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 land of manicured lawns, passive-aggressive HOA emails, and, apparently,

impromptu lingerie exhibits. Life in our quiet cul-de-sac was as smooth as a freshly paved driveway—until Lisa moved in next door.

It all started on a Tuesday. I remember because I was buried under a mountain of tiny superhero underwear,

thanks to Jake’s latest obsession with dressing like the Justice League. As I stood in his room folding laundry,

I made the mistake of glancing out the window.

And nearly choked on my coffee.

There, fluttering in the breeze like an indecent flag of victory, was a hot pink lace thong.

Not just one, but an entire collection of vibrantly colored undergarments, waving proudly in the sun.

It was like Victoria’s Secret had set up an outdoor exhibit exclusively for my backyard view.

“Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or a fashion show for the scandalously confident?”

Jake’s voice piped up behind me. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”

I fumbled for an answer. “Uh, sweetie, Mrs. Lisa just… really likes fresh air.” I grabbed the curtains and yanked them closed. “Why don’t we give her laundry some privacy?”

Jake, ever the curious child, wasn’t convinced. “But Mom, if Mrs. Lisa’s underwear gets fresh air, shouldn’t mine go outside too? Maybe my Hulk undies can make friends with her pink ones!”

I swallowed back an inappropriate snort. “Honey, your underwear is… shy. It prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.”

Days turned into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry line continued its daily performance. Each morning, a new set of barely-there garments took center stage, leaving me in an endless cycle of playing the human curtain to shield Jake’s innocence.

One afternoon, while making Jake a peanut butter sandwich, he burst into the kitchen, eyes wide with bewilderment. “Mom,” he started in that tone that usually 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?”