My name’s Kristie, suburban mom, wife to Thompson, and proud owner of an 8-year-old boy with a wildly active imagination.
Life was peaceful—until Lisa moved in next door. It started innocently enough. One laundry day, I glanced out Jake’s bedroom
window and nearly choked on my coffee. There, waving in the wind like a neon flag of defiance, were Lisa’s hot pink lacy
panties. And they weren’t alone—there was a whole rainbow of barely-there undies on full display right outside my son’s
window. Jake, of course, noticed. “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have strings for underwear?
Are they slingshots?” I panicked and mumbled something about airflow and privacy. But day after day, Lisa’s intimate laundry
show continued—like a Victoria’s Secret runway, but in our backyard. Finally, after Jake asked if his Hulk undies could hang out
with Lisa’s “crime-fighting gear,” I knew it was time to take action. I tried talking to Lisa. Politely. She laughed it off and
basically told me to “lighten up.” Bad move. That night, I got to work.
With yards of the most blinding flamingo-print fabric I could find,