Shannon came in next door and quickly painted her house purple, then orange, and then blue, which should have warned me of danger. But I really believe in living and letting live. That is, until she began throwing bikini sunbathing events directly outside my 15-year-old son’s window.
“Mom!” My son Jake rushed into the kitchen one morning, his cheeks as red as the tomatoes I was chopping for lunch. “Can you… err… do something about it? “Outside of my window?”
I marched to his room and looked out the window. Shannon lay on a leopard-print lounger, donning the tiniest bikinis adorned with sequins.
“Just keep your blinds closed, honey,” I murmured, attempting to sound casual while my thoughts raced.
“But I can’t even open them to get fresh air anymore!” Jake exclaimed as he leant against the bed. Jake said, leaning against the bed. Jake leaned against the bed.
“This is bizarre. Yesterday, Tommy came over to study, but as soon as he entered my room, he suddenly stopped. His mouth gaped, his eyes bulged, and his entire system collapsed. His mother likely won’t allow him to return.
I groaned and closed the blinds. I thought, “Has she been out there like that every day?”
“Every single day, Mom, I am dying.” I cannot live like this. I’m going to have to adapt and live in the basement. Do we have WiFi down there?”
After a week of watching my teenage son virtually parkour across his room to avoid catching a glimpse of our exhibitionist neighbor, I decided to strike up a polite conversation with Shannon.
When it comes to what individuals do in their yards, I typically keep my distance, but Shannon’s concept of “sunbathing” feels more like a public performance.
She would lounge in the skimpiest of bikinis, sometimes even without a top, and we could not miss her if we were standing near Jake’s window.
“Hey, Shannon,” I said, hoping for that perfect balance of ‘pleasant neighbor’ and ‘concerned parent’ tone of voice. “Got a minute?”
She dropped her huge specs, which made her resemble a bedazzled praying mantis. “Renee! Want to borrow some tanning oil? I recently received this wonderful coconut one. It elicits a scent reminiscent of a tropical getaway and poor life choices.
“Actually, I wanted to discuss your sunning place. See, it’s right in front of my 15-year-old son Jake’s window.
“Oh. “My, God.” Shannon sat up, her face breaking into an unnervingly broad grin. “Are you really trying to control where I get my vitamin D? In my own yard?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Listen, sweetie,” she interrupted me as she inspected her bright pink nails, as if they held the secrets of the universe. If your child finds it difficult to witness a strong woman living her life to the fullest, you might want to consider investing in better blinds. Alternatively, treatment. Or both. I know an incredible life coach who can help him overcome his suppression.” She specializes in aura cleansing and interpretive dance.”
“Shannon, please.” Could you move your chair to a different location in your yard? “You have two acres.”
“Hmm.” She rubbed her chin carefully before reaching for her phone. “Allow me to check my schedule. Oh, look at it! I have a full schedule and won’t be interested in your opinions for a long time.
I fled, wondering whether I had stumbled onto an episode of “Neighbors Gone Wild.” Shannon had not yet finished with me. Definitely not.
Two days later, I opened my front door to get the newspaper and came to a complete halt.
A toilet bowl sat boldly in the center of my nicely maintained yard. Not just any toilet. It was an ancient, dirty, tetanus-inducing throne with a scrawled placard saying, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!”
I knew it was Shannon’s work.
“What do you think of my art installation?” Her voice carried across from her yard. She was sitting on her lounger, looking like a very smug and underdressed cat.
“I call it ‘Modern Suburban Discourse.’ The local art museum is already planning to include it in their ‘Found Objects’ show!” She laughed.
“Are you kidding me?” I pointed to the porcelain monster. “This is vandalism!”
“No, honey; this is self-expression. I like to sunbathe. As you’re interested in discussing what people do on their property, I’ll give you a place to put them.
I stood there on my yard, cackling like a hyena at Shannon, when something inside me snapped.
Do you remember that moment when you realized you were playing chess with a pigeon? The bird will just knock over all of the pieces, strut about like a winner, and leave droppings everywhere. That was Shannon.
I crossed my arms and exhaled. Sometimes the finest vengeance is simply sitting back and letting karma do its work.
The weeks that followed tried my patience. Shannon transformed her yard into what I can only call a one-woman Woodstock. This time, the sunbeam resumed with an additional commentary track.
She brought pals, and her parties shook the windows three houses down, replete with karaoke versions of “I Will Survive” at 3 a.m. She even formed a “meditation drum circle” that sounded more like a herd of caffeinated elephants practicing Riverdance.
Through it all, I smiled and waved. People like Shannon are so focused on creating their own drama that they miss the plot twist.
Oh, what a twist it was.
It was a relaxing Saturday. I was preparing cookies when I heard the sirens. I came out onto my porch just in time to see a fire vehicle come to a standstill in front of my home.
“Ma’am,” a firefighter approached me, perplexed. “We received a report about a sewage leak.”
Shannon came before I could react, sporting a concerned citizen look worthy of an Oscar. “Yes, Officer! That toilet over there poses a health risk! I’ve seen dreadful things spilling! Won’t someone worry about the children?”
The firefighter peered at the bone-dry ornamental toilet, then at Shannon, and then back at the toilet. His look suggested he was rethinking every life decision that had led him to this point.
“Ma’am, fraudulent emergency reports are criminal.” “This is clearly a lawn ornament,” he hesitated, perhaps wondering why he was required to say that as part of his job.
“A dried lawn decoration. And I am a fireman, not a health inspector.”
Shannon’s face dropped quicker than her sunscreen coverage grade. “But aesthetic pollution! “Visual contamination!”
We don’t respond to aesthetic emergencies or pranks, ma’am.”
The firefighters then left the scene, but Shannon’s karma remained unfulfilled. Definitely not.
The fire truck drama hardly slowed her down. If anything, it motivated her to achieve greater heights. Literally.
One hot afternoon, I saw Shannon carrying her leopard-print lounger up a ladder to her garage roof. And there she was, perched high like a sunbathing gargoyle, holding a reflective tanning sheet and what appeared to be an industrial-sized margarita.
I was in my kitchen, elbow-deep in dinner dishes, wondering if this was the universe’s way of checking my blood pressure, when the sound of commotion erupted outside.
I heard a splash and a shriek that reminded me of a cat in a washing machine. Shannon was face down in her beloved petunias, smeared in dirt from head to toe.
Her new rooftop sunning area had encountered a malfunctioning sprinkler system.
Mrs. Peterson, our neighbor, dropped her garden shears. “Good Lord! Shannon, are you attempting to replicate Baywatch? I think you neglected to include the beach scene. And the running portion. And… well, every bit.”
Shannon scrambled up, caked in muck. Grass stains and a startled earthworm adorned her fashionable bikini.
Shannon remained quiet after the event. She stopped sunbathing in front of Jake’s window, and the dirty toilet bowl on my lawn vanished like a magician’s rabbit.
Shannon purchased a privacy fence for her property, ending our protracted suburban nightmare.
“Mom,” Jake said at breakfast the next morning, carefully lifting his shades, “is it safe to come out of witness protection now?”
I smiled and slipped him a plate of pancakes. “Yes, honey. I think the show’s cancellation is permanent. Permanently.”
“Thank God,” he whispered before grinning. “Although I do miss the toilet. It was gradually taking a toll on me.
“Don’t even joke about it. Eat your pancakes before she decides to install the entire bathroom set!” I responded, laughing heartily with my kid as we glanced at the wall around Shannon’s yard.