LOFT LIFE: Soon every day will be a Monday

Once upon a time, I did consulting for a workers’ compensation (no it’s not workman’s anymore) insurance company on Wall Street. I was marketing safety services to the utility industry, who were the clients of this insurance company.

I learned that in terms of safety, Mondays were the days when most accidents happened, and during a crisis, where there was high alert, few accidents happened.

Of course, my plan of action was to make the workers aware that Mondays WERE the crisis days to be aware of.

Recently, one of my print ad sales people sent me an email, which I misread, so my reply was not making sense. He resent the email in large, bold, RED letters. This was on a Monday. That time I got it. More recently, I sent a question, which he thought should have had an attachment, but didn’t. His humor to ask for the attachment was: “Aren’t Mondays wonderful!” There really wasn’t supposed to be an attachment, so it was Monday for him too.

That reminded me of a trip to Panera Bread where they employ a lot of seniors. Now, I like seniors--usually. After all, I ARE one.

But, this was beyond funny: The older female was literally steering the patron to more healthful choices with, “You want the turkey with....” just like your mom would. An older gentleman cashier was taking an order for something another patron wanted “on the side,” which he heard as a “side” salad. When the patron received the wrong order, the order taker cheerfully corrected it. But I had to chuckle that this was all about hearing impairment, and I was imagining the collection of order humor we are about to experience as seniors multiply and hearing diminishes.

So, just think. With the economy tanking, and retirement savings interest and dividends dwindling, these Baby Boomers who already resist aging and the term senior, are all going to be staying in the work force for another 30 years or so.

Imagine those customer service phone calls you now make being answered by older, wiser folks, if not the off-shore folks; your sandwiches being prepared by good old Mom--now good old Grandma too; and your goods and services being made and provided by this older generation. 

Add to that most commercials for almost everything are being written and produced by 20-somethings who do not really speak the same language as the Boomers, and you can expect to experience a sense of the surreal when you try to match up the ads to the in-store, online or on-the-phone experience you have.

Humorous as this sounds, I predict we will all be having a lot of Mondays. 

LOFT LIFE: Culture rant

I arrived at the Post Office yesterday, happy to be mailing a package to my son in California, containing: books, a CD, photographs in an envelope, a work of art created for him personally on a T-shirt, and a note describing the contents of the box. Perhaps the shirt was stretching my definition of media a bit, but it was the art, not the shirt, that mattered. It was not any old t-shirt. It was a shirt that had a caricature cartoon of him, done by an actual artist, at a classmate's birthday party. The family also had a home with about eight garages, and an elevator in the house. I don’t think the garage had an elevator, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, I considered the shirt to contain printed art.

So when I addressed the postal worker that my package was media, I foolishly described the content as books, a CD and art.

“Art! she exclaimed as though I had just confessed to being a serial killer. What kind of art?

“Printed art,” I answered, and photographs.”

“Oh, and photographs. No, no. Those are not media. So your two choices are....”

“In what way are photographs not media?” I asked, incredulous. Books have photographs.”

“Would you like a copy of our rules?” she asked, smugly.

“I am sure you know the rules,” I continued, “however, I do not agree with your (the post office) definition of media.”

“Photographs are not media.”

I sighed, realizing that if she decided to examine the contents and found a t-shirt, explaining how this was a form of printed art would be futile.

I complied, of course, and paid the $12. But, I wasn’t happy.

I am, by trade, a media specialist. That means I buy media for clients. So I know what media is. Maybe that’s why I frosted over when the post office told me I could not mail my package media rate, because it contained photographs and printed art.

I have experienced this in the past when I enclosed a note, which the postal worker claimed was not permitted in media mail.

OK. I know my definition may not line up with the USPS’s definition, but on what planet are photographs not part of printed material? I am sure they have the right to define media any way they wish to, and do. But, it just seems so unreasonable.

So is it just loose photographs? Or, are picture books not part of the “books” they include in media?

I didn’t take her printed rules--i don’t want more paper to shred. But, I did look this up online. In case you need this:

4.0

Content Standards for Media Mail

4.1

Qualified Items

Only these items may be mailed at the Media Mail prices:

a.

