I have wanted to replace the unattractive light fixture in our kitchen since the day we moved in, four years ago. When a neighbor did just that-with recessed lights--we shamelessly copied her. That led to three pendant lights over the kitchen counter, which exposed every scratch on the countertop. When I mentioned granite, my husband rolled his eyes and suggested we leave the lights turned off.

    The brightly lit kitchen prompted us to add more recessed lights in the living room-a big mistake. Before that, the room's two lamps had been so dim you couldn't tell what color the couches were. Now, with five shining beacons above them, no one can miss the fact that their once-rich sable color has faded to watered-down mushroom. When I pointed this out to my husband, he did everything but clutch his chest and fall to the ground. "Are you saying the sofas need to be replaced?" he asked, in a voice that really said, "Are you off your rocker?" I assured him a few new decorator pillows and a throw, casually laid over the arm of one couch, would do wonders. But the chair has to be recovered, I told him with the voice of authority gained from hours spent watching Design on a Dime and Decorating Cents. He agreed: the chair doesn't match anything.

    The new lighting made it obvious the painter needed to return to touch up a couple of spots. With that finished, my walls are now so lovely I can't bear to think of pounding a nail hole in them. It doesn't matter-none of the flowery pictures that hung on my drab white walls will look good against the trendy new colors, anyway. And according to someone who knows more about this than I, the pictures are much too small for a room with high ceilings.

    You can see the problem--we finish one thing only to have it showcase the next flaw. Take the bathroom, for example: new ceramic tile on the floor fought with the ugly globe-style lights above the mirror. The new brushed metal fixture drew attention to the outdated vanity and sink. A trip to the tile store introduced us to vessel bowls and vanities topped with natural stone. But where do you draw the line? "Right there," said my husband.

    "Hold on," I said. "What about the living room chair? Didn't we both agree it has to be recovered?" Armed with a pillow from the couch, my husband and I (feeling like a couple of amateurs) have visited every fabric showroom in the Twin Cities. One Sunday, we drove in circles around Eden Prairie looking for a warehouse that is a well-kept secret. Far off the beaten path, we finally found it. Once inside, I asked the sales clerk where the tapestries were. "I see them," my husband said. Yikes! Weeks before, the man hadn't known a tapestry from a terry cloth. We really have been at this too long.

    When we got back in the car, I looked around the desolate area and asked my husband where he thought the road led. "The poor house," he answered. "This road we're on leads to the poor house."