Note: Although this blog entry is based upon actual events, certain aspects of it are fictional, specifically the concluding sentence (the reference to my husband), although, with my luck, it could yet become reality.

Do you believe in bad luck? Well, I do. But then, I have ample reason to believe in it, unlike Bill Gates, Martha Stewart, or even my neighbors who run to the casino every weekend. Not that I always did, however, but my attitude changed beginning not too ago. First, I found out I owed Uncle Sam money, even though as a teacher I had earned less the previous year than a greeter earns at Wal-Mart. Next, I noticed more than a few shingles had blown off the roof in a violent thunderstorm, and when I called a repairman, he informed me that the entire roof needed replacing, to the tune of $8,000. Following that, my car died, after which my dog ran away, followed by my cat; and to top it all off, I stepped on the bathroom scales only to find out that I had gained fifteen pounds (I tend to eat when stressed), which meant my clothes no longer fit, that is, except for two tent dresses, three over-sized men’s T-shirts, and a pair of denim overalls I had bought to wear when I gardened. 

So, considering my ill fortune, when a close friend, Claudia, suggested that I walk through my house, carrying a lighted candle, and chanting “Bad luck be gone,” I gave it a shot. Heck, the way I saw it, what could it hurt? It certainly couldn’t make my luck any worse, now could it? Boy, was I ever wrong. Two days after that attempt to “alter the forces of evil,” my dryer quit and so did my microwave, after which I learned the entire heating and cooling system for the house would have to be replaced. Well, I thought, so much for Claudia’s sage advice.

It was around a week later when another friend, James, told me that the way to vanquish ill fortune from one’s life was to sprinkle the house with Holy Water.

“Do what?” I said. Being a lapsed Southern Baptist I was admittedly unfamiliar with the rituals of Catholicism, well, except for those I’d read about in novels or seen in movies like The Exorcist.

“You heard me,” James said. “Sprinkle the house with Holy Water.”

“But I’m not a priest.”

He sniffed. “I know that, but you don’t have to be one. Just get some Holy Water and . . . ”

“Just where on earth am I supposed to get Holy Water?” I asked.

“Buy it.”

“Buy it? You mean like at a Catholic church?” Of course, I knew finding a Catholic church would not be especially difficult since Lafayette, Louisiana was around 85% Catholic and there seemed to be a Catholic church on almost every corner in town.

“No,” James said. “In a gift shop.”

Now I’d heard everything. “A gift shop? But I thought Holy Water was water that’d been blessed by a priest.” I frowned. “Do you mean that just anyone can waltz into a store and buy it?”

“Yea, anyone can buy it, and it is water that’s been blessed by a priest,” James assured me. “The storeowner gets a priest to bless it. Carries a whole bucket, or whatever, down to the church, and the Father blesses it.”

Okay, I thought. It can’t hurt to try. So the next morning I drove into town, went into a shop that specializes in “religiously themed gifts and notions” and bought not one but two bottles of Holy Water. And here it was, for all this time, I had thought only churches were purveyors of Holy Water.

The next day, bright and early, Holy Water in hand, I walked through the house, from room to room, splashing the water in every corner, as I chanted, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I demand that bad luck be gone from these premises.” 

Well, the following day, my lawn mower’s engine blew up and tossed a bolt through the window of my car. I think perhaps it was because only Catholics are allowed to sprinkle their own homes with Holy Water.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed by bad karma following that debacle, I was crying in my Caesar Salad during lunch with another friend, Shirley, who was doing her best to commiserate by frowning and nodding as she sipped her third margarita, although I could tell by the twinkle in her left eye that she thought I was being a bit melodramatic.

“Are you familiar with Feng Shui?” she asked and hiccupped. 

“Fun who?” I asked in return.

“Feng Shui,” she repeated. 

“And just who in the heck is that,” I said, “some new television talk show host?” See, Shirley is really into self-help gurus like Dr. Phil and Oprah. In fact, she thinks their every word should be carved in stone and presented to the masses from Mt. Sinai.