Books, including books issued to supplement other books, of at least eight printed pages, consisting wholly of reading matter or scholarly bibliography, or reading matter with incidental blank spaces for notations and containing no advertising matter other than incidental announcements of books. Advertising includes paid advertising and the publishers' own advertising in display, classified, or editorial style.

b.

16-millimeter or narrower width films, which must be positive prints in final form for viewing, and catalogs of such films of 24 pages or more (at least 22 of which are printed). Films and film catalogs sent to or from commercial theaters do not qualify for the Media Mail price.

c.

Printed music, whether in bound or sheet form.

d.

Printed objective test materials and their accessories used by or on behalf of educational institutions to test ability, aptitude, achievement, interests, and other mental and personal qualities with or without answers, test scores, or identifying information recorded thereon in writing or by mark.

e.

Sound recordings, including incidental announcements of recordings and guides or scripts prepared solely for use with such recordings. Video recordings and player piano rolls are classified as sound recordings.

f.

Playscripts and manuscripts for books, periodicals, and music.

g.

Printed educational reference charts designed to instruct or train individuals for improving or developing their capabilities. Each chart must be a single printed sheet of information designed for educational reference. The information on the chart, which may be printed on one or both sides of the sheet, must be conveyed primarily by graphs, diagrams, tables, or other nonnarrative matter. An educational reference chart is normally but not necessarily devoted to one subject. A chart on which the information is conveyed primarily by textual matter in a narrative form does not qualify as a printed educational reference chart for mailing at the Media Mail prices even if it includes graphs, diagrams, or tables. Examples of qualifying charts include maps produced primarily for educational reference, tables of mathematical or scientific equations, noun declensions or verb conjugations used in the study of languages, periodic table of elements, botanical or zoological tables, and other tables used in the study of science.

h.

Loose-leaf pages and their binders consisting of medical information for distribution to doctors, hospitals, medical schools, and medical students.

i.

Computer-readable media containing prerecorded information and guides or scripts prepared solely for use with such media.

I see it doesn’t specifically mention photographs, but neither does it exclude them, or art impressed t-shirts, unless the hand-stamped imprint on the shirt counts, but then it won't because the imprint is a picture of my son, which makes it personal--see below.

Then there is the card describing the contents (it did also contain an “I love you.”) Here are the USPS rule for enclosures:

Enclosures and Attachments for both Media Mail and Library Mail

6.1

Loose Enclosures

In addition to the enclosures and additions listed in 4.2 for Media Mail and 5.4 for Library Mail, any printed matter that is mailable as Standard Mail may be included loose with any qualifying material mailed at the Media Mail or Library Mail prices.

6.2

Written Additions

Markings that have the character of personal correspondence require, with certain exceptions, additional postage at the First-Class Mail prices. The following written additions and enclosures do not require additional First-Class Mail postage:

a.

The sender's and the addressee's names, occupations, and addresses, preceded by “From” or “To,” and directions for handling.

b.

Marks, numbers, names, or letters describing the contents.

c.

Words or phrases such as “Do Not Open Until Christmas” and “Happy Birthday, Mother.”

d.

Instructions and directions for the use of the item mailed.

e.

A manuscript dedication or inscription not having the nature of personal correspondence.

f.

Marks to call attention to words or passages in the text.

g.

Corrections of typographical errors in printed matter.

h.

Manuscripts accompanying related proof sheets and corrections of proof sheets including corrections of typographical and other errors, changes in the text, insertions of new text, marginal instructions to the printer, and corrective rewrites of parts.

i.

Hand-stamped imprints, unless the added material is in itself personal or converts the original matter to a personal communication.

j.

Matter mailable separately as Standard Mail printed on the wrapper, envelope, tag, or label.

OK, so I traded an I love you for a Happy Birthday or a Do not open until Christmas. Big deal. And, just so the record is clear, my enclosure that was refused previously did not contain a description of the package contents, as this one DID. So score one for USPS. Hey, I’m fair and balanced (usually).

