Now, I'm not what you'd call superstitious. OK, so I don't exactly go out of my way to walk under a ladder, and if I see a black cat darting across the road I'm just liable to make a U-turn.

But the number 13? It's never really bothered me. I even wore 13 one year when I was playing baseball--I hit about .150 that year, which wasn't that bad considering it was 20 points higher than the year before.

Still, there's something about Friday the 13th. And if this Friday is anything like the one last month, I might as well just unplug the alarm clock, tug the blankets up over my head and call in sick.

The alarm clock was actually the first of my problems that day--it never went off. You know that horrible feeling you get when you first realize that you've overslept and no matter what you do, no matter how fast you get ready, you're going to be late for work?

You study that clock in disbelief for the longest time because you know that little hand should be pointing at the six, not the seven--and you're convinced that if you stare long enough, it will be. Then when it finally gets through those bleary eyes and sinks into that foggy brain that you are actually one hour behind, you do what any red-blooded American man would do ... you blame your wife!

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I bellowed, blaming her for my late start.

"How was I supposed to know what time you wanted to get up?" she replied defensively. (Pretty feeble excuse, if you ask me.)

"Now I'm going to be late for work," I complained.

"Sounds like your problem, not mine," she said, not acting the least bit concerned that I was going to be late for work (and maybe lose my job, then we'd lose the house, then we'd be homeless ... OK, so maybe I'm getting a little carried away).

"You know what time I get up!" I scolded.

"Oh, right," she snapped, "it's all my fault that you didn't get up on time." (Well, at least she realized her mistake.)

But I didn't have time to gloat over her attempt at an apology. I rushed into the shower, quickly ran the electric razor over my face, hurriedly threw on my clothes and raced out to the car.

Now explain this one if you can. Why is it always on the day you're late that both your gas tank and wallet are empty? (My car, my wallet ... but give me a minute or two and I'll think of some way to blame my wife for that, too.)

Naturally, the first ATM I visited was temporarily out of service. Then, after stopping for gas, I was officially an hour and 10 minutes behind schedule. (Hmmm, still time to stop for coffee and a bagel.)

Wouldn't you know it--the bagel store usually has a short line of about three or four people, but on this particular day the line poked out the front door and turned the corner. I waited long enough to just get inside the door when some lady ordered 3 ¹/2 dozen, assorted ... and she wanted to pick out every one.

"Let's see," she said slowly. "Give me three of the onion, two of the plain, four blueberry, three sesame ... did I already get any onion?"

That was it, I couldn't wait any longer. Thank goodness there was no line at the doughnut shop across the street. A jelly-filled and a medium coffee later, I was on my way ... and only an hour and 20 minutes behind schedule.

Naturally I hit every red light, and when I finally did reach the freeway, there was a guy in the fast lane doing about 50. When I spun into the center lane to pass him, a blob of jelly slopped out of my doughnut and--plop!--landed right on my shirt. In my attempt to clean up the jelly, I spilled coffee on my pants.

Finally, I made it to the office--just an hour and a half late. And the day seemed to go from bad to worse until it was finally time to go home.

When I walked in the door, just happy to be home, I said to my wife, "You don't even want to know what I've been through today!"

She just looked at me and chuckled.

"What is it?" I asked impatiently. "The coffee stain on my pants? The jelly spot on my tie?"

"Well, that, too," she said, "but I was laughing at your socks."

I looked down. I had on one brown, and one blue.

"I hate Friday the 13th!" I exclaimed.

"Uh, you mean Friday the 15th," she said. "Today is Friday the 15th. There is no Friday the 13th in April. It's in May this year."

Great. As difficult as things were when I only thought it was Friday the 13th, imagine how bad the real deal is going to be! You know what? I think the best thing for me to do this Friday is pull the blankets up over my head and call in sick ... just in case.

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.