I'm not much of a believer in the whole "Friday the thirteenth is bad luck" theory.
I mean, really. If one were to posit an unlucky day at all, wouldn't that day be Monday? The day when you wake up and realize, to your sorrow, that it is no longer the weekend, and you do actually have to obey the alarm's rude summons? Combine that hideous realization with thirteen, and I think you are just asking for trouble.
That said, today so far hasn't been particularly momentous in one direction or another, except for the point when my colleague's cereal bowl exploded, cutting her finger and spraying broken crockery, muesli, and yogurt in all directions. (Apparently Corelle Livingware isn't quite as unbreakable as its manufacturers claim -- this one went kaboom because Biljana hit the side of the bowl with the edge of her spoon. Let this be a warning to you all.)
On the bright side, I seem to have crossed my very own personal Rubicon, vis a vis handspinning. Whereas last week my efforts were kind of uneven and lumpy (though my friend Patti kindly remarked that people do pay big bucks for the whole overspun/underspun thing), this week I've been spinning a fine, thin thread, which I will ply back on itself to create something a bit thinner than sock yarn.
My goal is to make enough for a lace something-or-other (if I say "shawl" I could tempt the Wool Gods to kick my butt, so I'm remaining a bit vague here).
However, I can't show you photographic evidence of my startling progress, since I cleverly forgot to put the camera in my bag as I scurried out the door this morning.
Blame Monday the Thirteeth. I know I do.