We have, at present, a whole culture of whiners and complainers, of which I truly wish not to be included, and try really hard not to make myself a participant. But, when the rate for mailing “my media” jumps from $3 to $12, I have to tell you, I feel a little disgruntled.

Ah, the Internet, the epitome of cultural complaint confabulation. I let out some of my steam (why do frosty and steamy mean the same thing in emotional terms?). That I even found a discussion, specifically regarding the USPS media rate, was downright astounding. I thought I would share some of the comments with you, in case you, as with so many, have encountered the ire of a postal worker who seems to be personally offended that you should consider yourself eligible to ship media rate. I mean, who do they think should use this rate? It’s almost as if they want you to show your badge or ID that you have some legitimate reason, other than shipping books, cd’s and printed art to your son. 

geeklifer 

Sep 17th, 2010 at 10:29 am

Yep, they do it around me too. Last time I shipped some textbooks by Media Mail, the employees were grilling me on the contents and telling me that my package WILL be opened. It got pretty ridiculous, because they kept repeating it over and over like I was lying to them.

lewen 

Sep 17th, 2010 at 12:00 pm

Yes Miss C….Book rate was expanded to apply to video tapes,films and computer disks

Kalel 

Sep 17th, 2010 at 12:43 pm

It’s all so post modern.

JohnFen 

Sep 19th, 2010 at 10:51 am

We recently had to pay because we received a package mailed as Media Mail, which got opened and declared not media mail.

Here’s the thing, though — the sender had the post office she sent the package from inspect the content before sealing the package, because it wasn’t clear to her what the rules allowed. They said it was fine. A different post office seemed to disagree.

So, at least based on this example, the rules are far from clear. If they’re going to crack down on this, they need to be crystal clear about what’s allowed.

Anyway, you get the idea. There were many more comments on this one site, and most of them were grateful for the media mail option, and no one was trying to “scam” the system.

In the last analysis, I suppose photographs, since not listed, are not considered part of the list--even though I believe they are as much media as a DVD or CD are. 

And, finally, as a word of caution, it is clearly in the rules that they do not guarantee delivery. Media mail may be “deferred” or delayed. Maybe that explains the $500 of art books we mailed getting “lost” and we were not refunded the $50 media rate fee to ship them. *sigh*

I guess I need to just pay the regular rate, stop complaining, and get a life. But, ranting is so much more fun. As usual, I need to know what you think.

LOFT LIFE: Tablets Talk

I admit it. Having an IPad sucks up your whole life. That is simply because almost everything you do in your life is there: pictures, music, emails, SKYPE, FB, Internet radio, magazines, books on Kindle, books on Nook, books on IBooks, books on Ebooks, and more books, notes, reminders, ABC TV, Fox News, CNN (if anyone actually watches that anymore), banking, and really any sites you need from stocks to recipes, Talking Tom (hey, if you haven’t tried it, don’t knock it), games (Angry Birds, Words with Friends (a must have; I mean, if Alec Baldwin thinks this is worth getting arrested and thrown off a plane for, it must be good, right?), Bejeweled, Pop It, Solitaire--well, you get it), and now, last, but so newly discovered, certainly, not least--Podcasts.

I am crazy about Podcasts. I had a radio show once upon a time, and that was what solidified my romance with radio. As I have already told you (see A pause for the comma, July 2010--and by the way, this one was too good to have NO comments, so do it!), I am an audio kind of gal.

Not only am I smitten with listening to Podcasts, I am beginning to realize this is the venue for my getting both my column and blog to the greater public. I am a natural podcaster. 

Okay, true, first I have to learn a lot about what to do, how to do it, how much it costs, where to host it, how to market it, etc. But, hey, since this is the new frontier, that should be fun too. And, there are scads of podcasts about podcasting, of course.

Through podcasts I have also found other writers, other podcasters, who are becoming friends as as well.

If you haven’t entered the world of podcasts, I highly encourage you to do so. 

Some of my favorites so far are:

The History Chicks; I should be writing; Car Talk; Podcast Answer Man; Imus in the Morning; Laura Ingraham; Joel Osteen; Joyce Meyer; 1 Year Daily Audio Bible; and Stuff You Should Know. Most of these are free. A couple of them are paid. Imus’ podcast subscription fees go completely to his Kids with Cancer ranch, so that is a good cause, as far as I’m concerned.

