If I were a man, I'd donate my sperm.

One of the sundry "ETC" type job postings on craigslist I encounter repeatedly is for egg donors. At $5,000 or more a go, it's tempting to consider syringing up with hormones to give would-be moms and pops their fair shot at parenthood. I only hesitate for two reasons: 1) I'm now out of the ideal egg donor age range, and 2) My own resources are finite.

Wouldn't I know? Every time I turn on my computer I'm repeatedly assaulted with stories about how all of my shiny, healthy academic-superstar-future-leader type eggs parachuted out on a suicide mission the very second I turned 30----and all that remains are a motley assortment of future criminals, bored, flatulent dysphorics, and Sarah Palin fans.

We all know how scare tactics tend to nudge us into one mindless life choice after the next, so I'm learning to filter out these stories. What's the moral anyway? The audience to whom these messages are directed won't exactly find this "advice" helpful, as they are either ambivalent about having children, lack the means to support a child, or are facing an array of unsavory relationship options. All poor circumstances for considering the weighty matter of parenthood.

Still....

Most women know that *supplies are limited,* and that what we give up just won't be comin' back. I'm going to hang on to the rest of my batch of little miscreants just in case. ;)

Not so for men. Not so.

Men have the remarkable ability to produce all the wish-fulfilling procreative awesomeness they need to make a needy couple/person happy. If I were a man, I would donate my sperm. Consider this: The average sperm bank pays $100 for each "contribution." So, this could be a tidy little source of commission-based income that won't dry up for a long, long time. Far more importantly, with minimal effort, you have the ability to alter the course of somebody's existence for the better. Think about that! Most of us spend ages trying to figure out how we can impact the world, make it a better place. You can Chloe, Jason, Max, and Lulu your way to a better world with a flick of the wrist. Woot!

Yes, I know that I just do-si-doed around some serious moral issues. What about if the kid wants to meet you when they turn 18, etc, etc. Well, in the U.S. you can still opt into anonymity, but that wouldn't be very sporting, would it? Look-----how bad could it really be to meet some of your donor progeny? Most likely, it would be one of the coolest things that ever happened to you. Meeting somebody with whom you share biological material past the point of having to: A) Change their diapers. B) Pay for their braces. C) Weather being told that you're hated repeatedly during those rocky teen years. No, I'm not promoting some weird version of negligent, Lucy-goosy "parenting" with a few fringe benefits. Rather, the child would be unlikely to perceive you as a parental figure (we all know A,B, and C is the stuff parental bonding is really made of,) but somebody of great interest with whom they share common features and personality traits. At the risk of revealing my patchouli-scented roots, I have to say----would it not be terrific to encounter one more person that you could...just...maybe...love?

Also, this is one way in which you can fulfill your biological destiny of seed-spreading without leaving a trail of angry ladies, hostile children, and assorted child support checks. Instead, put your emissions to use, good man, by spreading joy to ladies and gents who are really darn committed to being parents. The likelihood that your sperm would go to a scary Octomom-type is relatively slim. Oh, the power you hold in your hands.

I rest my eggs.

The windy road to entrepreneurship

This marks the second week where I will be working at 80% time. I'm finally ready to launch my private practice. I've been dreaming of this day ever since I was a wee graduate student anticipating all of the interesting little projects that I would cobble together into a robust full-time career, as opposed to a dull, predictable full-time job.

Since then, my career path has been surprisingly---ahem---steady.

One of the exercises I love to do with clients is to have them develop a career/family genogram. One of my mentors developed this very applicable tool. Us career counselor types use it for getting to the bottom of how the career choices of one's family of origin and ancestors might've helped shaped our client's ideas about career.

So it goes without saying that my own family is full of teachers, government employees, and folks who work for "stable" private companies.

Very few entrepreneurial types dangling from the branches of this here family tree.

I was having a discussion with my cousin about how difficult it is to know where to begin when one has the germ of an idea, ample motivation, and gripping fear about taking the first step to implement said idea. We both marveled at the fact that many of our friends, and significant others, etc, seemed to approach entrepreneurship fearlessly. Most of them have parents who just....well...did it.

