It was a pleasant dinner party last July, hosted by the president of the company that employs my wife. He had an elegant home in a plush Chicago suburb but the backyard was not all that spacious, so the 50–60 guests mingled elbow-to-elbow while enjoying outdoor cocktails. At one point about 10 of us were standing in a somewhat circular array when the chit-chat turned to remodeling projects.
Everyone in this affluent crowd had a contractor horror story. One told of a sloppy painter who used the underside of new carpeting to blot up spills. Then there was the couple who were left cold by their new hot tub that took forever to fill because, I surmised, the installer connected it to the original half-inch supply piping. Gripes abounded of escalating costs, of promises unkept, of phone calls unreturned.