When I politely asked my neighbor to quit sunbathing in bikinis right in front of my teenage son’s window, she struck back by dropping a grimy old toilet on my lawn with a sign: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I was furious, but karma delivered the payback I couldn’t have planned better myself. I should’ve known drama was coming the day Marta moved in next door and immediately painted her house purple, then orange, then bright blue. I’ve always believed in letting people live however they want.
That worked fine—until she decided to host daily bikini tanning sessions right outside my 15-year-old son’s window. “Mom!” my son Kenny burst into the kitchen one morning, his face redder than the tomatoes I was slicing for lunch. “Can you… um… do something about what’s going on outside my window?”
I marched to his room and peeked through the glass.
There was Marta, sprawled on a leopard-print lounger, wearing the tiniest bikini that could generously be called glittery string. “Just keep your blinds closed, honey,” I said, trying to sound casual while my mind raced. “But then I can’t even open them for air anymore!” Kenny slumped against the bed.
“This is so embarrassing. Ricky came over to study yesterday, and he walked into my room and just froze. Like, mouth open, eyes bugging out, completely stunned.
His mom probably won’t let him come back!”
I sighed, shutting the blinds. “She’s been out there like that every day?”
“Every. Single.
Day. Mom, I’m dying. I can’t live like this.
I’m going to have to move into the basement like some mole person. Do we even have Wi-Fi down there?”
After a week of watching my teenage son practically leap around his room just to avoid catching sight of our exhibitionist neighbor, I decided to have a polite word with Marta. I usually don’t interfere with what people do in their own yard, but Marta’s idea of “sunbathing” looked more like a one-woman show.
She’d stretch out in the skimpiest of bikinis, sometimes even topless, and it was impossible not to see her whenever you walked past Kenny’s window. “Hey, Marta,” I called out, aiming for that middle ground between “friendly neighbor” and “concerned parent.” “Got a moment?”
She lowered her oversized sunglasses, the kind that made her look like a jeweled praying mantis. “Lydia!
Need to borrow tanning oil? I just got this coconut one. Smells like a tropical getaway and poor life choices.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask about your sunbathing spot.
You see, it’s right outside my son Kenny’s window, and he’s 15, and—”
“Oh. My. God.” Marta sat up, her grin spreading unnervingly wide.
“Are you actually trying to tell me where I can get my vitamin D? In my own yard?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Listen, sweetie,” she cut me off, admiring her hot-pink nails like they were ancient relics. “If your kid can’t handle seeing a confident woman living her truth, then maybe you should buy better blinds.
Or therapy. Or both. I know this amazing life coach who specializes in aura cleansing and interpretive dance.”
“Marta, please.
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