For weeks, my neighbor’s underpants dominated the view outside my 8-year-old son’s bedroom window. And not just any underpants — thongs. Bright, lacy, unapologetic thongs. One afternoon, Jake squinted out the window and asked, “Are those slingshots?”
I knew it was time to intervene.
Life in our suburban cul-de-sac had been quiet — lawn mowers, block parties, potlucks — until Lisa moved in. Lisa was loud, flashy, and clearly unbothered by things like modesty or window-facing laundry lines.
That day, I laughed it off. But the next morning, Jake asked, “Are those for a pet hamster? Or like… superhero aerodynamics?”
“She’s just confident,” I mumbled.
But the view stayed the same. Every Tuesday, the thongs returned like clockwork, flapping proudly in the breeze like tiny, rebellious flags. So, after one more failed attempt at polite conversation (“He thinks they’re slingshots,” I said at her door; she just laughed), I decided to fight fire with fabric.
I found the most ridiculous flamingo-print fabric I could and stitched together a monstrous pair of granny panties — the size of a beach towel — and strung them directly across from her window.
Her scream echoed down the street. “TAKE IT DOWN!”
“Gladly,” I said sweetly, “as soon as your line finds a new home.”
She moved it.
Her laundry line disappeared. Mine? I turned that flamingo fabric into curtains for Jake’s room — a permanent, cheeky reminder of our suburban standoff.
He loves them. “These look aerodynamic,” he says.
