I lived in a construction site most of my childhood (my parents never finished anything) and all through my first marriage (neither did Mr. Wrong). When Edmund and I got hitched I considered doing it all over again to adapt my old dwelling for the two of us plus cats and books -- for about thirty seconds. We bought a brand-new house (it was actually a hole in the ground at that point) and I have never regretted it for a minute. Not coincidentally, everything we have had done to our present house was executed by competent tradespeople on tight and carefully observed schedules. Counting money, time, hassle and collateral damage, those projects actually cost less than similar undertakings executed by various family members.

The low point of the House Wars for me was the day I came home from the office at noon because I was sick, and lay down on the bed to suffer in silence. I had almost drifted off when a huge hunk of plaster fell from the ceiling onto the bed, missing my hip by about two inches, followed by a torrent of swearing, and the sneaker-clad foot and hairy leg of Mariusz, the Polish carpenter who was hanging new joists in the attic above me.

No -- no, I'm wrong, the worst moment was when I was on the phone in the kitchen when the entire bathroom ceiling -- 20 square feet of 60-year-old plaster -- fell to the floor, having been fatally disturbed by a roof leak, and the installation of new plumbing upstairs. I felt entitled to scream, and did.