I’m practically running a public service here. And why should I care about your son? It’s my yard.
Toughen up!”
“Excuse me?”
Lisa waved her hand dismissively. “Listen, if you’re that bothered by a few pairs of panties, maybe you need to loosen up. It’s my yard, my rules.
Deal with it. Or better yet, buy some cuter underwear. I could give you some tips if you’d like.”
And with that, she slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there with my mouth open, likely gathering flies.
I was stunned. “Oh, it is ON,” I muttered, turning on my heel. “You want to play dirty laundry?
Game on, Lisa. Game. On.” ?
That night, I sat at my sewing machine. Yards of the most gaudy, eye-searing cloth I could locate sat before me. It was the type of cloth that could be seen from space and perhaps even attract alien life forms!
“You think your little lacy numbers are something to see, Lisa?” I muttered, feeding the fabric through the machine. “Wait till you get a load of this. E.T.
will phone home about these babies.”
After hours, I finished creating the world’s largest and most irritating pair of granny panties. ? They were large enough to serve as a parachute, loud enough to be heard from space, and just insignificant enough to prove my argument.
If Lisa’s underwear was a whisper, mine was a fabric-covered foghorn. That afternoon, as soon as I saw Lisa’s car leave her driveway, I sprung into action. With my improvised clothesline and gigantic flamingo underpants ready, I dashed across our lawns, ducking between plants and lawn ornaments.
With the coast clear, I hung my handiwork just in front of Lisa’s living room window. Stepping back to examine my work, I couldn’t help but smile. The enormous flamingo undies fluttered gloriously in the afternoon air.
They were so enormous that a family of four could certainly use them as a tent while camping. “Take that, Lisa,” I whispered, scurrying back home. “Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine.
Hope you brought your sunglasses, because it’s about to get BRIGHT in the neighborhood.”
Back at home, I took up a position beside the window. I felt like a kid waiting for Santa, but instead of gifts, I was waiting for Lisa to uncover my small surprise. The minutes passed like hours.
Just as I was wondering if Lisa had chosen to turn her errands into a surprise holiday, I heard the familiar sound of her car approaching the driveway. It’s show time. Lisa stepped outside, arms full of shopping bags, and froze.
Her mouth dropped so quickly, I thought it could detach. The bags slid from her fingers, scattering their contents across the driveway. I swear I spotted a pair of polka-dot panties rolling across the yard.
Lisa, you are so classy. “WHAT THE HELL…??” she screeched, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. “Is that a parachute?
Did the circus come to town?”
I burst into laughter. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I watched Lisa dash up to the enormous undies and grab at them futilely. It was like witnessing a chihuahua attempt to take down a Great Dane.
Composing myself, I strolled outside. “Oh, hi Lisa! Doing some redecorating?
I love what you’ve done with the place. Very avant-garde.”
She whirled on me, face as pink as the undies of my creation. “You!
You did this! What is wrong with you? Are you trying to signal aircraft?”
I shrugged.
“Just hanging out some laundry. Isn’t that what neighbors do? I thought we were starting a trend.”
“This isn’t laundry!” Lisa shrieked, gesturing wildly at the undies.
“This is… this is…”
“A learning opportunity?” I suggested sweetly. “You know, for the neighborhood kids. Jake was very curious about the aerodynamics of underwear.
I thought a practical demonstration might help.”
Lisa’s mouth expanded and closed, like a fish out of water. Finally, she sputtered, “Take. It.
Down.”
I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I kind of like the breeze it’s getting.
Really airs things out, you know? Plus, I think it’s bringing the property values up. Nothing says ‘classy neighborhood’ like giant novelty underwear.”
For a moment, I thought Lisa might spontaneously combust.
Then, to my surprise, her shoulders sagged. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “You win.
I’ll move my laundry. Just… please, take this monstrosity down. My retinas are burning.”
I chuckled, extending my hand.
“Deal. But I have to say, I think flamingos are your color.”
As we shook on it, I couldn’t help but add, “By the way, Lisa? Welcome to the neighborhood.
We’re all a little crazy here. Some of us just hide it better than others.”
Lisa’s laundry has been missing from the clothesline in front of Jake’s window since that day. She never addressed it again, and I never had to cope with her “life lessons” either.
And me? Let’s just say I now have a really unusual set of curtains made of flamingo fabric. Don’t waste, don’t want, right?
Jake was slightly bummed that the “underwear slingshots” were no longer available. But I informed him that sometimes being a superhero entails keeping your undergarments a secret. What if he ever sees huge flamingo undies flying through the sky?
Mom is protecting the neighborhood with outrageous pranks! ?
