For 35 years, I dried my laundry in peace—until Melissa moved in. Every time I hung my freshly washed sheets, she’d fire up her grill, drenching everything in smoke. At first, I thought it was a coincidence. By the fourth time, it felt like war.
Talking to her didn’t help. She smiled sweetly and claimed she was just “enjoying her yard.” But these weren’t casual cookouts—they were strategic smoke bombs. One of my husband’s favorite sheet sets, now ruined, was the last straw.
So I fought back—quietly. On brunch days, I filled my line with the loudest, tackiest laundry I could find: neon towels, SpongeBob sheets, and my “Hot Mama” robe. Right in the middle of her perfect Instagram photos.
The result? Guests stopped coming. Melissa stormed over, furious. I smiled. “Just doing my laundry.”
Now the grill stays cold. And my line? It’s as bold and bright as ever. Tom would’ve been proud.
