Sometimes I get dressed in the bedroom. This is as uneventful as it sounds, unless Michael happens past, in which case he launches himself over the bed to close the blinds that last quarter-inch lest a glimpse of my teacup boobies scorch the retinas of a passerby.
Now, our bedroom is on the street side of the house. But standing between the bedroom and the sidewalk are a fence, a sizable pear tree, a couple yards of grass, and a windowful of honkin’ rhodies. To my mind, this means that in the unlikely event anyone strolled by whilst the dairy case was open, getting a fleeting eyeful would also require jumping the neighbor’s fence and standing in their yard with a limb-lopper and a telephoto lens, and since said neighbors will cut a peepin’ bitch, I should be free to cavort.
In my own bedroom.
With a hint of natural daylight and zero pretense of shame.
And also, to drag Modest McPrudey down the street to the Ballard Pool, tell him I’ve signed him up for an Adult Swim, then gleefully squeal out of the parking lot at the moment some old woman tells him to loosen up and lose the trunks.