Living in the suburbs was supposed to be peaceful—until my new neighbor turned our quiet street into her personal lingerie runway. Every morning, my eight-year-old son, Ben, had a front-row seat to Carly’s daily underwear display, fluttering right outside his window. At first, I tried to ignore it, but when Ben asked if her thongs were tiny slingshots, I knew I had to step in.
I approached Carly politely, hoping she’d understand. Instead, she laughed in my face. “They’re just clothes,” she said, flipping her hair. “Maybe you should loosen up.” That’s when I decided if she wanted a laundry war, she’d get one.
That night, I sewed the most ridiculous pair of granny panties imaginable—bright pink, covered in flamingos, and big enough to double as a picnic blanket. The next day, while she was out, I strung them up right in front of her living room window.
When Carly came home and saw my masterpiece, her scream could’ve shattered glass. “What is THAT?” she shrieked, pointing at the giant undies flapping in the wind. I casually strolled outside and said, “Just returning the favor. Like you said—it’s just laundry.”
She finally got the message. The next day, her lingerie was gone from Ben’s view. And me? I turned those flamingo undies into curtains. A happy ending for everyone—except maybe Carly’s ego.