I hope to learn how to podcast quickly and then will call on y’all to subscribe (free) to my podcasts. Until then, why not think about something you are passionate about and join the ranks of us who have it in us to share something good with those we know, those we don’t yet know, and those who just care about what we care about.

Suffice to say, my IPad will continue to take up a lot of my time. But, then it is also allowing me to make my time a lot more fun, and maybe even more productive.

LOFT LIFE: Sippers and Chuggers

I think I probably started out as a sipper, on one of many brewery and beer tasting trips we have taken, like the one in Boston where we discovered Brew Moon and were served those little compartmentalized racks of beer sampling glasses and I discovered that I do not, indeed, hate beer. I just hate that lite stuff, and those insipid lagers with no substance and generic flavor.

At Brew Moon I discovered you could squeeze lime, lemon, or orange into a beer and get a magnificent zest, that there are red beers with spicy, rich flavor, that the dark brews have a deep, lusty taste, and that there are a host of beer categories, none of which are insipid, watery, tasteless beverages.

But, it was on our visit to Boston’s Sam Adams brewery that I learned I had moved from sipper to chugger, when we were in the tasting room, listening to the tour guide narrate our tasting experience, and announcing to the entire, rather crowded, room that some people sip, and then some, like that lady in the back of the room (me), are chuggers.

I guess I can’t help myself. I try to drink my brews slowly, and maybe it’s still the wonder I feel that had I not tasted that first microbrew variety, I would still think beer is that stuff at baseball games that tastes like colored, bitter-dull watery stuff.

It was kind of the same discovery route to wine for me. Jay and I had only bought wines with screw top caps or that stuff in boxes, and I always got a headache from those; they didn’t taste good enough to endure headaches.

Then I became a food critic, and as part of the Southern California Restaurant Writers Association, we were wined and fed in style monthly at a fine dining establishment, where we learned about pairing. At these pairing meals, they brought out the good stuff, and I discovered, like with beer, that there are more wines than grapes, and that the wineries that produce them, pride themselves on creating taste experiences that are so memorable you want to write down the names of the labels and re-visit their nectars on some special occasion, or just whenever you need to celebrate life.

My first malalactically fermented chardonnay was from one of the Kendall Jackson's Reserve collections (if I remember correctly). It was described, for instance, as buttery. Buttery it was, a Select version of the white grape that I thought about for months after my sample.

I was so astounded by the experience, and how much it enhanced the food, that I asked my editor if I could write a feature about Wine 101, for the newbie, such as I. She agreed and I interviewed a vintner at the Robert Mondavi vineyards.

The vintner began explaining about the history of wines, and the four noble grapes. He said they were ancient, and for some reason that caused me to say: “Hmm. Ancient. I wonder which one Jesus used when he turned water into wine at that wedding.”

Without missing a beat, he answered, “I think He had a private label.”

Well, suffice to say, if enjoying wine at a special occasion is good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.  Everything in moderation.  I don’t read anything about beer in Scripture, but, I believe this too should be enjoyed in moderation by any who are not prone to addiction.

I will, however, try to curb the chugging.

LOFT LIFE: And seldom was heard, a discouraging word....

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about life, and how as mine heads toward what we laughingly refer to as the “golden years,” the desire to make sure I’m going to leave a legacy and make a difference presents itself.

It’s not that I have more time on my hands--I do. But, days go quickly, weeks speed by, and the realization is that the time is short to really chalk up the “good works” I wish to do, and often forget to do in my daily hum-drums.

I don’t mean fulfilling some checklist of do’s. I mean feeling good about the end times, which by the way are also on the sooner than later, schedule. It just stands to reason. If the world will end, we are closer to that than we were. And, at the least, my own life is drawing closer to the end time.

So how do I make that difference?

For me it comes down to encouragement. Do you remember the words to “Home on the range?”

“Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day...”

Ah, clouds, I’ve looked at clouds...no, no, that’s another time and place. 

