Stove guy declares, "Not my problem! Call the electrician!" Electrician won't answer the phone. Upshot: ugh.

Fortunately, the other parts of yesterday were less aggravating. The abs class was actually (dare I say it?) fun. I managed to grocery-shop without spiking my anxiety level. I got close to turning in the final files of a very long and arduous editing project. I went for a brisk walk, and I colored a comic book, and I read Virginia Woolf's The Years. I drank tea with my son. 

This morning, after I submit those editing files, I'm thinking I might do some writing . . . if Paul sleeps late. If he doesn't, the house will suddenly fill with sound and movement and my writing window will slam shut. 

It's okay, I'm not complaining, I love him dearly and his pandemic presence has been rich and surprising, and a huge comfort to me. He's not where he wants to be, but he makes the best of it, and his cheerful patience is tonic . . . especially given that he was not a cheerfully patient child but a famously melodramatic thrower of fits. 

Look at him now, though, rapidly becoming a crossword-puzzle king--