attractive underpants. If you’d like, I could provide you some advice.”
She then shut the door in my face, leaving me standing there, likely catching flies with my mouth gaping.
I was taken aback. I murmured, “Oh, it is ON,” and pivoted on my heel. “Will you play dirty laundry with me? Go for it, Lisa.” “Game, on.”
I sat at my sewing machine that evening.
In front of me were yards of the most gaudy, eye-searing cloth I could locate. It was the type of cloth that might simply draw extraterrestrial life and was likely visible from space!
“You think your little lacy numbers are something to see, Lisa?” As I fed the fabric through the machine, I mumbled. “Wait till you’re overwhelmed by this. E.T. will call home regarding these infants.”
After several hours, my creation—the biggest, most annoying pair of granny panties in the world—was finally finished.
They were just petty enough to prove my point, loud enough to be heard from space, and large enough to be used as a parachute.
My underwear was a fabric foghorn, if Lisa’s was a whisper.
I took immediate action when I observed Lisa’s car leave her driveway that afternoon.
I scampered across our lawns, hiding between bushes and yard decorations, my improvised clothesline and enormous flamingo underwear ready.
I set up my work just in front of Lisa’s living room window after getting the all-clear. I had to smile as I took a step back to look at my work.
In the afternoon air, the enormous flamingo undies fluttered majestically. They were so big that a family of four could probably use them as a tent for camping.
“Take that, Lisa,” I said as I hurried home. See how you feel about getting a taste of your own medication. It’s about to get BRIGHT in the neighborhood, so I hope you brought your shades.
I went back to my place and stood by the window. I was like a child waiting for Santa, however instead of presents, I was waiting for Lisa to find out about my small surprise.
Hours passed by in the blink of an eye.
The distinctive sound of Lisa’s car rolling into the driveway interrupted my thoughts about whether she had chosen to turn her errands into an unexpected vacation.
It’s show time.
Lisa froze as she stepped outside with shopping bags in her arms. Her jaw fell so quickly that I was afraid it could fall off. The bags fell out of her hands and spilled their contents all over the driveway.
A pair of polka-dot pants rolled across the yard, and I swear I saw it. Elegant, Lisa.
“WHAT THE HELL…??” She let out a screech that could be heard throughout the entire neighborhood. “Is a parachute there? Has the circus arrived in town?
I started laughing. As I watched Lisa charge up to the enormous underwear and grab at them in vain, tears ran down my cheeks. It resembled a chihuahua attempting to subdue a Great Dane.
I walked outside and collected myself. “Hey Lisa! Are you remodeling your home? I adore the way you’ve transformed the space. Very innovative.”
Her face was as pink as my creation’s underwear as she spun around on me. “You! You succeeded! What’s wrong with you? Are you attempting to communicate with airplanes?”
I gave a shrug. “I’m just doing some laundry. That is what neighbors do, isn’t it? I believed we were beginning a pattern.”
“This isn’t laundry!” Lisa screamed and pointed madly at the underwear. “This is… this is…”
“A learning opportunity?” I made a kind suggestion. “For the youngsters in the neighborhood, you know. The aerodynamics of underpants piqued Jake’s interest. I believed a hands-on demonstration could be beneficial.”
Like a fish out of water, Lisa’s mouth opened and closed. At last, she stumbled out, “Take. It. Down.”
I gave my chin a contemplative tap. “Well, I’m not sure. I’m enjoying the breeze a little. You know, it really lets everything out. In addition, I believe it is increasing the value of real estate. There is nothing more ‘classy neighborhood’ than enormous novelty underwear.”
I briefly feared Lisa may burst into flames. Then her shoulders slumped, which surprised me. “Fine,” she murmured with clenched teeth. “You prevail. I am going to move my laundry. Just… please, remove this abomination. My retinas are burning.”
I laughed and held out my hand. “Agree. However, I must admit that flamingos seem to be your color.”
I had to add, as we shook hands, “By the way, Lisa? Greetings from the neighborhood. Here, we’re all a little insane. Some of us are simply better at hiding it than others.”
Lisa’s laundry vanished from the clothesline outside Jake’s window after that day. I never had to cope with her “life lessons,” and she never brought it up again.
And me? Let’s just say that I now own a set of curtains that are really intriguing and created from flamingo fabric. Don’t waste, don’t want?
Jake felt a little let down that the “underwear slingshots” were no longer available. I reassured him, however, that being a superhero sometimes entails hiding your undergarments. And what if he ever spots enormous flamingo pants soaring in the air? Clearly, Mom is protecting the neighborhood, one absurd joke at a time!
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