I recently moved into a new apartment, which I love for several reasons. First and foremost, I get to sleep through the night without being repeatedly jarred awake by an insane upstairs neighbor, which has greatly improved my general outlook on life.
Second, I've had hot water consistently for three months now, and that's a real treat after the crapshoot at my last place.
Third, my fixtures and appliances don't date back to the Carter administration.
Plus, I realized the other day that I can watch TV from the bathroom, which is just a bonus.
Another bonus is that a large tree shields my bedroom window from the condos across the street, leaving me free to wander about in varying states of undress without too much worry. If someone were intent on catching a glimpse of me in my bra, I think they could probably manage it, but they'd really have to be looking. And I figure if they're that committed, they might just deserve what they see.
My living room does not have the benefit of all those leaves, and luckily for me nobody facing my direction draws their curtains at night. So I can gaze across the parking lot at about six separate televisions and whatever other shenanigans my neighbors are willing to display. I haven't witnessed anything blog-worthy yet, but rest assured I'm Rear Windowing the shit out of them.
Shortly before I moved, I re-watched that Hitchcock gem with some friends, a husband and wife, and we found it as suspenseful as anything else in recent memory. It was late when we finished the movie, and the wife offered to help me haul some cardboard boxes out to my car before I left for home.
We had just loaded everything in and closed the trunk when I looked up above their tuck-under garage. There, silhouetted between the curtains, was her husband, who had grabbed their large professional camera and was striking a Stewart-esque voyeur pose in the picture window.
Well played, sir. Well played.