[Note: I am in the process of moving posts from another blog over to Forest Street, and this is such a post, originally published over a year ago. I apologize if you’ve already read it; I just want to have everything in one convenient, central location here in the Kitchen].
I will admit that I am not a big fan of mystical/New Age/Woo-woo stuff. I have, at various times in my life, suspended my disbelief long enough to check out aromatherapy, I Ching, herbal medicine, Tarot cards, flower remedies and Deepak Chopra’s ideas about eating according to ones’ body type. I did like yoga, and will probably stick with that one (and I have a holistic vet), but otherwise I remain a staunch and resolute believer in Deal With It, Take an Aspirin, and If Your Body Type is “Bigger Than You Want,” Eat Less and Walk More. I would love to believe that sniffing a sprig of lavender and putting a big mirror next to the front door would make me relaxed and wealthy, but sadly I see no evidence that this is true. These are projects best supported by Xanax and windfall inheritances.
Last night as I sat transfixed by the many widget choices available on iGoogle (an activity known to my family as “working”) my dear husband took down the Christmas tree and put the furniture back in it’s customary arrangement. (This was an incredibly selfless and kind act undertaken with no upfront promise of sexual favors, and you may think that I shirked my duty; it might make you feel better to know that I am also in charge of deploying and tearing down my parents’ Christmas tree and decorations, so I am still on that particular hook). Since I was toiling away in another room, deciding whether to install daily quotes from The Simpson’s or Jack Handy, Rob made the daring decision to leave the sofa and chairs in their new “With Tree” locations. Admittedly, there aren’t that many ways to arrange furniture in a room that only has two whole walls, and necessarily focuses on the Ark of the Covenant television set, permanently located in the only logical spot.
When I surfaced, he asked how I liked “the Fung Shwa.” Since I believed that Fung Shwa was a French casserole made with truffles and duck confit, it took me a minute. “Oh,” I said with a figurative smack to my forehead, “you mean Feng Shui!” After thanking me graciously, as he often does, for taking the time to correct him, he allowed as how that was what he had meant.
“Well,” I responded, playing for time, “what do you think?” He shrugged.
“I can still see the TV from my chair, and I don’t have to move the couch back where it was.”
That, my friends, is a kind of Feng Shui I can believe in.