So that's what I've decided to do. I'm going to hang my little shingle and market, market, market. Because from what I understand, marketing makes up the bulk of what I'm going to have to be doing for the next, oh, 5-6 months or so, anyway. Fine by me. As I often ask clients, what's the worst that could happen? There's so much to gain, and so precious little to lose. Pride is overrated. Pride keeps us tethered to activities which we've already mastered. Constantly letting ourselves be absorbed into the fog of possibility is what nurtures growth.

Cellular Exhaustion

As in atomic level. As in if I napped for the next two days straight it wouldn't chip away at this fatigue. What's strange is that it isn't horrible to feel this way....it's actually kind of peaceful...like the 5 minutes in between an alarm clock snooze. No particular reason; just the time of year. Every time the seasons change, I go through a kind of mini hibernation.

The thing about fatigue is that it excuses me from feeling obligated to do anything. Downtime is rarely so enjoyable, because my underlying guilt is lingering within every "wasted" moment. But when I feel this way I indulge my every lazy desire. Eating spoonful after spoonful of cold chocolate fudge while watching Moonstruck....zipping and unzipping my jacket repeatedly, reading Craigslist rants and raves (you don't know mindless entertainment until you've tried it.) Yes, indeed. Here's to sacrificing ambition for a delicious and long overdue round of navel gazing.

My Tankini did, in fact, kick ass.

I'm an absolute tankini convert now. Having tested my theories about the merits of the tankini as opposed to the bikini, I'm pleased to say that the tankini is:

A. Sexy
B. Comfy
C. Perfect for all seasons!

I mean, how brave was I to disrobe even partially in the dead of winter, right after Gluttony Fest 2009? Not to mention unveiling my trademark pallor before hoards of artifically tanned or naturally sunbaked beach goers. Yet I felt downright svelte in those suits. C'mon people. Kudos are due.

Still...

Upon consideration, I'm not going to post a picture. That's just a bit too much visual information, and I pride myself on being at least *sporadically* conscientious about privacy. Besides, it's not that exciting, right? The skinternet has ensured that a photo of me modeling my swim wear of choice is of little interest to the teeming masses.

My Tankini Kicks Ass

As long as I can remember, I've never felt comfortable in a bikini. It isn't because of some demoralizing beach incident during my tender years, or because I harbor a secret modest streak. I just don't particularly enjoy the sensation of the sun beating down on my incandescently white belly. This also explains how it is possible that I can dislike bikinis but love the way that I look and feel in beautiful lingerie.

Two years ago, I took a trip to Brazil with one of my travel cronies. After casually disclosing my lifelong appreciation for one-piece swimwear, I was lectured about how I could not be seen on a Brazilian beach in anything but a bikini. I packed a couple of two-pieces and an ordinary suit with every intention of relying on the suit. Of course, anybody who knows anything about Brazilian beaches knows that my friend had it right. I'm not sure what would have garnered more attention: My snowy skin or the (apparently) MASSIVE quantities of fabric wrapped around me.

In Rio I was told that I should replace my bright red halter bikini with a string bikini...as it was STILL too old-fashioned and stuffy for the beach. Indeed, every woman and child roughly between the ages of 5 and 90 was wearing one of these bizarre creations. Yes, bizarre is the word I choose. I'm pretty sure--no, I know that I'd feel more comfortable stark naked than wearing a nipple's worth of fabric designed to detach and float away at any wave's caprice. Also, is it just me, or do string bikinis kinda flatten the girls out? They seem to drift east and west, as if in disagreement. I'm sure I could find an obliging pair of conch shells and a shoelace that would provide more support!

So that takes me to today, a week before a vacation to Costa Rica. Darn you, tropical vacations. Why do I have to want to take you???? *Queuing violins*

Sure, I could wear a bikini again. I'll certainly pack one. But a couple of weeks ago I decided to experiment with another option: The Tankini. That lovely compromise of a tank top with a bikini bottom...exposing just a tantalizing stripe of midsection, while providing maximal bosom support! Hooray!

Truth be told, I already own one, but even I will capitulate to it's ugliness. A high neck and boob-deflating level of spandex make it a great swimmer but a terrible bore at parties.

Here's what I discovered: Victoria's Secret swimsuits are awesome. They are very sensibly priced, and what a selection! They make lots of tankinis. Tankinis with animal prints (Raaaaaar!) halter necks (meow!) and best of all, the kind of hardware, ahem, that you'd come to expect from lingerie people. Although I kinda hate their crappy bras. Moving along....

