The pope does my laundry.

I had a hell of a lot of dreams last night and they all slipped through my fingers for the various terrible ways I was woken throughout the night/morning (screaming from the street, my fire alarm running out of batteries, my bathroom's fire alarm running out of batteries an hour later, pigeons getting it on on my balcony, roommate dropping pretty much every single thing we have in the kitchen, etc.)

At any rate, I only remember dreaming about doing laundry, except the washer was above a drop ceiling, and the dryer was across the room on the floor. And the pope returned our pot-holder mitt thing because he'd washed it for us. Exciting.