When Shannon moved in next door, I should have sensed that trouble was brewing. First, she painted her house a garish purple, then switched to orange, and finally settled on a shade of blue that made my eyes water. But I’m the kind of person who believes in live-and-let-live.
That was, until Shannon began turning her front yard into a bikini-clad sunbathing spectacle right outside my 15-year-old son Jake’s window.
One morning, Jake came bursting into the kitchen, his face as red as a tomato. “Mom, can you, um, do something about what’s going on outside my window?” he stammered.
Confused, I followed him to his room. As I peeked out his window, there was Shannon, sprawled out on a leopard-print lounger in a bikini that was more like a string of sequins than an actual outfit.
“Mom, this has been going on every day. I can’t even open my blinds anymore! Tommy came over to study, and he froze when he saw her. I think his mom’s going to ban him from coming over again!” Jake groaned, flopping onto his bed.
