This year, my wife and I decided that we finally had to do something about our old run-down house. Over the past 15 years, we've done bits and pieces of renovation, mostly by ourselves, and the results have been disappointing (for my wife) and aggravating (for me).

So for the first time, we went to our friendly (too friendly, I think, given how much I was asking for) bank officer, took out a home equity loan and hired actual contractors who brought in dumpsters and crowbars and began removing my "remuddling" to do some actual remodeling.

We started with a second floor kids' bathroom, one that had last been renovated in 1939. (I know because I pulled some old rolled up newspapers out of the door frame, where they'd been used as insulation.) By the time it was done, it was nicer than the bathroom my wife and I use, making us seriously consider switching places with the kids.

Then, before we'd even finished the bathroom, we decided to take on the kitchen, removing all the cabinets, having the floors reframed and adding radiant heat flooring to replace an old radiator.

As anyone who has undergone a major home renovation project knows, throughout the process, you live like a refugee — all your belongings piled up in one area of your house, cooking on a hot plate, wind whistling through the gaps in the walls on cold nights. It's like spending a long winter in Kosovo. (Before I get angry letters from people who came here from Kosovo, as I know I will, I want to point out something important: You don't live there now, and you really, really don't want to move back, do you?)

And no matter what we do to seal up the doors, the dust never stops. Everywhere I walk, I kick up little clouds of dust, like the "Pigpen" character from Peanuts. The other day, I came into the living room to find my daughter drawing a picture with her finger in the dust on the coffee table.

My wife draped all of the furniture in old sheets, to keep the dust off our personal belongings (junk).

It works fairly well, but it makes our downstairs look like one of those old mansions inhabited by creepy old ghosts. I half expect Scooby-Doo and the Gang to come skulking through with a flashlight.

The family dog has been having a nervous breakdown. Long ago, he came to peace with the fact that he'd ended up with a substandard family and accepted that because of his severe allergies, he'd subsist on a strict diet of fish meal dog food. His only real comforts in life were regular meals and sitting scrunched up in front of the fridge in the kitchen, where he could catch the warm air blowing off the motor. With all this upheaval, he's so dusty that you could raise a small cloud by patting him on the back, and he spends most of his time walking around in circles scratching at himself. Worst of all, we moved his dog dish from its regular spot to a corner of the front hall, where it regularly gets kicked over. He keeps looking at it, then at me, then at it, as if to say, "What the …..!" (Luckily he can't talk, let alone swear.)

Over the years, I barely noticed when our neighbors on either side, both of whom survived serious kitchen renovations, went through the same experience. I just smiled and waved at their zombie stares as they shuffled out in the mornings in a cloud of dust to get their morning papers. I feel bad about that now, but I'm sure that means very little to them.

I know there will come a time when I will find myself in my beautiful new kitchen, with its hardwood floors, stone countertops and radiant heat flooring. I can see myself now, very clearly, clutching the front of my shirt as the first shock waves of a fatal heart attack ripple through my body. As they cart my lifeless body, still warm from the cozy radiant heating, away to the morgue, I hope they'll remove the crumpled paper from my stiff hand and give it to my wife. She'll need it: It's the payment schedule for the home equity loan.

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