Suburban drama usually revolves around unkempt lawns or loud barbecues—not lingerie. But when Lisa’s daily underwear display became my son’s accidental “sex ed” lesson, I knew I had to act.
It started innocently enough. Jake, my curious eight-year-old, peered out his window one afternoon and asked, “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have so many tiny clothes? Are they for dolls?”
I choked on my coffee.
Lisa’s laundry line was a rotating exhibit of barely-there underthings, and my kid was taking notes. I tried reasoning with her: “Could you maybe… not?”
She scoffed. “It’s my yard. If your kid can’t handle seeing underwear, maybe you’re the problem.”
Oh, it was on.
That night, I crafted the most ridiculous pair of underwear known to mankind—bright pink, enormous, and covered in sequins. The next day, I hung them like a flag of victory in her sightline.
Lisa’s meltdown was instant. “WHAT IS THAT?!”
“Laundry,” I said sweetly. “You inspired me.”
By sunset, her scandalous collection had vanished. And now? Jake thinks all adults secretly wear clown-sized underwear.
