Marcia Sherrill
Home Harmony
Marcia tries feng shui for a day
BY
Marcia Sherrill
PHOTOGRAPHY
Portrait by Steve Pomberg

OK, so what if Dr. Phil would undoubtedly say that my life was a mess? With a handbag collection stuck in China, design clients strewn across the South, and a new marciasherrill.com Web site being built in Mumbai, life at the Sherrill household ain’t exactly calm. But, as always, my momma has come to the rescue—and just in the nick of time.

You see, my momma, Jojo, has decided that she is a feng shui master. Better yet, I am to be her first client. Make that paying client. She has indeed read several books and even mysteriously alludes to a degree from an online university. Neither I, nor my money, are impressed. Or convinced.

Her new approach to my house is like that of a waspy, blonde kung fu fighter. She cringed as she crossed the threshold. So did I. Upon opening the door, she began clapping and, in her languorous Alabama accent, urged me to dispel the negative energy. But what was so wrong? Everything, apparently. I had layered sinister and dangerous elements in a trap that spelled my downfall. She stalked around waving her hands, stopping to light some incense, which, for her, translated into menthol cigarette smoke sprayed with a water bottle as we went room by room. And although each room foretold yet more bad news, Momma the feng shui master would heal my home. Here are her findings:

Bathroom: Jojo was incredulous about my petite salle de bain. What were they thinking when they built this place in 1930? A bathroom in the southeast position? The horror of it all. My wealth was literally being flushed away. She hastily hung a wind chime to keep my prosperity from going “down the drain.”

Kitchen: More horrors: I had only four burners! Burners represent the “prosperity” of the family. Although I only cook, at best, once a month, unless I had a death wish would I consider adding more burners with my ancient electrical wiring. Better alive than rich, I say. And the stove and sink directly opposite each other? More bad news. Jojo crooked an eyebrow and began some inane chant. I would need a plumber—and fast! The “wealth” of the stove was being “drowned” by the sink, thus causing the destruction of my wealth. What wealth? Did I know this woman? I fought off the urge to kill her when she looked at my ample waistline and suggested we move the kitchen door, visible from the front door, which was enticing me into a size 12.

Master Bathroom: According to Jojo, the 3,000 books I have collected are a no-no. Apparently, they and the electronics—a laptop, a TV, two external hard drives and a Bose sound system—are interfering with my sleep and my fertility. (Note to self: Call shrink and get more sleeping pills.) Reminding Momma that I had been through menopause three years earlier, she was deaf to my claims of hormone replacement therapy as she ripped coaxial cables from the wall, all the while insisting that through her ministrations I could conceive yet again. With a pair of ceramic foo dogs and some elephants scattered liberally, all could be restored.

Living Room: Again, Jojo shook her head and said, “The chi or ‘life energy’ cannot flow.” With a bell in hand, she exhorted me to rid myself of the three daybeds, eight chairs, two coffee tables and other furniture that was “cluttering” my chi. And since they were all antiques, she suggested I contact Great Gatsby’s to make sure my furniture did not come from the estate of someone who had declared bankruptcy or died. How to convince her that you don’t get this bang for the buck from the prosperous and living?

Anabelle’s Room: Were we safe anywhere in this house? Apparently not. I was advised to quickly paint the Belle’s room aquamarine or turquoise to enhance her knowledge and wisdom, as she was in the northeast position. Was the Ralph Lauren green causing her to bring home those dismal report cards? Anabelle said yes, as she clung to her Mac and cell phone for dear life. The incessant iChat or addiction to “Gossip Girl” was not ruining her chances at Harvard—apparently, it was my paint choice.