When I politely asked my neighbor Shannon to stop sunbathing in a bikini directly outside my teenage son’s window, I didn’t expect retaliation in the form of a toilet on my lawn. But there it was — an old, stained commode with a cardboard sign taped to it that read: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I should’ve known things would spiral. Since Shannon moved in, her house had been painted in every shade of neon imaginable, and her front yard had become a fashion catwalk. My 15-year-old son, Jake, was mortified. “Mom, I can’t even open my window anymore!” he groaned after yet another of her sunbathing sessions.
Trying to be civil, I approached Shannon and asked if she could move her lounge chair somewhere else — she had two full acres to work with. Instead of taking it kindly, she responded with eye rolls, a sarcastic comment, and even suggested I see a life coach to “work through my control issues.” Then came the toilet. I stayed calm and let it go, but Shannon didn’t. Soon after, she ramped up the drama — throwing loud backyard parties, hosting karaoke at ungodly hours, and even starting a backyard drum circle.
Then karma paid a visit. One morning, Shannon called emergency services claiming the toilet was a “biohazard.” When firefighters arrived, they took one look, rolled their eyes, and told her to stop making prank calls. Still unfazed, Shannon moved her sunbathing sessions to the roof, margarita in hand. It was all very theatrical — until her sprinkler system activated unexpectedly. She slid off the roof and landed straight into her prized flowerbed, soaked, muddy, and thoroughly embarrassed.
After that, everything changed. The toilet mysteriously disappeared. Shannon installed a tall privacy fence. No more rooftop lounging or backyard concerts. Peace returned to the neighborhood. Over breakfast one morning, Jake cautiously asked, “Is it safe now?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah. The show’s been canceled.”