I missed going to my older daughter's curriculum night at school last night because it was the first meeting of a new class I'm taking. I'm still a good mom though, so I sent a very capable proxy, her father. He seemed to do okay; he found all the classes, met all the teachers, made a good impression on the principal, didn't snort or say anything that would embarrass a teenager, yukked it up with my friends, got a hot lead on a pot roast recipe, etc. He was wildly successful doing the motherly stuff that I normally do. (Thanks, hon)
I couldn't be there because it was the first night of my Advanced Feng Shui & Decluttering class. My friend M and I had taken the beginner's class last spring. (No, her name isn't really M, she just prefers it for blogs. She's a little shady and... I think it has something to do with her parole officer, but I didn't want to get all up in her business so I didn't ask.) Anyway, class was very interesting and we had a fine time learning about how it totally goofs up our chi if we keep stuffing junk under our beds. The teacher also demonstrated that sitting with one's back to a doorway, or god forbid with the corner of a coffee table pointed menacingly at your body, is just plain energy suicide. Feng shui has a lot of rules. M, as I'm sure you might have guessed, isn't fond of rules or following them.
Over tea and a nice piece of pie after class, I gently reminded M that even thinking about getting her kids bunk-beds was tantamount to sealing their fates as stressed-out postal workers. M is not one to be trifled with anyway, and she'd clearly reached her limit for one day. She squared her shoulders and looked me dead in the eye and said "Well! If it makes ME happy, then it's good feng shui!" So there. Take that 2,000 years of "art of placement" or whatever you call your sorry self.