I ordered two: A chocolate brown halter tankini and an aqua blue tankini with a sweet little bow. I diligently took my measurements and chose sizes accordingly.

The aqua is definitely a keeper. Fits like a glove and I would wear it fearlessly. Bravo!

Halter top is ill-fitting. The cups are too small and the waist is all loose and goofy-looking. So much for their handy measurement charts! Moral of the story: Order two sizes and send one back.

Here is the one that I'm keeping:



Why yes, this is my attempt to promote the potential sex factor of a tankini. Just try and stop me.

I will post a picture and detailed review upon my return. Pura vida awaits....

1984

I love looking backwards at this time of year. The longer the view, the better...nothing is more amusing than revisiting music, movies, old journals and other tokens of my youth with these gradually aging eyes. I know that when I'm eventually hobbled by old age and potentially abandoned by loved ones due to my increasingly eccentric sense of humor, I will continue to derive satisfaction from this yearly exercise. Bless you Youtube, if for no other reason than allowing me to watch my favorite music videos from the age of 6/7...1984...a banner year.

I had a well-loved VHS with a random assortment of MTV videos that I watched repeatedly. Billy Idol (Flesh for Fantasy,) Twisted Sister (We're not gonna take it,) Art of Noise (Close to the Edit,) INXS (Send a Letter,) Elvis Costello (She's not the Only Flame in Town,) O'Bryan (Lovelite--I'm actually a little surprised that the censorship-loving conservative element on Youtube haven't flagged this video yet. In the meantime, the uncut version is here.

But my all-time favorite was definitely Laura Branigan's Self Control. Dare I say...they just don't make 'em like they used to? Yes, I'm aware that this comment automatically ages me by about twenty years.

But really, when was the last time you saw a music video that included an orgy simulated by people in leotards and masks on a floor lined with what appears to be tin foil? For a six year old this was some pretty heady stuff. I was equal parts terrified of Distorted Mask Guy (!) and giddy due to the overall naughtiness factor and accompanying feeling of getting away with something that watching this video gave me.

Viewing it now, I am surprised by how much more provocative the suggestions in this video are in comparison to the currently popular yet terminally boring grind-o-rama music videos.

Here it is, in all of its era-specific glory. Hope you have some time this winter to reflect on some of your favorite youthful memories.

Five Years

What a difference five years makes.

Five years ago....

Egads, I was married! I had just graduated from my counseling program. I had two jobs, and had just bought a house.

Five years. If fortune smiles on me, a mere 17th of my life span. And yet, I am miles away from that description, and miles closer to...something else. Oh, the possibilities. Mind boggling, really, to consider where I may be in five more years.

This whole five years concept has gotten me thinking about all of things I'd like to do before I croak. Morbid topic, you say? Perhaps. But nothing mobilizes the chronically lazy like a bittersweet swig of mortality.

I'm currently working on a short list of will-do's.

Pointless Paper

If you want to hear me rave endlessly about something, bring up the topic of junk mail. Not the penis-pill-money-scam-other-random-bullshit variety in your inbox. The stuff that goes thump in your mailbox. It actually angers me how many times I've had to fill my recycling can with this pointless crud, and grieves me to think that trees are a-fallin' so that some scamtacular company can attempt to sell their wares to little ol' me, a totally uninterested audience. I know I'm not alone in this. There should really be a law. A well-written, airtight one.

When I lived at my prior address, I signed up for a service that helps stop junk mail. It kind of worked. But since moving to my new place the junk has located me again. For every piece of legitimate mail I receive, I get ten leaflets for some crummy pizza chain or fake psychology graduate school.

Take for example, yesterday, when I finally picked up the keys for the new mail box in our fully renovated lobby (details later) The neighbor handed me some of my overflow mail and this included a Glamour magazine with my address on it. I have never subscribed to Glamour in my life. How did they find out about me? Did I fill out a card for a discount at the grocery store five years ago that placed me squarely into some sad beauty magazine demographic? Have they been tracking me ever since? Did my old hotmail address start selling my inbox contents to some scabby online marketing pirate? If I'm going to read a fluffy beauty rag it'll be Lucky all the way, thankyouverymuch.

