My neighbour’s panties have been attracting attention right outside my eight-year-old son’s window for weeks. When he innocently asked if her thong was a slingshot, I knew it was time to put an end to this panty parade and give her a serious lesson in laundry etiquette.
Ah, the suburbs! Where the grass is always greener on the other side, mostly because your neighbour has a better sprinkler system than you do. This is where I, Christy, Thompson’s wife, decided to put down roots with my eight-year-old son Jake. Life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead until our new neighbour, Lisa, moved in next door.
It all started on a Tuesday. I remember it was laundry day and I was folding a mountain of tiny underwear with superheroes being Jake’s latest craze.
Looking out his bedroom window, I nearly choked on my coffee. There, fluttering in the wind like the world’s most inappropriate flag, was a pair of hot pink lace panties.
And they weren’t alone. Oh no, they had friends – a whole rainbow of panties dancing in the wind right in front of my son’s window.
‘Holy guacamole,’ I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. ‘Is this a lingerie line or a Victoria’s Secret catwalk?’
Jake’s voice came from behind me, ‘Mom, why is Mrs Lisa putting her underwear outside?’
My face was burning hotter than a malfunctioning dryer. ‘Um, honey. Mrs Lisa just…really likes fresh air. Why don’t we close those curtains, huh? Give the laundry some privacy.’
‘But Mum,’ Jake persisted, his eyes widening with innocent curiosity, ’if Mrs Lisa’s underwear likes fresh air, shouldn’t mine go outside too? Maybe my hulk underwear can make friends with her pink ones!’
I stifled a laugh that threatened to turn into a hysterical sob. ‘Honey, your underwear is…shy. It prefers to stay inside where it’s cosy.’
As I escorted Jake out, I couldn’t help but think, ‘Welcome to our neighbourhood, Christy. I hope you brought your sense of humour and strong curtains with you.’
Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry show became as regular as my morning coffee and as welcome as a cold cup of joe with curdled milk splashed in it.
Every day a new range of knickers debuted outside my son’s window, and every day I found myself playing an embarrassing game of ‘cover the baby’s eyes’.
One afternoon, as I was preparing a snack in the kitchen, Jake burst into the room, a look of confusion and excitement on his face that made my maternal sense quiver with horror.
‘Mum,’ he began in that tone that always precedes a question I’m not prepared for, ’why does Mrs Lisa have so many colourful underwear? And why are some of them so small, with strings? Is it for her pet hamster?’
I nearly dropped the knife I was spreading peanut butter with, imagining Lisa’s reaction to the suggestion that her delicate items were rodent-sized.
‘Well, honey,’ I stammered, buying time, ’everyone has different clothing preferences. Even the ones we don’t usually see.’
Jake nodded sagely, as if I’d uttered great wisdom. ‘So it’s like I like superhero underwear, but adult? And Mrs Lisa fights crime at night? Is that why her underwear is so small? For aerodynamics?’
I choked on air, frozen between laughter and horror. ‘Not really, sweetheart. Mrs Lisa isn’t a superhero. She’s just very confident.’
‘Oh,’ Jake said, looking slightly disappointed. Then his face lit up again.
‘But Mom, if Mrs Lisa can hang her laundry outside, can I hang mine too? I bet my Captain America boxers would look really cool fluttering in the wind!’
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, ruffling his hair. ‘Your underwear is special. It needs to be hidden to protect your secret.’
While Jake nodded and devoured his snack, I stared out the window at Lisa’s colourful display of underwear.
This couldn’t go on any longer. It was time to have a chat with our exhibitionist neighbour.
The next day, I travelled to Lisa’s house.
I rang the doorbell, putting on my best ‘concerned neighbour’ smile, the same one I use when I tell the HOA that ‘no, my garden gnomes aren’t offensive, they’re bizarre’.
Lisa replied, looking like she had just stepped out of a shampoo advert.
‘Oh, hey, it’s Christy, right?’ – She frowned.
‘Right! Listen, Lisa, I was hoping we could chat about something.’
She leaned against the doorjamb, raising an eyebrow. ‘О? What’s on your mind? Need to borrow a cup of sugar? Or maybe a cup of confidence?’ She glanced at my mum jeans and an over-waisted t-shirt.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself that orange wasn’t my colour. ‘It’s about your laundry. Specifically about where you hang it.’
Lisa’s perfectly plucked eyebrows furrowed. ‘My underwear? What about it? It’s not too fancy for this neighbourhood?’
‘Well, it’s just that it’s right in front of my son’s window. Especially the underwear. It flaunts it a little bit. Jake is starting to ask questions. Yesterday he asked if your thong was a slingshot.’
‘Oh, dear. It’s just clothes! It’s not like I’m hanging up nuclear missile launch codes. Although, between you and me, my leopard print bikinis are pretty explosive!’
I felt my eye twitch. ‘I understand, but Jake is only eight. He’s curious. This morning he asked if he could hang his Superman pants next to your ‘crime-fighting gear’.’
