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.’