So, I spent the last 10 minutes on the web jungle of glamour.com trying to wade through made-up statistics about sex and chirpy articles about celebrities and their luscious hair until I finally figured out how to cancel a subscription I never signed up for in the first place.

I know it's rough out there trying to market sub-par products to a world full of brokeass people, but could you stop felling forests and please stick to spamming me with laughable emails and blingy Facebook adverts instead?

Thanks.

Update: Turns out my sister signed me up for Glamour as a gift. Foot, mouth, you are already pretty well-acquainted...

Updated Update: My sister did not sign me up for Glamour; she subscribed me to the glorious Domino, which unexpectedly folded---Glamour was the substitution that was offered. I think she would have preferred a refund.

The best laid plans should really go get laid.

There comes a week in every girl's month where she envisions herself as a more perfected specimen. This week is flanked by other weeks where remembering to run the dishwasher and actually disposing of the umpteenth "low-cost dental care" flyer lining the mailbox is sufficient. But during this particular week, it's all about ambition.

I love to talk a big talk to myself. Sometimes quite literally. I imagine myself being interviewed about how I finally kicked some of my bad habits or assembled the perfect work wardrobe entirely from secondhand clothes, or the perfect apartment decor from objects found on street corners. My fantasy responses would sound something like this:

"Well, yes, I just eventually forced myself to go to bed at 9 on the dot, so it became much easier to wake up at 6:00 AM. If I hadn't developed this habit, I would never have had the time to earn that black belt."

"I just stuck to my guns about eating lunch and dinner in every day until I saved up enough for my new vacation home in Belize."

"Oh, you like my dress? Thanks! I recently took up a sewing apprenticeship in my spare time."

"This arm definition is from my 2-hour long daily home yoga practice."

"Actually, I made this table myself out of reclaimed wine barrels."

And so on.

To kick off my monthly week of lofty goal-setting, I decided that I would get to bed early on Sunday (and for the rest of the week) and wake up extra early for a morning jog. Never mind that I haven't ever gotten up at 6AM for anything but a flight, even when I was a cross-country runner in high school. I was going to be one of those people who prance over dew-covered grass and smile beatifically as they pass still-darkened windows fueled by the glow of inner peace and unshakeable confidence.

So I settled into bed with a book at 10PM, about an hour before I'll usually even think about sleeping. I read until I was drowsy, then switched off the light.

La la la.

Around 10:30 I switched on the light and picked up my book.

11:30. I started getting nervous about that alarm that I'd set for 6AM. No way of achieving the coveted 8 hours at this point.

A few minutes past midnight. I tapped the little button on my alarm that dims the light so I couldn't see how badly I was failing at the very first step in my quest for perfection.

Who knows what time it is now. Dear god what was that noise??????

(Tried to decide whether or not to investigate the noise. On went the bedside lamp.)

4:30 AM, must've finally dozed off at some point, having officially wussed out on the whole potential burglar/serial killer/stalker noise investigation idea. Whoops, left the lamp on. Hence sudden disruption of (now) desperately needed sleep.

I did eventually wake up and do some yoga. And I did make a delicious breakfast that would've done the Lake Merritt Farmer's Market proud. But I had to laugh a little. I rarely have trouble sleeping these days. I'm lucky if I get five pages further along in my book. That whole idea of perfection was like the psychological equivalent of an ice cold bucket of water to the groin.

I kept thinking about the people I serve and how many of them have an all-or-nothing mentality about success and failure. One of my favorite questions is "So, how's that working for you?"

So how's that working for you?

"Well, let's see. Since I officially decided to stop translating my fantasies about ultimate perfection literally, I've found that I can pick up one or two small things at a time and practice getting really good at them instead. I vacuumed every week this month. I went out late on Friday and spent a little money, but I also made a delicious dinner from a new recipe last night. Oh, and I happen to sleep like a 10 year old kid on vacation in Hawaii."

Perfectly.

Find a Penny, pick her up...

I adopted a pet from the Oakland Animal Shelter, and you can, too!



