I like to think of myself as above superstition. No salt flies over my shoulder. I like black cats. As a child, I fearlessly chanted "Black Aggie" into the mirror. I ignored the curse of the boyfriend sweater with no ill effects at all.
I won't walk over a sidewalk grate, mind you, but that's certainly not a superstition; it's because I'm fully convinced that the grate will collapse and send me careening down into the sewer system where my lifeless body will be gnawed on by rodents. Even worse, the gnawing part may commence before the lifeless part. Such rational behavior as avoiding grisly and certain death isn't superstitious at all.
I've a few small superstitions. While riding in whatever is my current vehicle, I flat out refuse to talk about even the possibility of future vehicles in my life. No talk of "my next car" is allowed. If anyone broaches the subject (and LB is notoriously bad about this behavior), I caress the dashboard and reassure the car that it is loved. Laugh if you will, but my last car, a Ford Escort, had over 206,000 miles. My current one, a Toyota truck, has over 210,000.
When giving a purse or a wallet, I like to include a penny, so the purse may never be empty.
Today is Friday the thirteenth, and it's a lovely day at that. I will hear from LB tomorrow. I busted a plagiarist (I guess Friday the 13th is unlucky for him, but it made my day) . I was given a literature class for the summer (Hurray!). I'm happily knitting. The hellebores have survived the cold snap and are blooming furiously.
May all Friday the thirteenths be so nice.
On the pins: Yet another Nancy Bush sock. I've now made twelve out of the twenty-four patterns in the Vintage Socks book.
On the walls: new towels for spring
And because I was in a picture-taking mood, I photographed the four square dance advertisements in our guest bathroom:
No one likes a sweaty square dancer! Use Mum Mist!
Even with your period, you can dance 'til dawn with Kotex, but don't forget to brush your teeth with Ipana!
And my favorite . . . drum roll . . .
Too constipated to square dance? Don't be a Droopy Dora! Eat Bran Flakes!