Suburban life was great—until Carly moved in next door. Suddenly, my son’s bedroom window had an unobstructed view of her daily lingerie parade. Thongs, lace, satin—all swaying in the breeze like some bizarre underwear festival.
At first, I brushed it off. But when Ben started asking why Carly’s underwear was “so tiny” and if she was secretly a superhero, I knew I had to act. I knocked on her door, hoping for a reasonable conversation. Instead, she smirked and said, “If your kid can’t handle seeing underwear, maybe you’re the one with the problem.”
Fine. If she wanted to play games, I’d play better.
That night, I crafted the most absurd pair of underwear known to mankind—enormous, neon pink, and covered in giant flamingos. The next afternoon, I hung them proudly in front of her house, right where she’d see them every time she looked outside.
Her reaction was priceless. “IS THIS A JOKE?” she yelled, storming outside. I just smiled. “Nope, just some fresh air for my laundry. You inspired me.”
She didn’t find it funny. But the next day, her lingerie was gone from Ben’s window. Sometimes, the best way to teach a lesson is with a little humor—and a whole lot of flamingo fabric.
