By Beth Nuchman

So . . . shortly after dating the "cursed" blogger David, the number 33 began to "curse" my existence as well. I had just moved into my apartment and went IKEA to furnish my east village hovel. David came along to tame my tacky taste. We randomly picked assorted items such as dressers, pillows and bed sheets. As we rang the items up and I received the bill, my eyes popped out of my head when I saw the total: $333.33. I sheepishly shoved the receipt in his face and he grinned. This was the first of many 33's that occurred in the course of our relationship. Many times when we'd go out to dinner there would be some 33 in one part or another of our bill. We took a trip to Paris and of course, the number of our hotel room was . . . 33. I would see 33's on the subway on street signs and in phone numbers. It's been almost five years now and I still am cursed by the number 33. A few years back when David moved into his first apartment, I got him such an excellent house warming present. Two pewter 3's which he proudly displays right near his bedroom door.