The skies are not cloudy? All day? Have you read the newspaper lately--or looked at the news on television or online, where seldom is heard an encouraging word and the skies are not only cloudy all day, every day, they’re usually more like stormy, as far as the outlook for prosperity and the American Dream look!

So, maybe I won’t amass enough in the IRA to live comfortably. Maybe I won’t even own a house, travel the world, or enjoy a lot of restaurant food. The truth is, I’ve been living very comfortably, so far, I’ve owned two houses, and travelled enough to feel I have had some of that dream realized. As for restaurant food: I was a food critic in California, and they paid me to eat at a different place at least once a week. Then, moving to Connecticut our company paid for us to live in the hotel for 17 months, and also, for most of that time, paid for our meals, because all of our stuff was still in Illinois then. And, I can tell you that eating in restaurants two meals a day for more than a year got old. I still enjoy a great meal at a great eatery, but I will not feel deprived in the least if I don’t get to continue that habit on a regular basis.

But, even if I have not satiated my own desires in these areas, what I find gives me the most fulfillment, even joy, is bringing encouragement to those who are discouraged. We have plenty of discouraging words. Let's take that as a challenge to change the balance with our own efforts to encourage.

I remember telling one of my friends who was discouraged, that it is impossible to be thankful and upset at the same time. She took that to heart, began counting her many blessings, and felt much better. I like giving out hugs now, especially to people I know don’t get a lot of ‘em. And, I like looking for ways to let people know I appreciate them.

In my college days, my friend Nancy greeted me at her door, usually weekly: “Oh, Marjorie! Hello. Come in.” You would have thought I was her long, lost friend she hadn’t seen in years. I felt so wanted, so loved, so appreciated.

These may seem like such simple acts of kindness. And, that’s the point. They are simple, easy to do, and in the process of encouraging others, I feel a lot better myself.

So how about singing yourself a few bars of the old western tune and letting it remind you that the discouraging words you tune into every day in the media can also be tuned out. 

Let’s make a point of tuning in, instead, to our friends, family, acquaintances, people who serve us, even, strangers. Like today, I asked a woman in the checkout line at the store to read a label for me since I forgot my readers. She was delighted to help. I thanked her profusely, and I saw a smile. So easy. I needed something; she felt needed. 

It doesn’t really matter whether you’re talking to someone on the phone, sending an email, remembering to send a card of sympathy or congratulations, or even, thinking of you, or seeing someone in person and greeting them with enthusiasm. They all may just add up to your leaving yourself a wake of goodness and kindness. It makes a difference. 

LOFT LIFE: The eyes are the windows of the soul - Part two

Note: Please read Part one first. This is Part two of my cataract surgery experience:

My anesthesiologist, Susan said, “Do you journal?”

“I’m a writer,” I replied.

“Yes,” said she, “but do you journal? If you do, journal about this experience.”

So here it is:

“I don’t want drugs,” I told Susan. She chatted about that with me, and told me I didn’t have to have the valium. There was just a drug that put me out for a few seconds, long enough for the doc to inject my cheek and numb my eye so that he could perform the surgery. That was fine. I was amazed. Most of my anxiety was about the drugs.

“I don’t need Valium, Susan,” I said. “I have you.” She was so calming.

She was informative, compassionate, empathetic and kind. Oh, and believe it or not, this surgical center belongs to the first doc I had left. I guess his surgical staff is different than the office gals. How’s that for irony?

A surgical tech came around. “I sense some anxiety here,” she said.

I confessed.

“It’s a short surgery,” she comforted.

“Oh it’s not the surgery I don’t like,” I said, turning to Susan. “It’s the drugs; it’s you!” I told Susan, who by now knew me well enough to take the humor. She smiled. So did I. I had told her about my terrible experience with Vicodin.

“I hate Vicodin too,” she confessed. We were buddies.

When the light for the surgery came on, Susan was holding my hand. She did this throughout the surgery.

Suddenly, I calmed in that light. It was a corridor of light, like a large open tunnel with no walls. I knew it was just a surgical light, but it felt so much more--like “the light” you expect passing from earth to heaven, one dimension to another. But, there was no fear.