Her name is Penny, and I am ENTIRELY unbiased when I say that she's an incredibly sweet girl. After owning two gorgeous but naughty bengal kitties I never thought I'd head down the pet ownership road again. I was also torn because I had always really wanted a dog. I spent the better part of my childhood begging my parents for either A) Another kid B) One of those child-sized battery operated jeeps that were probably recalled a month later C) A puppy. The puppy seemed the most promising option, since it was the only one that didn't cause my parents to laugh hysterically in my face for an hour. I still managed to end up up dog-less. Now that I have a place of my own, revenge can finally be mine!

Except....in my little high rise it just doesn't seem right. Dogs need space. I've also come home late on one too many occasions to find a dog owner from my building plodding down to Grand Avenue so that Scruffers can find relief in some dark alcove around Lake Merritt. Hmmm.

Penny is quite content just listening to my washing machine and ambushing my book/keyboard when she wants attention. She does not persist when I close the door on her at night, and has excellent manners in general. The Oakland Animal Shelter has many such cutie pies of both the canine and the feline persuasion. Heck, they have some damn cute bunnies, too! The pets who weren't surrendered for behavioral reasons are generally well-socialized, since they're used to interacting with a variety of humans and other animals. Rescuing a pet feels great, and if you are so inclined (and reside in the Oakland area) I highly recommend that you pay them a visit.

Bon Ami!

Am I the only person in the world that finds housekeeping a completely unintuitive process? I don't want to think about how often I have filled a bucket up with water and cleanser, mopped the floor, then sat around wondering what to do with the filthy water. I usually flush it down the toilet, but then I worry that there are floor goobers in the water that will clog the drain. On occasion I end up dumping the water into the tub, only to realize that I have already cleaned the tub and have to do it all over again. Cleaning the tub twice in one day makes me want to cry a little bit.

Does anybody else feel like they're just pushing the dirt around when cleaning their floors?

Same with vacuuming. I'm convinced that the benefits of vacuuming are almost entirely psychological.

And what, pray tell, does somebody do with all those dirty rags? It seems a waste to devote a wash cycle to a couple of dirty rags, but I also don't want to stick them with a bunch of my semi-dirty t-shirts. Those t-shirts have never done anything to me! Those t-shirts deserve a better fate. I hide my rags under the sink after a cursory rinse, and try not to think about them.

It seems that I am in the minority. Most folks seem to be able to clean their entire house with water, vinegar, a bucket and mop. In an hour. It takes me all day and I treat myself to a vacation in Brazil afterwards.

I will say that Bon Ami is one of my favorite all-time products. My little French-speaking weapon of choice.

I like gritty cleansers 'cause they lift the stains off of tiles instantly, thereby making me feel like less of a domestic failure than I really am. And unlike Ajax, the detergent of choice in my childhood home, it doesn't give me an instant sinus headache.

A Love Letter to Jerome, Arizona

Dear Jerome,

Right now I am officially on the mend from a nasty bout of the summer flu. The virus left me with a sepulchral cough and a prescription for several medications that chemically lobotomize me for a few hazy hours (and little else.) However, it also afforded me time to reflect back on my day trip to meet you.

While I greatly enjoyed Sedona's unearthly beauty, you were the crown jewel of my first vacation to Arizona. It was love at first sight for me...I'm not sure you feel the same. That's okay, Jerome. It was both your breezy indifference and casual hospitality that drew me in, among other contradictions.

How does such a small town generate all of that spunk?

House of Joy, you brought me your promise in spades. I read somewhere that after your birth as a brothel you became a world famous restaurant. Now you tempt me with your stockpile of original early and mid-century posters, military ephemera and other mixed media eye candy. In every incarnation, it seems you have lived up to your name. I appreciate your owner, who radiated warmth, but did not hover. This is a quality that I particularly value when I am up to my elbows in sparkly things, prints, and refrigerator magnets emblazoned with naked figures and bawdy puns.

Then up those serpentine streets. Past wine bars, restaurants, galleries, restaurants, wine bars, galleries, hotels. And it occurred to me that given your modest population, there is no shortage of local attractions. Or proprietors who are warm and approachable but never overly solicitous. Your status as a tourist destination seems to be more of a coincidence then a strategic decision. I like to imagine that if you existed in a vacuum, the same amenities would also be there, just for the brazen heck of it. That your oblique avenues and tiered porches materialized one day out of Cleopatra Hill like a southwestern Shangri-La. And you extended an elbow and offered everybody a drink and a place to stay and didn't give a hang about what anybody thought of you.

