One should always wear a bra...

...and one should never believe the Butler's pizza phoneline lady when she tells you how long your pizza will be.
At first I thought it was a coincidence, but I've come to believe that she must be enacting some kind of passive-aggressive revenge on her innocent callers (or possibly just me). How many times has she told me that my hunger-succouring disc of cheesy wonder will be a mere twenty minutes, so that I've waited, stomach digesting itself, in forty-minute-long anticipation by the front door? Or worse, given me a forty-five minute estimation, so that when the door bell rings after only twenty-five, I'm caught on the hop...usually jumping out of the shower and answering the door in a towel, my hair plastered to the side of my face with unrinsed shampoo while the pizza guy giggles into his overly large tip (I try to bribe them into forgetfulness).
She struck again last night. The brother figure should have been back from the DVD store to pay the pizza guy, but why should things go right for me? At least I was fully clothed this time...in my pajamas and, obviously, minus one bra. Perfect.
It gets better: I party with the pizza guy, who has now seen me au naturel, on a regular basis.
Remember that resolution not to drink? I might extend it to not leaving the house. Then again, it seems I'm perfectly capable of embarrassing myself right here at home anyway.