I assure you I was not drugged. I was completely aware of my doctor and my surroundings, but I really didn’t want to concentrate on those. I wanted more of this transformational, heavenly light.

I heard my doc tell the nurse how much more he liked the new product that allowed him to lift out (I believe it was either the cataract or my lens) better than with the old product. “Hey Jude” sounded from the speakers and my doc sang a few bars. He was cheerful, confident. This was assuring. But, it was the light that brought me peace.

I stared straight into it, glued to it, spellbound. All anxiety had left me. I didn’t cough; I didn’t vomit; I didn’t need the potty. All those worries had been unnecessary.

I didn’t even want to speak or ask questions. I didn’t want this light to end.

I had asked Dr. E. if I had a seven or ten minute cataract. When it was over, he said, “Fifteen.”

The light went out. The patch was taped to my eye. I could rest a moment or so across the room. They didn’t give me the crackers, after I had asked if they were whole grain. I did get the orange juice. :)

It had been two hours, start to finish, of painless, positive energy. Prayers for me, Dr. E., the surgery must have been flowing.

I felt God smile.

Thank you Dr. E. and thank you to the surgical staff.

Maybe there is some hope for the health care of the new millennium--at least as long as there are still doctors like Dr. E. out there.

LOFT LIFE: The eyes are the windows of the soul - Part one

I was extremely stressed about having cataract surgery.  This began with my initial visit to an ophthalmologist for an exam.

I went there three weeks before my appointment to ask my questions and get them out of the way. They couldn’t answer my questions about fees and costs, but indicated they could find out. So, when I arrived for the appointment, I, in my mind, was merely affirming what I had asked before, and expecting that after three weeks they could answer questions like, “How much does a cataract surgery normally cost?”

I asked, “Can you tell me the normal costs for the surgery?” They answered, “No.” I frowned a bit. Then the two back office people got involved.

“You’re not here for surgery, are you?”

“Well, no.”

“Then you don’t need to know that yet. Please go sit down.”

I was stunned. It seemed like a completely different reception than it had prior to this visit. And, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted me to sit down among the other waiting patients.

I kid you not. It wasn’t, “No, but we can find out;” or “No, but here’s a phone number you can call.” It was, “NO!” 

The exam wasn’t much better. The technician was abrupt and unkind in her attitude. The doctor was all-business and also was not open to even a short inter-active conversation. At the end of the exam, he simply said, “Well, do you want it (surgery) or not?” And when I gulped and said, “Yes,” he handed me a card, told me to make an appointment at his surgical center, and that someone would show me a video and answer my questions then.

I left with knots in my stomach. It felt like a cataract mill. Was this what healthcare will be reduced to in the “new world” of Obamacare, where time isn’t being paid for, so patient care isn’t a priority?

After calling my insurance company, they assured me that this was not a treatment I needed to succumb to, and that I should find another doctor.

I did. 

Dr. E.’s office staff was quite different. They are kind, they remember names, and they go beyond answering questions, to, with patients like me, anticipating what I may want to clarify. They seem to think this is about my best interests. That is comforting.

Even so, my apprehension pre-surgery had reached levels where my husband may have used the words, ‘basket case,’ when referring to me in this time period. I am not sure. I have blocked out most of that month.

I admit it. I was rattled. Really, I like doctors, and usually get along with them very well. I am cooperative, if my questions are answered. In fact, I think some of the questioning is more of a defense mechanism, just to keep some control over my body, my life, when placing myself in the hands of a stranger.

I actually have spent decades of my life promoting doctors and hospitals. So it isn’t a fear of the medical community. They even have a term for when your blood pressure elevates at a doc visit. They call it a “white coat” reaction.

 But, that first ophthalmologist’s office opened my cataract-clouded eyes to the horrifying truth that I am aging, and that old people have less and less say over their care, their choices, and their bodies. One of the psychologists I did some writing for said, “Aging isn’t kid stuff!” 

