My Neighbor’s Bold Response: A Toilet on My Lawn After I Spoke Up

My Neighbor Installed a Toilet on My Lawn with a Note, ‘Flush Your Opinion Here,’ After I Asked Her Not to Sunbathe in Front of My Son’s Window

My neighbor planted a dirty toilet on my yard with the sign, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” in response to my polite request that she quit sunbathing in her bikinis in front of my teenage son’s window. I was furious, but the ideal retaliation came from karma.

When Shannon moved in next door and started painting her house purple, then orange, and finally blue, I should have seen trouble was on the horizon. However, I really believe in letting go and living. That is, until she began having bikini sunbathing parties outside the window of my 15-year-old son.

“Mom!” One morning, my son Jake, whose face was redder than the tomatoes I was chopping for lunch, exploded into the kitchen. “Is there anything you can do about that? Beyond my window?”

I strode over to his room and looked out. Shannon was laid out on a lounger with a leopard print, dressed in the smallest bikini, which could be generously described as sequin-adorned tooth floss.

I tried to seem casual as I said, “Just keep your blinds closed, honey,” but my mind was racing.

“But I can’t even open them to get fresh air anymore!” Jake leaned back on the bed.

“This is really strange. When Tommy entered my room yesterday to study, he simply froze. Like, eyes wide, lips open, complete system failure. Most likely, his mother won’t allow him to return.

I closed the blinds with a sigh. “Has she been out there like that every day?”

“Each and every day. I’m dying, Mom. This is not how I can live. I’ll have to move into the basement and become a mole. Is there Wi-Fi available down there?

I decided to strike up a conversation with Shannon after observing my teenage son essentially parkour around his room for a week in order to escape catching a glimpse of our exhibitionist neighbor.

Shannon’s concept of “sunbathing” was more akin to a public performance, but I normally don’t care what others do in their yards.

Every time we stood close to Jake’s window, she would be lounging around in the skimpiest of bikinis, sometimes even going topless, and it was impossible to miss her.

I yelled out, “Hey, Shannon,” trying to strike the ideal balance between a “friendly neighbor” and a “concerned parent.” “Got a minute?”

The huge sunglasses that gave her the appearance of a bedazzled praying mantis were lowered. “Hi Renee! A tanning oil loan, please? I recently acquired this incredible coconut one. It gives you the scent of a tropical getaway and bad decisions.

“I actually wanted to discuss where you like to sunbathe. You see, my fifteen-year-old son Jake’s window is just in front of it, and—”

“Oh. “My God.” Shannon’s face broke into an unnervingly broad smile as she sat up. “Are you genuinely attempting to regulate my access to vitamin D? “In my own backyard?”

“That’s not what I—”

She interrupted me, looking at her hot pink nails as if they were the universe’s secrets. “Listen, sweetie,” she said. “You might want to get better blinds if your child finds it too difficult to watch a self-assured woman living her best life. or counseling. or both. He could get over his repression with the help of this incredible life coach I know. Her areas of expertise are interpretative dance and aura cleansing.

“Please, Shannon. I would appreciate it if you could move your chair to any other location in your yard. You possess two acres.

“Hmm.” After giving her chin a contemplative tap, she grabbed her phone. “I’ll check my schedule now. Look at that, huh! I’m committed to ignoring your viewpoint for the rest of time.

I took a step back, wondering whether I had ended myself in an episode of “Neighbors Gone Wild.” Shannon wasn’t finished with me, though. By no means.

When I opened my front door to get the newspaper two days later, I came to a complete halt.

A toilet bowl stood boldly in the center of my immaculately mowed lawn. Not just any toilet. It had a handwritten sign that said, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” and was an ancient, dirty, tetanus-inducing throne.

I recognized it as Shannon’s creation.

“What do you think of my art installation?” From her yard, her voice drifted across. She appeared to be a very self-satisfied, underdressed cat sitting on her lounger.

It is what I refer to as ‘Modern Suburban Discourse.’ It is already being considered for inclusion in the ‘Found Objects’ exhibition at the local art gallery. She chuckled.

“Are you kidding me?” I pointed to the monstrous porcelain object. “This is vandalism!”