“No, silly,” she said and giggled. “It’s the ancient art of placement.”

“And?” I said.

“And it’s supposed to change one’s luck for the better.”

Hmm, I thought and decided to delve into Feng Shui, the ancient art of “placement,” not merely based on Shirley’s recommendation but also that of another friend, Jewel, who assured me that it really worked because “a friend of a friend” of hers had applied the principles of Feng Shui to her home, which she had been trying to sell for over a year, and sold it within a week. And during my delving what I learned was this:

1. Our life force, or Chi, needs to be able to “breathe” and flow freely throughout our home and its surrounding environs.
2.  Different areas of our home and its environs encourage or discourage prosperity, harmony, luck, and success.

The question, however, is how does one achieve what is regarded as “good” Feng Shui as opposed to “bad” Feng Shui? The answer is found in certain guiding principles, governing everything from the colors you choose to paint a room to how much clutter you have in your living space and/or in your closets to where you decide to plant that sprig of climbing ivy.

The basic rules of Feng Shui are these:

1. Paint your front door a shade of red, which is the color of success, although fire engine red may be a bit like overkill. 
2. Place two objects, perhaps ceramic planters, on each side of your entrance. They should be heavy enough that it takes both hands to pick them up, so you might consider purchasing two of those hernia-inducing concrete lawn ornaments, maybe lions or elephants.
3. If there is a tree growing immediately in front of your house, cut it down and use it for firewood. 
4. Concentrate heavier plants and foliage to the right of your home (when you are facing it) because this is where the Green Dragon dwells. Have shorter plants to the left, where the White Tiger dwells. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I forget.
5. Hang wind chimes at the corners of your home; the tinkling will keep evil spirits at bay and also drive your neighbors nuts.
6. Place a Feng Shui mirror, which you can buy at most specialty shops, so that the front door is reflected in it when you enter your home. Not only will it prevent your Chi from zipping in one door and out the other, you can always check your makeup and hair in it when you’re leaving for work or a date.
7. Paint your foyer a color from the spectrum of reds. Purple is good because kings wear purple robes and everyone knows kings are rich.
8. When you enter your front door, if you can see all the way through your house and out a window or door, block the view with a tall plant, a floor lamp, piece of furniture, or any combination of these. You can also hang drapes or blinds, but you have to keep them closed or what’s the use? 
9. Arrange your furniture, including bookcases, so there are no dark corners where the Chi can become trapped along with dust bunnies and spiders.
10. Clean out your closets, emptying them of all the junk you have been accumulating for years. Rule of thumb: If you haven’t used it in a year, toss it out in the trash.
11. Do not place the desk in your study so that your back is to the doorway. This not only inhibits creativity but also leaves you open to sneak attacks. 
12. Dust, dust, and then dust some more. Chi cannot breathe if your house is dusty, and chances are, neither can you.

So, the very next day, I made a run to Home Depot, where I purchased paint in all the recommended shades; six wind chimes; dozens of plants and flowers; twelve bags of potting soil; two dozen bags of mulch; two huge planters; two even larger concrete lions; and, since the one I owned was dull, a brand new axe. Thus equipped, I got up the next day and began a weeklong painting, cleaning, and rearranging frenzy.

I painted the front door red. I painted every room in the house a different hue from the family of reds. I placed the artificial trees so they would block the view from the front door to the French doors in back. I created flowerbeds in the yard, where none had existed before. I put the huge planters and the lions on each side of the entranceway. I cleaned out closets, I moved furniture—straining more than a few muscles in the process—and I dusted, dusted, and then dusted some more, all the while singing, “Breathe freely my little Chi, breath freely.” I hung the wind chimes all around the house; and, yes, I then took my newly purchased axe and whacked down the ornamental pear tree that had dared thrive immediately in front of my home. Following all this, I then collapsed in exhaustion on the sofa in the den and waited for my good luck to arrive.  And do you know what? That very night, my husband ran off with a bleached-blonde waitress from the Waffle House out near Interstate 10.