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Funny, wry and heartfelt, Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House is not your typical addiction memoir. There are no drugs, decidedly no sex, and too many references to Suzanne Vega to evoke the crude impulse of rock ‘n roll. But Daum's hilarious retelling of her real estate obsession is as compelling as any binge book. Her story begins with a glance back at her mother, who used her skills at interior design as a means of escaping her rural roots—eventually leading her to purchase a small second home in an adjacent town for the sole purpose of redecorating. Daum's obsession with personal space is no less drastic. In college, she changed apartments ten times, lugging her futon behind her, and as a young adult she followed a series of (neither professional nor romantic) whims that led her from Manhattan to Nebraska to LA, and back again. Daum's compulsive attention to things like hexagonal bathroom tile and the perfect doorknob fixture consumed her so completely that she convinced herself she couldn't find a date until she had found the perfect home. Disorienting as this may seem, Daum writes in crystal clear prose, digging to uncover the root of her dissatisfaction. And despite the life lessons that she clearly learns, her level-headed writing is the opposite of treacly. A columnist for the LA Times, she can be a bit “speaky” at times (my only qualms were that I'd have liked a few more scenes, and the only character that felt truly developed was Daum herself) but those are small quibbles in an otherwise entertaining book. I think it's safe to say that anyone who has felt the desperate need to control their immediate environment, or been plagued by the ongoing worry that something better is just around the corner will find much to enjoy.
