Before owning a house, I never stayed in an apartment for more than two years. Something would irritate me, and I'd think, ah, well, I'll be in a new space, a new borough, in the fall. My husband and I now plan to remain in one spot for approximately eighteen years, before decamping to Palm Springs (where gays go to die). Each time my house annoys me, I think, this will all be different in Palm Springs (as if plumbing issues and HVAC crises and trash-disposal arguments simply do not exist in that big desert). Right now, my house is twenty-percent non-functional, because a bathroom exploded and sent its liquid contents into the kitchen; lights flickered, and rainwater showered down, and I recalled the velociraptor climax from the first "Jurassic Park." Everyone in the family has learned to cope; a bathroom sink is now in the dining room, and a medicine cabinet is in a hallway, and I sometimes set out appetizers next to Band-Aids and pill bottles, until I worry that I...