Two out of three's definitely bad

I’m walkin’ on eggshells tonight, kids, because there’s an old expression in the back of my mind growing like a bad weed. You’ve heard it before, no doubt; the one about good or bad things that come in threes.

I’ll tell you, I’m not superstitious. I could care less about black cats and used to own one that took great pleasure in running its claws through the beard I had cultivated back then.

Crazy critter used to perch on my chest while I was sleeping and rake those nails into the thick fur that covered my chin, establishing I presume some bizarre kind of kinship. It was never reciprocal, however, and you better believe me and that cat have parted ways.

I walk under ladders, tip over salt shakers just because and refuse to flick a pinch over my shoulder no matter how vigourously anyone else urges me to do so. Some of you will liken such audacity to laughing in the face of death, but who’d be stupid enough to do that? I’d spit in its hoary eye, maybe, but laugh? Never. That’s how superstitious I am.

But this tripartite proverb has me a little concerned. Funny how a perfectly ordinary day can chug right along until it hits that metaphoric river of … well, you know … and things start to spin madly out of control.

It started with the bike ride Saturday afternoon. Conditions were perfect. Twenty-six degrees, brilliant sunshine, kids were sleeping and resting respectively and my wife had the house under control. There was nothing else to do but suit up and get gone.

Talk about rolling, too! I had that sucker in the palm of my hand, feelin’ no chain and lovin’ the breeze that whipped through my helmet.

I didn’t see the pothole until I had ridden through it, nor did I notice the small stone with the spire sitting up near the curb like a dog begging a treat. I hit ‘em both at full speed and made it past the Courthouse Museum when I felt the air literally gush from the back tire. Two seconds, and it was flatter than Uncle Burpee’s homemade beer.

It’s fixed now, of course, but that was only the beginning. I got home, decided to make the best of it and do some work on the old home computer. I’d stress the word ‘old’ and leave the rest to your imagination, but that wouldn’t be nice. You’d rather the gory details, of course, so here goes.

I ran Live Update to kick the crap out of any viruses, ran AdAware to ferret out furtive spyware and everything was cool until the monitor went as dark as midnight. I couldn’t do a thing to refresh the screen so I rebooted, thinking, “Whatever. A glitch, right?” Yeah. Right.

Halfway through the reboot, the hard drive groaned like a Timex that had taken a lickin’ and kept on tickin’. It clicked and clicked and clicked and my heart sank. I know this sound and it’s not good.

Two down, one to go. New rubber for the bike, new hard drive for the computer. I’m afraid to get in the car, for God’s sake! I’m thinking the transmission will be next and my triple will be complete.

Of course, the optimist in me whispers that the third thing could be a lottery win – something really, really good. The caveman behind the optimist snickers and starts to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”. ‘It’s one… two… three strikes yer out… at the old… ball… game.’

Man, it’s going to be a long week.