For weeks, my neighbor’s underpants stole the spotlight outside my 8-year-old son’s window.
When he naively questioned if her thongs were slingshots, I decided it was time to put an end to this panty parade and teach her a valuable lesson in laundry etiquette.
Ah, suburbia! The grass is usually greener on the other side, mostly because your neighbor’s sprinkler system is superior to yours.
That’s where I, Thompson’s wife Kristie, opted to establish roots with my 8-year-old son Jake.
Life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead until Lisa, our new neighbor, came in next door.
It began on Tuesday.
I remember because it was wash day, and I was folding a mountain of tiny superhero underwear, courtesy of Jake’s recent obsession.
Looking out his bedroom window, I almost choked on my coffee.
A pair of hot pink, lace underwear flew in the breeze like the world’s most indecent flag.
And they were not alone.
Oh no, they were not alone — a full rainbow of underpants was dancing in the breeze in front of my son’s window.
“Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or Victoria’s Secret runway?”
Jake’s voice piped up behind me, “Mom, why does Mrs.
Lisa have her underwear outside?”
My face burned hotter than my malfunctioning dryer. “Uh, sweetie. Mrs.
Lisa just… really likes fresh air. Why don’t we close these curtains, huh? Give the laundry some privacy.”
“But Mom,” Jake persisted, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity, “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 held back a laugh that threatened to blossom into a wild sob. “Honey, your underwear is… shy.
It prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.”
As I ushered Jake out, I couldn’t resist thinking, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Kristie. Hope you brought your sense of humor and a sturdy pair of curtains.”
Days stretched into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry service became as routine as my daily coffee, and as welcoming as a cold cup of coffee with a splash of curdled milk.
Every day, a new set of panties appeared outside my son’s window, and I found myself playing the awkward game of “shield the child’s eyes.”
One afternoon, while I was cooking a snack in the kitchen, Jake burst in, his face etched with bewilderment and eagerness, making my mom-sense prickle with fear.
“Mom,” he started, in that tone that always preceded a question I wasn’t prepared for, “why does Mrs. Lisa have so many different colored underwear?
And why are some of them so small? With strings? Are they for her pet hamster?”
I almost dropped the knife I was using to spread peanut butter, picturing Lisa’s response at being told her delicates were rodent-sized.
“Well, honey,” I stammered, buying time, “everyone has different preferences for their clothes.
Even the ones we don’t usually see.”
Jake nodded sagely as if I’d imparted some great wisdom. “So, it’s like how I like my superhero underwear, but grown-up? Does Mrs.
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