Wow.

So late.  Must sleep.  Here's what I find out when I stay up late at home alone: I am an idiot.

Why, oh why have I put on the most appealing nightclothes I have had on in weeks, when I am in my house alone??  And the best I could hope for would be a phone call?

Makes no sense.  I am an idiot.  Or I want to give my neighbors something to look at.

I suppose one could argue that if I do wear sultry clothes to bed on nights I wasn't alone, I don't end up wearing them very long.  In that sense, I see why the night I'm alone is when I'm wearing them long enough to notice I'm wearing them.

Further proof I'm an idiot:  pretty much everything else on this blog.

I finally accepted something very obvious: the people who arrive at my blog by accident when searching for the terms "torture time" do not stick around to be charmed by my oddball voice.  Nor does anyone stumbling across it when looking for a blueberry pie recipe.

So the four of you, sometimes five, I think all of you can be trusted with the info that I'm home alone, attractively clad.

Now I'm going to bed.