When I politely asked my neighbor to stop sunbathing in bikinis in front of my teenage son’s window, I never expected her response to include a filthy toilet planted on my lawn with a sign reading, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I was furious, but karma had the last laugh.
Trouble started the day Shannon moved in next door. Within weeks, she’d painted her house a garish mix of purple, orange, and blue, making it the visual equivalent of a migraine. But I’m a “live and let live” kind of person. At least, I was until her sunbathing performances began—right in front of my 15-year-old son Jake’s window.
One morning, Jake stormed into the kitchen, his face as red as the tomatoes I was slicing. “Mom,” he blurted, “can you please do something about the… situation outside my window?”
Confused, I followed him to his room. Sure enough, there was Shannon, sprawled out on a leopard-print lounger in a bikini so skimpy it could barely qualify as clothing. “She’s out there every single day,” Jake groaned. “I can’t even open my blinds for fresh air! Tommy came over to study yesterday and saw her. He froze like a deer in headlights, and now his mom probably thinks I live in a strip club.”
I sighed, closing the blinds. “I’ll talk to her, Jake.”
Later that day, I approached Shannon, trying to maintain a neighborly tone. She lowered her oversized sunglasses, smirking. “Renee! Need some tanning tips? This coconut oil is life-changing.”I forced a smile. “Actually, Shannon, I wanted to ask if you could maybe move your sunbathing spot. It’s right in front of my son’s window, and—”
She cut me off with an exaggerated laugh. “Are you serious? This is my yard. If your son can’t handle a confident woman living her best life, maybe he needs blinds—or therapy.”
I tried reasoning with her. “I’m just asking you to move a few feet. You’ve got two acres of property!”
She tapped her chin dramatically. “Let me check my schedule… Oh, look! I’m booked solid with not caring about your opinion until… forever.”
I retreated, fuming, but Shannon wasn’t finished with her antics. Two days later, I stepped outside to grab the newspaper and froze. Sitting proudly in the middle of my lawn was an ancient, grimy toilet with a sign taped to it: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!”Shannon lounged in her yard, waving smugly. “Like my art installation? I call it Modern Suburban Discourse.”
“This is vandalism!” I snapped.
“No, sweetie, this is self-expression. Like my sunbathing. But since you love giving opinions, I thought I’d give you a proper place to put them.”
I stared at her, incredulous. Something inside me clicked. Shannon was like a pigeon playing chess—knocking over all the pieces, strutting around as if she’d won, and leaving a mess behind. But karma has a way of swooping in when you least expect it.Shannon ramped up her antics in the weeks that followed. Her yard turned into a personal Woodstock, complete with 3 a.m. karaoke renditions of “I Will Survive” and chaotic drum circles that rattled windows three houses down. Still, I played it cool. Sometimes, the best revenge is letting the universe do its thing.
And oh, did the universe deliver.
One Saturday, I was baking cookies when I heard sirens. A fire truck screeched to a halt in front of my house. A firefighter approached me, looking puzzled. “Ma’am, we got a report of a sewage leak?”
Before I could respond, Shannon appeared, feigning concern. “Oh, officer, thank goodness you’re here! That toilet on her lawn is leaking… it’s a health hazard! Won’t someone think of the children?”The firefighter inspected the completely dry “lawn ornament” before turning to Shannon. “Ma’am, making false emergency reports is a crime. This is clearly not a health hazard.”
“But the aesthetic pollution!” Shannon protested. “The visual contamination!”
The firefighter sighed. “Ma’am, we don’t handle aesthetic emergencies. Please don’t waste our time again.”
Shannon’s smugness cracked, but she wasn’t done. A few days later, I spotted her dragging a leopard-print lounger onto her garage roof. She perched there like some sunbathing gargoyle, armed with a reflective tanning sheet and an industrial-sized margarita. I watched from my kitchen, shaking my head.
Then it happened. Her sprinkler system malfunctioned, sending a geyser of water straight at her rooftop setup. I ran outside to see Shannon sprawled in her prized petunias, covered head-to-toe in mud. Mrs. Peterson, our elderly neighbor, cackled from her garden. “Trying out for Baywatch, Shannon? Looks like you missed the beach—and the grace.”
Shannon scrambled up, dripping mud and grass stains. Her bikini was accessorized with a very surprised earthworm. It was glorious.
After that, Shannon was uncharacteristically quiet. The dirty toilet disappeared, and she stopped sunbathing in front of Jake’s window. She even invested in a privacy fence, finally ending our suburban saga.At breakfast the next morning, Jake cautiously raised his blinds. “Mom, is it safe to come out of witness protection now?”
I slid him a plate of pancakes and smiled. “Yeah, honey. I think the show’s been canceled.”
“Thank God,” he muttered, then grinned. “Though… I kinda miss the toilet. It was like a really ugly lawn gnome.”
“Don’t even joke,” I said, laughing with him. “Eat your pancakes before she decides to install an entire bathroom set!”
