By now, everyone knows the financial reasons for the housing bubble, from lax lenders to greed. But there's another, emotional side: In our rootless and confusing culture, our domiciles have become more than mere shelters, investments, havens or even status symbols. Rather, they have become extensions of our narcissistic personalities, glorified by entire industries of shelter magazines, websites and cable networks.

It's no wonder, writes Meghan Daum in her new book "Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived In That House," (Alfred A. Knopf), that by the middle of the decade, scads of Americans were "buying real estate and melting it down to liquid form and then injecting it into their veins."

It was an addiction shared by Ms. Daum, an essayist, novelist and columnist for the Los Angeles Times. And it almost ruined her life, she writes.

Fully aware of how neurotic such an obsession is, Ms. Daum examines it neurotically, almost as if she were a recovering abode-aholic. She reveals personal details that—even in this blogging age—sometimes made me a bit squeamish (do I really need to know about the dog poop on the patio of one of her many temporary abodes)?

Nevertheless, her candor also reveals the roots of her restlessness: Her jingle-writing father, who settled the family in New Jersey, really longed to live in Manhattan, while her creative and frustrated mother channeled her suburban ennui into constant redecorating and endless trips to open houses.

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