I passed the Spirit Room a few times without visiting. Mostly it was because I was with my Mom, who isn't much for bars in general. I must admit, I still feel kind of awkward getting tipsy in my mother's presence. Maybe it's because I have never seen her in any state other than crisply sober. Either way, I got past that concern and we eventually walked in. I love your molded tin ceiling and other original details. And that painting above the stage that seemed like an homage to Olympia. Mostly, I appreciate the fact that your friendly and expeditious bartender sold me one of the best gin and tonics I've ever had for four dollars. I left a four dollar tip just for that. Bartender who served my Mom a Sprite alongside my beverage without a discernible hint of irony: I salute you!

Well Jerome, I really hope we meet again. I hardly feel I have the right to continue singing your praises when we're barely acquaintances. But you just have that way about you. Maybe next time I'll sample a "Haunted Hamburger" or stay in one of your guesthouses. If your ghostly denizens in any way resemble your corporeal ones, I'll still sleep like a sated baby.

Graciously,

Rachel

Green Sludge Dreams

There is a new flu epidemic sweeping the Bay Area. Me and my co-worker caught the same bug and had nearly the same rapid progression of symptoms: Sore throat, fever, and then cough, cough, cough. This one is a stinker, folks. If you feel a sore throat coming on, I recommend that you sequester yourself. The doc told me this morning that this virus has brought in heaps of patients and that the tenacious little bugger can live for 1.5 hours outside of the body.

Anyhow, I tried to stay far, far away from the green, licorice-flavored goop, but after three nights spent coughing myself awake, I was beginning to drift off during my appointments at work. So, I caved.

I must say, Ny Quil tastes sort of good.

Nevertheless, I had a dream that night that a giant worm was eating everybody in the Bay Area. It was releasing a neurotoxin through its skin that was corrupting people into sacrificing themselves for the good of the worm....and I was the only one impervious to the toxin. After what seemed like hours of running away from pod people and the worm, I ended up in front of a field with signs indicating where people should line up if they would like to be cooked rare, medium, or well-done in their quest to become worm food.

I woke up and flushed the Ny Quil down the toilet.

I highly recommend an aromatherapy bath instead. About 5 drops of essential oil (I used Rosemary and Tea Tree oils) warm (not hot) water, you will rest easy without dreams of becoming worm bait.

It's All Coming Together...

A few weeks ago, I received some unsurprising news. The UC system will now be operating on a (thinner) shoestring, and in all likelihood our pay will drop substantially this year--probably within the next month or two.

While absorbing this new information as a homeowner earning a modest income, I found that I wasn't as devastated as I thought I'd be. In fact, I felt all right. Naturally, I'm concerned about about the level of morale among staff and faculty (this is an equal opportunity pay cut) and I worry about how this will particularly impact the many single parents who work for UC. But otherwise, I feel more at peace than I have in awhile.

Perhaps it is this little haven of mine?

Amazingly, right before The News, my space started to come together. I brought home a beautiful wall hanging from my office that I had bought at the Berkeley Himalayan Fair years ago. I found some new plants and pillows at an unbelievable price. I resurrected an old oak end table that had been languishing in storage for years. While I used to labor over every conceivable decision in my previous dwellings, I reverted back to my trusty old "screw it" approach and found that everything coalesced.




In the gesture of letting go, there is harmony. I know, shame on me for my lack of eloquence. But let's face it; most of us live in refuge from common sense MOST OF THE TIME. We think that excessive worry is the sticky stuff that binds our lives together, when it is often just the sticky stuff that keeps us firmly glued to a sinking ship.

Ahhhhh...sticky stuff.



Painting my office nook was particularly therapeutic. I was having brunch at Aunt Mary's Cafe in Temescal, and happened to notice the gorgeous color on their kitchen wall. It was midnight blue with a slight suggestion of green, and altogether gorgeous. The gracious and lovely waitress brought me a pint of the paint (a custom mix) so that I could record the number and buy some of my own.

I used to buy little samples of paint color and slap them on the walls, living with them for weeks until I made a decision which I always seemed to end up doubting later on.

