We locked ourselves in this morning. The frontdoor lock died on us. The knob from the inside turns this way and that, but the door wouldn't budge. Dumar toyed with the lock this morning, the silver-finish one that I bought yesterday, because we had foreseen that that lock was giving in, which it did this morning, the moment Dumar touched it. Dumar is our boarder-turned-little-brother, only that he's taller than Anne and I combined. (Last night he couldn't get in and had to give me some missed calls. He was at the front door and his key was useless.) While my wife cleaned the sala, which had a mountain of mess--things we don't really need and things we do need but just not right now--Dumar fixed the lock, removing the old one, which was somewhat embedded in the door's wood, and replaced it with the new one I bought. My hands were so weak I could only hand him the handyman pliers and screwdrivers, and hold the door firmly. I still have cramps on my left leg. We are still recovering from the forced departure of our maid (see previous entry). My head is numb and my dreams are weird, meaning I am really tired. I fixed Anne and I sandwhiches for breakfast. Neither of us could cook. That means that the cats will also be eating sandwhiches. The old lock and its keys are in the trash by the way, which I have to dispose of tonight. Oh, the domesticated life.