‘Well, that sounds like a great learning opportunity. You’re welcome! I’m practically doing a public service here. And why should I care about your son? This is my yard. Clean yourself up!’
Lisa waved her hand dismissively. ‘Look, if you’re so concerned about a few pairs of knickers, maybe you should relax. This is my yard, my rules. Get over it. Or better yet, buy yourself some nicer underwear. I can give you some tips if you want.’
And with those words, she slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there with my mouth open, probably catching flies.
I was stunned. ‘Oh, it’s ONE,’ I muttered, turning on my heels. ‘You want to play dirty laundry? Game, Lisa. Game. Come on.’
That night I sat down at the sewing machine.
In front of me lay yards of the most garish, eye-catching fabric I could find. Such fabric could probably be seen from outer space, and it could attract alien life forms!
‘Do you think, Lisa, that your little lace numbers are something to look at?’ – I muttered. muttered as I ran the fabric through the loom. ‘Wait till you get this. E.T. will be calling home about these babies.’
Several hours passed and finally my masterpiece was complete – the world’s biggest, most obnoxious pair of granny panties.
They were big enough to be used as a parachute, loud enough to be seen from space, and petty enough to get my point across.
If Lisa’s underwear was a whisper, mine was a mist of fabric.
That afternoon, as soon as I saw Lisa’s car pull out of the driveway, I immediately sprang into action.
Having prepared an improvised clothesline and giant flamingo pants, I rushed across our lawns, hiding behind bushes and lawn ornaments.
When all was clear, I hung my creation right in front of Lisa’s living room window. Stepping back to admire my work, I couldn’t help but grin.
The massive flamingo shorts fluttered majestically in the midday breeze. They were so big that a family of four could have used them as a camping tent.
‘Take that, Lisa,’ I whispered, hurrying home. ‘Let’s see how you like the taste of your own medicine. I hope you brought your sunglasses with you, because it’s going to get bright in this neighbourhood soon.’
Back in the house, I settled myself by the window. I felt like a child waiting for Santa, only instead of presents, I was waiting for the moment Lisa would discover my little surprise.
The minutes flowed like hours.
Just as I was wondering if Lisa had decided to turn her business into an unexpected holiday, I heard the distinctive sound of her car pulling into the driveway.
Showtime.
Lisa stepped out of the car, holding shopping bags in her hands, and froze. Her jaw dropped open so fast I thought it might fall off. The bags slipped out of her hands, scattering the contents across the driveway.
I swear I saw a pair of polka-dot underwear roll across the lawn. Nice, Lisa.
‘WHAT THE HELL…??’ – she screamed, loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear. ‘Is that a parachute? Is there a circus coming to town?’
I burst into laughter. Tears streamed down my face as I watched Lisa run up to the giant panties and yank them uselessly. It was like watching a chihuahua trying to overpower a big dog.
Pulling myself together, I walked outside. ‘Oh, hey Lisa, doing some renovations? I love what you’ve done to this house. Very avant-garde.’
She rushed at me with a face as pink as the panties of my creation. ‘You! You did that! What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to signal an aeroplane?’
I shrugged. ‘Just hanging laundry. Isn’t that what the neighbours do? I thought we were starting a trend.’
‘That’s not underwear!’ shrieked Lisa, pointing wildly at her underwear. ‘It’s…it’s…’
‘A learning opportunity?’ I sweetly suggested. ‘You know, for the neighbourhood kids. Jake was very interested in learning about the aerodynamics of underwear. I thought a hands-on demonstration might help.’
Lisa’s mouth opened and closed like a fish in water. Finally she managed to whisper, ‘Take this. This. Down.’
I tapped myself thoughtfully on my chin. ‘Hmm, I don’t know. I even like the breeze blowing in here. Really airs it out, you know? Plus, I think it raises property values. Nothing says ‘classy neighbourhood’ like giant novelty underwear.’
For a moment, I thought Lisa might spontaneously combust. Then, to my surprise, her shoulders slumped. ‘Great,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘You win. I’ll move my laundry. Just…please put this monstrosity away. My retinas are on fire.’
I chuckled, holding out my hand. ‘It’s a deal. But I have to say, flamingo is your colour.’
As we shook hands, I couldn’t resist adding: ‘By the way, Lisa? Welcome to our neighbourhood. We’re all a little crazy around here. It’s just that some of us hide it better than others.’
From that day on, Lisa’s underwear disappeared from the rack in front of Jake’s window. She never brought it up again, and I never had to deal with her ‘life lessons’ either.
And me? Well, let’s just say I now have a very interesting set of curtains made of fabric with a flamingo image. Waste not, want not, take not, right?
As for Jake, he was a little disappointed that the ‘underwear slingshot’ was gone. But I assured him that sometimes being a superhero means keeping your underwear a secret. What if he ever sees giant flamingos flying in the sky? Well, that’s just Mum saving the neighbourhood, one ridiculous prank at a time!