This time I marched over to Kelly Moore, bought the paint, and painted the nook. And I don't mind saying that I think it looks hot. No samples or accompanying sticky stuff required.

A Wrinkle in Chime

Dispatch from the Land O' Home Renovation....
All of us, homeowners and renters of every stripe, eventually fall prey to the seductive powers of the Feng Shui decorating book. Whether handed to us as a housewarming gift or peering at us alluringly from one of the center aisles at the book store, nobody is safe from their influence. Nobody.

I am still trying to unlock the secret to their special brand of consumer magic.

How often have you visited somebody's home for the first time and noticed that everything in their bedroom comes in PAIRS? There's a pair of ceramic doves or lions or some other animals engaged in a seductive vis-a-vis on their dresser, along with a darling twinset of coat hooks and a couple of prints on the wall depicting---I don't know...naked couples frolicking, or flocks of goslings cavorting by a lake. Something merry and group-oriented.

Then you say "Hey, are lions/doves your favorite animal?" And they laugh and reply "No, it's just good Feng Shui."

Behold the power.

Not that there's anything wrong with the idea of promoting romance via pairing. Pairing items can harmonize a space----or make it look suspiciously like a suite at the Best Western. Anyhow, I imagine that many people tend to locate "relationship" in the index of their Feng Shui decorating books when trouble is already a' brewin'. The point at which no manner of coupling animals or identical mug cozies have a sporting chance at turning things around.

That said, there's much to appreciate in Feng Shui books, mostly because the advice is just practical. For example, it makes sense not to have a mirror directly in front of you while you sleep, because you JUST MIGHT wake up at 3AM and momentarily think you're being attacked by a hideous bleary-eyed version of yourself. And I'll agree that colors certainly do have an impact on mood, even if only fleetingly. Trying to sleep soundly in a lemon yellow bedroom at a B&B convinced me of this truth long ago. If walls could sing, they would have been belting out "Dancing Queen," karaoke-style. After several adult beverages.

I also really like the idea of bringing pleasant ambient sounds into a home. For example, the murmur of a fountain or cheerful tinkle of chimes. Those wily Feng Shui experts may not agree on every point, but they all seem to reach consensus on this topic.

I purchased my first set of wind chimes from my local nursery. I came home, all excited that I was actively promoting a fresh flow of chi. I even re-purposed an old curtain rod to act as a staff from which I could dangle them. And what a beautiful chorus they were making...in the afternoon breeze my chimes were filling the air with lazy tones.

At 2AM on Monday, I found myself awake for no reason. Completely disoriented, I went through a mental checklist of possibilities: Fell asleep on book, no. Bladder, no. Left the burner on, no.

Then I heard them.

My chimes were clanging away like a diva chef in a kitchen full of dirty pots and pans. The breeze had given way to WIND. At first, as a good citizen of Feng Shui I merely turned my back to the window and told myself that wind chimes are soothing, dammit. But after 15 more minutes of painful denial, I found myself marching onto the balcony then smothering them into submission on my living room floor.

I hung them outside again the next day.

The cycle of pain continued for about a week, until I broke down and hung them inside and away from the door where they remain, reminding me of their presence only when the balcony door is open or an unusually tall guest arrives.

I suppose you could call that Feng Shui Lite?

Thank Goddess for short weeks and tall drinks...

Lest you feel the need to make lame jokes about the state of my liver, please understand: I only vaguely resemble the girl at the end of the bar drinking directly from the pitcher. The real me never succumbs to such juvenile forms of recreation.

That's because the real me is on vacation in Laos right now.

That girl, she hasn't had a vacation in a very looooong time. No sir. She does have a mortgage, and is quite fortunate to have a job in this soul-witheringly bleak economy. She even has a day off from work this Friday, and may have the chance to briefly retreat. But blame it on her lifelong wanderlust and those tempting deals in the back of Budget Travel...today she wants to sell all of her worldly possessions and be on a plane and over the ocean.

So if you see that girl, my doppelganger, why not offer her some steak-cut fries to go with her beverages? Or better yet, some of your frequent-flyer miles? Pretty please????

