side, mainly because your neighbor’s sprinkler system is better than yours. That’s where I, Kristie, wife of Thompson, decided to plant my roots with my 8-year-old son, Jake. Life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead until our new neighbor, Lisa, moved in next door. It started on a Tuesday. I remember because it was laundry day, and I was folding a mountain of tiny superhero underwear, courtesy of Jake’s latest obsession. Glancing out his bedroom window, I nearly choked on my coffee. There, flapping in the breeze like the world’s most inappropriate flag, was a pair of hot pink, lacy panties. And they weren’t alone. Oh no, they had friends — an entire rainbow of undies dancing in the wind, right in front of my son’s window. “Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or Victoria’s Secret runway?” Jake’s voice piped up behind me, “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”