My neighbor’s underwear had become the unexpected star of the view from my 8-year-old son’s bedroom window. For weeks, they fluttered in the breeze, right outside his line of sight. When he innocently asked if her thongs were some sort of slingshots, I knew it was time to put an end to this panty parade and give her a much-needed lesson in laundry etiquette.

Ah, suburbia! The land of neatly trimmed lawns, friendly waves, and the occasional odd neighbor. That’s where I, Kristie, settled down with my husband Thompson and our son Jake. Everything was picture-perfect until Lisa moved in next door. At first, she seemed like a nice enough woman, but it didn’t take long before her unusual laundry habits became impossible to ignore.

It all started one Tuesday, a day I remember well because I was knee-deep in laundry myself, folding a mountain of tiny superhero underwear, thanks to Jake’s latest obsession. I happened to glance out his window and nearly spit out my coffee. There, suspended like a flag of defiance, was a pair of hot pink, lacy panties. And they weren’t alone. An entire rainbow of lingerie swayed in the breeze, transforming my backyard into an unintentional Victoria’s Secret display.

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

Jake, ever the inquisitive child, peered out the window. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”

My face flushed. “Uh, sweetie, Mrs. Lisa just… really likes fresh air. Why don’t we close these curtains and give her some, uh, privacy?”

“But Mom,” Jake persisted, his big eyes full of curiosity, “if her underwear likes fresh air, shouldn’t mine go outside too? Maybe my Hulk undies can make friends with her pink ones!”

I stifled a laugh that bordered on hysteria. “Honey, your underwear is… shy. It prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.”

Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry routine remained as consistent as my morning coffee—and about as welcome as curdled milk. Every day brought a new lineup of undergarments, and every day I found myself shielding Jake’s innocent eyes. But things took a turn when he bounded into the kitchen one afternoon, looking deeply perplexed.

“Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have so many different colors of underwear? And why are some so tiny? With strings? Are they for her pet hamster?”

I nearly sliced my finger off while cutting Jake’s sandwich, choking on air at the thought of Lisa’s reaction to such a theory. “Well, honey, people like different styles of clothing. Even the ones we don’t usually see.”

Jake nodded thoughtfully. “So, it’s like how I like my superhero underwear, but for grown-ups? Is Mrs. Lisa a superhero at night? Is that why her underwear is so small—for aerodynamics?”

I gasped, torn between laughter and horror. “Not exactly, sweetheart.”

The final straw came when Jake asked if he could hang his Captain America boxers next to Lisa’s ‘superhero gear.’ That was it. The next morning, I marched over to Lisa’s house, ready for a polite but firm conversation.

She opened the door with a dazzling smile. “Oh hey, Kristie, what’s up?”

I took a deep breath. “Hey Lisa, I wanted to chat about something. It’s, uh, about your laundry.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Too fashion-forward for the neighborhood?”

“It’s just that it’s hanging right in front of my son’s window, and he’s starting to ask a lot of questions.” I sighed. “Yesterday, he asked if your thongs were slingshots.”

Lisa smirked. “Oh honey, they’re just clothes! It’s not like I’m airing out state secrets.”

I clenched my jaw. “I understand, but Jake is only eight. He’s curious. This morning, he asked if he could hang his Superman undies next to yours.”

Lisa burst out laughing. “That’s adorable! Maybe we should start a neighborhood trend!”

That was when I knew she wasn’t going to budge. And that meant war.

That night, I pulled out my sewing machine. Using the most eye-searing fabric I could find, I stitched together the largest, most obnoxious pair of granny panties known to mankind. They were so massive they could have been mistaken for a parachute. The next day, as soon as Lisa left, I hung my masterpiece right in front of her living room window.

Hours later, she returned. I peeked through my blinds as she stepped out of her car, bags in hand. She froze, her mouth dropping open. The grocery bags slipped from her grip as she gawked at the enormous underwear waving proudly in the wind.

“WHAT THE H*LL?!” she shrieked, loud enough for the entire block to hear.

I casually strolled outside. “Oh, hi Lisa! Love the new yard decor, don’t you? Thought I’d get in on the trend.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Take. It. Down.”

I tapped my chin. “Hmm, I don’t know. I think it adds character. Plus, Jake was really interested in the aerodynamics of underwear. Think of it as a science experiment.”

Lisa sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. You win. I’ll move my laundry.”

Victory. Sweet, sweet victory.

From that day forward, Lisa’s laundry disappeared from view. And me? Well, let’s just say I now have a very interesting set of flamingo-print curtains. Waste not, want not, right?

As for Jake, he was slightly disappointed the ‘underwear slingshots’ were gone. But I assured him that being a superhero sometimes means keeping your gear a secret. And if he ever sees giant flamingo underwear flying in the sky? Well, that’s just Mom, saving the neighborhood one ridiculous prank at a time.