“This is self-expression, honey. similar to how I sunbathe. However, since you’re so eager to share your thoughts on what individuals do on their property, I figured I’d provide you a suitable location for them.”

Something sparked inside of me as I stood there on my lawn, looking at Shannon, who was laughing like a hyena.

Do you have the feeling that you’re playing chess with a pigeon? The bird will simply topple everything, show off as though it’s victorious, and scatter its droppings all over the place. Shannon was that person.

I sighed and crossed my arms. Sitting back and letting karma work itself out is sometimes the best kind of retaliation.

My patience was put to the utmost in the ensuing weeks. I can only say that Shannon transformed her yard into a one-woman Woodstock. With the addition of a commentary track, the sunbathing continued.

She brought pals, and her parties, which included karaoke versions of “I Will Survive” at three in the morning, shook windows three houses down. Her “meditation drum circle” sounded more like a herd of caffeinated elephants learning to Riverdance than anything else she had started.

All the while, I waved and grinned. The problem with people like Shannon is that they are so preoccupied with creating their own drama that they fail to anticipate the plot twist.

And what a twist it was, boy.

The Saturday was nice. I heard sirens when I was preparing cookies. A fire truck screeched to a stop in front of my house as I stepped onto my porch.

“Ma’am,” a bewildered firefighter said as he walked toward me. “We received a report about a sewage leak?”

Shannon showed there before I could reply, sporting an Oscar-worthy worried citizen look. “Yes, officer! There is a health risk associated with that toilet over there! I have witnessed horrible things leaking! Will someone please consider the children?

The firefighter glanced at Shannon, then at the bone-dry ornamental toilet, and finally back at the toilet. He appeared to be doubting every decision he had made in life that had brought him to this point.

“Fake emergency reports are illegal, ma’am. “This is obviously a lawn ornament,” he said, pausing, maybe wondering why he was required to use such a phrase in his line of work.

An ornament for a dry lawn. In addition, I work as a firefighter rather than a health inspector.

Shannon’s face dropped more quickly than her sunscreen rating indicated. “However, the aesthetic contamination! “The visual contamination!”

“Ma’am, we don’t respond to aesthetic emergencies, and pranks are definitely not something we respond to.”

The firefighters then departed the property, but Shannon’s karma wasn’t over yet. By no means.

She hardly let the drama of the fire truck slow her down. If anything, it motivated her to achieve greater things. literally.

I saw Shannon carrying her leopard-print lounger up a ladder to her garage roof one hot afternoon. And there she was, armed with what appeared to be an industrial-sized margarita and a reflective tanning sheet, sitting high like some kind of sunbathing gargoyle.

The sound of mayhem exploded outside my kitchen, where I was knee-deep in dinner dishes, wondering if this was the universe’s way of testing my blood pressure.

I heard what sounded like a cat in a washing machine—a splash and a shriek. When I hurried outside, Shannon was completely coated in mud and lying face down in her cherished petunias.

It turned out that her broken sprinkler system had matched her new rooftop sunning site.

Mrs. Peterson, our neighbor, let her gardening shears fall. “Oh my God! Are you attempting to recreate Baywatch, Shannon? since I believe you missed the beach portion. and the running portion. And the… well, all of it.”

Scrambling up, covered in muck, was Shannon. Now, grass stains and what looked like a very surprised earthworm adorned her costly bikini.

Shannon was as silent as a church mouse after the incident. The filthy toilet bowl on my lawn vanished as quickly as a magician’s rabbit, and she ceased to sunbathe in front of Jake’s window.

Our protracted suburbia nightmare ended when Shannon made the investment to install a privacy fence around her garden.

At breakfast the following morning, Jake raised his blinds gingerly and asked, “Mom, is it safe to come out of witness protection now?”

I gave him a plate of pancakes while grinning. “Yes, honey. The show has probably been canceled. Forever.”

He mumbled, “Thank god,” and then smiled. Even so, I kind of miss using the restroom. Strangely, I was beginning to like it. similar to a particularly unsightly lawn gnome.

“Avoid making any jokes about that. Before she chooses to build an entire bathroom set, eat your pancakes!” As my son and I gazed at the wall surrounding Shannon’s yard, I exclaimed, laughing heartily.