This is a small alcove in my office where I keep all my knitting books--and cats (they like to nap in the baskets atop the wire rack). Even as I type Mitch is rooting around in this space with a tape measure. He's had designs on this tiny corner of our house my office for two years.

For a little background, we live in a two-bedroom, one-bath 1,000-square-foot centenarian (100-years-old this year, in fact). It's come to Mitch's attention that homes with one bath sell at less of a premium than those with more places to handle the biological exigencies of being human.

I want to move about as much as the cats, but Mitch is a forward thinker. What if we got a pied-a-terre in the city and spent more time in Westcliffe (another small house with one bathroom)? What if we want to rent this place? What if we decide to ditch the single-family yard-work thing and buy a condo?

He wants to install a half-bath in MY alcove.

Where will the knitting books go? And the cats? And me for the duration of the nightmare-that-is-home-construction?

I'm not opposed to this project. Really. It makes perfect sense. And when we have guests, well, it will be nice to have the extra accommodations. I'm also not vibrating with excitement. There will be dry-wall dust--a scourge--and decisions to make--another scourge. And contractors broadcasting Axe deoderant.

Cafe Cafe here I come.