As you'd no doubt already guessed, I started this yesterday, but life, the
universe, and everything sidetracked my bad self.
I'm not triskaidekaphobic, and even if I was, the supposed bad luck of yesterday
was more than made up for by the joy of knowing that, in order for it to have
been Friday the 13th at all, it must also, by definition, be Friday.
I feel like I could do a Lucky Thirteen List.
I am me. And I'm pretty good at it, which is a relief, because I'd suck
at being, say, Kathy Griffin. "Gee, Kathy, you're a lot less unkind than
you were last week, but damn, you need to step away from the brownies, like,
now."
It's Saturday, which is even luckier than Friday, because not only is it
the weekend, but it's proof positive that Friday the 13th is just another
day on the calendar.
Westerville, Ohio, temperate since 1875, has lifted its 131-year ban on
alcohol. This affects me not at all, personally, but Westerville's citizens
are lucky, so it still counts as luck. (Of course, the first person to order
a legal beer got himself a nice, watery domestic, but cut them some slack
— they're way out of practice.)
That Man of Mine is going to a party without me (yay way-after-holidays
parties, spouses not invited) so I can make Baltimore crab cakes for dinner
without worrying about Mr. Shellfish Allergy.
Eating a big spoonful of peanut butter right out of the jar is still just
as satisfying as it's ever been.