Now "Operator" can also be stuck in your head. You're welcome.

 I'm sure you've heard "New York State of Mind" by Billy Joel or "Pieces of April" by Three Dog Night. I've been living a similar vein, though mine channels Jim Croce. 

I'd been procrastinating on cleaning the bathroom, but figured it was time to wade in. I poured in a glug of toilet bowl cleaner and let it sit awhile with the ceiling fan on. In eyeing our bathtub and noticing the ring around it, I decided it might be a good time to give it a scrub. I got my necessary equipment, wet it down, sprinkled in my soap, and started scrubbing. Assuming that the toilet bowl cleaner had been in there long enough to do its thing, I gave the toilet a quick flush and turned my back on it to resume scrubbing the tub.

It keeps filling. And filling. Finally I notice that hey, waitaminute, that hasn't stopped filling yet!? I grab the plunger with a loud exclamation of, "are you kidding me!?" and give it a few good pumps, but too late. Sure enough, it overflows as I snatch and then fling the bath mat out of the way and start tearing towels out of the bathroom cart to sop up the water. 

I can hear Jim Croce crooning, "isn't that the way they say it goes?" 

I guess the universe just determined that if I was going to clean the bathroom, I may as well clean the bathroom. Come on over. Our floor is mopped and we have freshly laundered towels!

Rest and Relaxation

I don't even know how he still does this, but here's the Damonater, worn out from the beach. He turns into one of those pillbugs who burp and toot through the outtakes of "A Bug's Life" that had me in tears, those rolypoly bugs that the kids used to play with at the old bus stop, like a comma.  

Sound asleep in the middle of the beach house's living room, despite everything going on around him. And I swear his head is tucked under the arm of that chair!

And then there's Thing One in HER comfy reading spot back home:

They remind me of my favorite childhood book by Dr. Seuss, Sleep Book:

Everywhere, 

Creatures

Have shut off their voices.

They've all gone to bed

In the beds of their choices.

They're sleeping in bushes. They're sleeping in crannies.

Some on their stomachs, and some on their fannies.

They also remind me of Billy Joel, who sings something about, "people tell you you can't sleep alone in a strange place, then they tell you you can't sleep with somebody else. Ah but sooner or later you sleep in your own space; either way it's okay- you wake up with yourself!"

Something along those lines. It's from "My Life" and I take no credit for any of it. 

I love sleeping.