It’s a downhill slide to losing options. And, though caretakers and practitioners mean well (usually), it is no less stressful for the care-receivers who heretofore have been “in charge” of so many things, people and choices.

I know this isn’t big news to most of you. It is just a fact of life everyone faces eventually--if they live long enough. 

But, I sense that health care is changing for the worse in these areas. It is “hurry up” healthcare these days. There are regulations, and paperwork, warnings, and lawsuits, government mandates,  and, oh so many things to slow things down and take the personal care out of the equation. There is a definite feeling that they must move on to the next patient, and really, they must!

Just listening to the rehearsed speeches, as a doctor goes from room to room, about all of the risks, warnings, and side-effects, is enough to convince that this is no longer a patient-doctor relationship of the Marcus Welby ilk. (Us old people still remember Robert Young’s family doctor character). The doc today has a lot on his mind. He’s lost options also.

So in the face of even reasonable questions, when the day is long, and patients are many, and mandates hang over every doc’s head, they can’t always make reasonable time for reasonable questions. 

After several screenings, tests, a pre-op physical, my surgery was scheduled for December. I was not ready, psychologically, but I had to be ready. It had to be done.

I was apprehensive about the anesthesia, the drugs, having my face frozen, losing consciousness, losing control. 

What if I had to go to the bathroom when the surgery started? What if I coughed. (Some kind acquaintance told me they had a friend who coughed and lost his eye.) What if I vomited?

I had a month to ferment these fears. It wasn’t going to be a very relaxing Thanksgiving season.

LOFT LIFE: Feng Shui and Ch'i

Let me start right out apologizing to all of the people who will read into the following some “tone” or disdain for the practice of Feng Shui that are not intended.

But, let me also say that I do not practice these philosophies in the manner in which I am sure I would need to do to be approved. I am not sure if Christians will allow me to embrace an ancient Chinese practice with Eastern spiritual implications. (This is the part where I expect to offend almost everyone.)

That said, I have to tell you that in reading a news article about Feng Shui-ing bathrooms, I was intrigued. Not intrigued enough to buy into this with any kind of ritualistic or spiritual commitment, but intrigued enough to take a look at our loft in a new way.

I may not know which things are tall or circular or even life endangering about my bathroom, or my kitchen, living space, bedroom or any other rooms in our loft, and I may not be paying enough attention to the positive or negative (Ch’i) forces or yings and yangs of my decor, but I am now convinced that some changes are in order.

I know what makes me feel good: green things (plants), soft and vibrant colors, order and cleanliness. I know what things make me feel bad: dust, clutter, drab colors, and decor  that never changes.

So, I have begun my own version of Feng Shui-ing my rooms. 

I started with the kitchen. I cleaned the countertops, put away 30 per cent of the clutter (things sitting there to make readiness and convenience, but not beauty). I lit candles. I like good aromas. I put a pretty glass bowl of fresh fruit in place of a line of empty bowls, finished candles and empty cups. Then I threw away the pads under my teapots, got some fresh, clean ones, and put away food containers, again sitting out for convenience. 

In the bathroom, I disinfected the shower curtain, and I threw away products that were older than a year, emptied out the drawers containing old medications, almost finished tubes of creams and gels, and lit another candle. I placed the flowers on the bathroom table in a more attractive place. I closed the lid cover to the toilet (okay, I yielded to one actual Feng Shui suggestion just to see if the negative forces I have been living with in my many bathrooms, will turn more positive).

In the dining room I discarded the pots of dirt that no longer contain plants, and bought new, living plants, which will remain on the wire table until I kill them. I will eventually kill them. I always do. Unless the Feng Shui works, that is. My Ch’i is awaiting the verdict. 

That is all I have done for now. And, yes, Feng Shui or no, I should have been doing these things all along. So I feel better, happier, cleaner, prettier already--well, my loft does.

It’s winter. Rather than yielding to the doldrums winter usually brings, I am trying to change some of the external cues, as well as my internal ones (my spirit, my heart, my thinking), to let in the light, celebrate the season, refresh the environment, and become more aware of the impact my space has on me, on my husband, and my guests. I’ll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, let me know about your own Feng Shui efforts. I want to know.