For weeks, my neighbor’s underwear display became the unintended centerpiece of my 8-year-old son’s view. When he innocently asked if her thongs were slingshots, I knew it was time to put an end to the panty parade and give her a much-needed lesson in laundry decorum.

Ah, suburbia—the land of perfectly manicured lawns, competitive HOA meetings, and, apparently, neighbors who air their unmentionables in full public view. My name is Kristie, and with my husband, Thompson, and our son, Jake, we had settled into what I thought was a picture-perfect neighborhood. That is, until Lisa moved in next door.

It all started on a seemingly ordinary Tuesday—laundry day. As I folded my son’s growing collection of superhero underwear, I glanced out his bedroom window and nearly choked on my coffee. Flapping in the breeze, like a flag announcing the grand opening of a questionable boutique, was a hot pink, lacy pair of panties.

And they weren’t alone. No, they had friends—a rainbow of lingerie dancing in the wind, right in front of Jake’s window.

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

Jake, ever the curious child, popped up behind me. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”

My face turned a shade rivaling Lisa’s neon pink briefs. “Uh, sweetie, Mrs. Lisa just… really likes fresh air. Let’s, um, close these curtains, okay? Give the laundry some privacy.”

“But Mom,” Jake persisted, his big eyes filled with innocent wonder, “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 teetered dangerously close to a sob. “Honey, your underwear is… shy. It prefers to stay indoors where it’s cozy.”

I thought this was just a one-time oversight. But no. Day after day, Lisa’s undie exhibition continued, becoming as predictable as my morning coffee—only far less welcome.

Then came the conversation I had been dreading. One afternoon, as I was making Jake a snack, he walked in, his face alight with curiosity and mischief.

“Mom,” he started, and I knew immediately this was going to be a doozy. “Why does Mrs. Lisa have so many different kinds of underwear? And why are some of them so tiny? With strings? Are they for her pet hamster?”

I almost dropped the peanut butter knife.

“Well, honey,” I stammered, trying to compose myself, “everyone has different tastes in clothes. Even the ones we don’t usually see.”

Jake nodded solemnly, as if I had just bestowed great wisdom upon him. “So, it’s like how I love my superhero underwear, but grown-up?” Then his face lit up. “Wait! Does Mrs. Lisa fight crime at night? Is that why her underwear is so small—for aerodynamics?”

I choked on air. “Uh… not exactly, buddy.”

And then, the kicker: “If she can hang hers outside, can I hang mine too? I bet my Captain America boxers would look awesome flapping in the wind!”

That was it. Enough was enough. It was time to have a talk with Lisa.

The next day, I took a deep breath and marched over, determined but diplomatic. Lisa answered the door, looking like she had just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.

“Oh, hey Kristie! What’s up?” she greeted, flashing a bright smile.

“Hi, Lisa. I just wanted to chat about something.”

She leaned against the doorframe. “Oh? Need to borrow sugar? Or maybe a confidence boost?” She eyed my mom jeans with a smirk.

I swallowed my irritation. “Actually, it’s about your laundry. Specifically, where you’re hanging it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “My laundry? What about it?”

“Well,” I hesitated, then dove in, “it’s right in front of my son’s window. He’s asking questions… a lot of questions. Yesterday, he asked if your thongs were slingshots.”

Lisa laughed. “Oh, honey, they’re just clothes! It’s not like I’m hanging up nuclear launch codes.”

I tried again. “I understand, but Jake is only eight. He doesn’t need a front-row seat to the ‘Lisa’s Lingerie Show.’”

Lisa waved a dismissive hand. “Listen, if you’re that uptight about a few pairs of panties, maybe you need to lighten up. It’s my yard, my rules.”

I stood there, stunned as she shut the door in my face. Oh, it was on.

That night, I devised a plan. If Lisa wanted to play this game, I was going to raise the stakes.

With yards of the most obnoxious fabric I could find, I got to work. Hours later, I had created a masterpiece—the world’s largest, most ridiculous pair of granny panties. They were enormous, loud enough to be seen from space, and just petty enough to make my point.

The next day, while Lisa was out, I stealthily strung them up on a makeshift clothesline—right in front of her living room window.

When Lisa pulled into her driveway, she froze. Her shopping bags tumbled to the ground as she gawked at my creation. “WHAT THE—?!”

I strolled outside, feigning innocence. “Oh, hey Lisa! Decided to get in on the trend. You’re right, airing things out really does add to the neighborhood’s charm.”

She fumed. “Take. It. Down.”

I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I kind of like it. Adds character. Plus, Jake was curious about the aerodynamics of large underwear. It’s a learning opportunity.”

Lisa groaned, rubbing her temples. “Fine! I’ll move my laundry. Just get this monstrosity out of my sight!”

I grinned. “Deal.”

From that day forward, Lisa’s lingerie disappeared from Jake’s window view. And me? Well, I now have a fabulous set of flamingo-patterned curtains—because waste not, want not.

As for Jake, he was a little sad the “underwear slingshots” were gone. But I reassured him, “Sometimes, being a superhero means keeping your underwear a secret.”

And if he ever sees a pair of giant granny panties flapping in the wind again? Well, he’ll know Mom’s still out there, keeping the neighborhood in check—one ridiculous prank at a time.