Infusing Heart

My condo is boasting a new kitchen, useful new Expedits, some lovely (and varied) wall paint, and is no longer littered with boxes, tools and an accompanying mantle of dust. No, my condo is clean to the touch, and relatively inoffensive to the nose. But somehow it is lacking....errrr...je ne sais quoi. That difficult-to-define element which is what I think the folks at Apartment Therapy refer to as "heart." When the walls are blank, and some of the furniture is brand new, a space doesn't yet feel cozy or lived-in.

Art certainly breathes life into a space, and I only have a few pieces of art, which are still leaning against some wall or other. They haven't exactly jumped out at me and said "This is where I belong. On the wall to the right of your dresser." Perhaps my walls and I are just not yet well-acquainted enough for the hanging ceremony.

I also tend to accumulate art slowly, so while I am certain that art will bring some spirit to my place, I am suppressing the desire to indulge in fleeting Ebay and Etsy art fantasies.

I have learned, however, that a way to bring vitality into a space, is to invest in some beautiful air-cleansing plants.

Have you heard of the NASA clean air plants study? Clever NASA, always offering the latest in sensible home-renovation tips rooted in nuclear science.

It was NASA's clean air plants study that inspired me to buy some greenery for my office a few years ago, as it turns out that these multitaskers suck the formaldehyde and other cell-corrupting chemicals right out of the polluted indoor air. Ironically, sealing buildings up in an effort to make them more energy efficient has resulted in something called "sick building syndrome" where otherwise healthy folks are coming down with mysterious ailments as a result of being trapped inside with off-gassing carpet, walls, and furniture.

One or two plants in any space can drastically improve measures, AND these beauties do a great deal to enliven an otherwise uninspired room. I have a Peace Lily, a Spade Leaf Philendron, and some kind of Dracaena. I figure that my small army of air-cleansers will compensate for those years I spent *occasionally* compromising my lungs. Okay, I'm an optimist. But I hold firm that they will provide some modest protection against the factory stink of my new kitchen cabinets Expedits. And they certainly enhance the heart center of my home.

IKEA: Friend or Foe?

I may go blind if I have to decode another cryptic IKEA installation drawing. An attempt to screw in a simple overhead light fixture nearly brought me to my knees. I have taken 9 trips to IKEA in the past two weeks. The blue and yellow army has taken my patoot, asked me if I would like to carry it off in a $1.00 reusable bag that I will undoubtedly forget before my next trip to IKEA, and handed it to me one too many times. Along with the wrong cabinet faces, and leaving out the faucet (just to keep the variety of mishaps interesting) by the time I could actually line my kitchen drawers, I was ready to hire a fleet of strapping lads to put my oils and wax paper away. Such is the typical trajectory of the home renovation; just when the end is in sight, you find that your sanity has been whittled down to a nub.

Thanks to the invaluable efforts of my mom, aunt, and assorted friends, I now have a kitchen-like space; all I need is a plumber.



Now, to be fair, IKEA cabinets are *relatively* easy to set up and install. The assembly becomes intuitive after the first two or three clunky attempts, and they look sort of slick on the wall--especially given the fact that they are made out of factory air, compressed wood, and cheap hardware.

I must admit that the cabinet joints are cleverly engineered! They come with these rubber stoppers that make it virtually impossible for you to slam your doors and drawers shut, potentially shattering the composite wood.

My advice to others who are considering an IKEA kitchen renovation: Beware of splinters. My nail beds are full of 'em. And embrace the fact that you will make from one to eight return trips to IKEA to resolve botched orders. Other than that, I now have a kitchen with ample counter space that feels very functional. IKEA: Adore you or despise you, apparently I can't do without you. I surrender.

Elisabeth the Wunderkind

My mom is ridiculously talented. The woman gutted her old kitchen and built it back in a month...without help. She owns (among many tools) a fancy tile-cutter and a miter saw.

She's not a general contractor or a carpenter. My mom is a (retired) math teacher; a force to be reckoned with when wielding measuring tape and level.

And a sewing machine. See those velvet Renaissance gowns? She made those in a single afternoon to enhance our trick-or-treating pleasure.

While building cabinets alongside my mother, I began to wonder what it is that other people DO when they need help with a home project and lack the awesome force of nature that is Elisabeth Klein. Really, I could contract her out, shave a bit of commission off the top, and retire early. Or just continue to be really, really grateful.

A (slow) transformation in pictures