With every rented apartment, there comes a time when the rose loses its bloom, the lily no longer seems gilded.

It could be the moment when you are awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of garbage trucks in the street and realize that your rent is only a “great deal” because your bedroom is on their nightly route. It could be the moment when the paint begins flaking on your bathroom ceiling. It could be the moment when a broken elevator turns your apartment into a ninth floor walk-up.

But whatever it is that triggers the moment, more often then not it passes with you saying some version of “Oh, well” and continuing to live there. Sometimes such moments leave you feeling more affectionate toward your apartment, as if the shaggy dog-ness of your rented pound puppy makes it homey and unique.

At least that was what Andy and I told ourselves each time something else went wrong with our apartment.

First we noticed the kitchen’s poor layout made it impossible to load the dishwasher while standing at the sink. Next there was the water damage in the bedroom closet after a particularly heavy rainstorm. And then, this summer, tiles started coming up in the bathroom.

But just last week, we moved from “minor annoyance” to “major problem”: In the middle of a cold snap, our heat went off.

Not having heat was bad enough, but there was something even worse about the situation – because we lived in a brownstone with no super, it forced us to deal with our landlord, Tonya.

Of the many differences between living in Brooklyn and living in Manhattan, there is perhaps none as striking as the relationship you have with your landlord.

Andy and I lived on the Upper West Side for 10 years in three different apartments. In each one, we had contact with the landlord only at the signing and renewing of our lease. The rest of the time, we dealt only with the super.

But that all changed when we came to Brooklyn.

We found our place on Craiglist and scratched our heads when the would-be landlord insisted in coming over to our old apartment to check it and us out before agreeing to rent us the new one.

Our head-scratching turned to bemusement when a 28-year-old woman in tight jeans, pigtails, and a vintage 1970s overcoat stitched from orange suede patches arrived at our door and informed us that while she was currently a receptionist at a law firm, she intended to become a real-estate mogul. Our new apartment was the first in what she was sure would become her vast portfolio.

At the time, Andy and I considered her strange but harmless. The apartment was well located and had a washer-dryer. Every time we spoke to her, Tonya would act as if she were doing us a huge favor by letting us live in “her” apartment – and she always used the first person possessive when referring to it. But, liking the place well enough, we’d make references to Tonya taking the “lord” in landlord too seriously and joke about her going on “The Apprentice.”

Then our heat broke.

When we first called to tell her we had no heat, she seemed up to the task of getting it fixed. She brought in a ragtag-looking “heating guy” who soon had it up. When it went off again the following afternoon, she brought him back for the same treatment. Two days later, when I called to tell her it was out yet again, she sighed and said, “You guys…” as if we, a pair of unruly children, had done something to break the heater.

I was fit to be tied.

But living in a non-stabilized rental forces you to try and stay on your landlord’s good side.

“Ignore her tone,” Andy said when I called him at work to tell him about it. “Just let her get the heater fixed.”

So when she arrived with Mr. Ragtag, I blamed my reaction on pregnancy hormones – plus the fact that this was the third day that week without heat.

“It should be fixed now,” Tonya announced a half an hour later. She still sounded as if she were annoyed not with the situation in general, but just with me.

“Great,” I said, mindful that our lease was soon up for renewal. One false move and wacky Tonya could jack up our rent, or even worse, deny us a new lease. And moving was such a huge hassle. “Thanks.”

The heat shut down in the middle of night. I shook Andy awake to tell him, then buried my head under the comforter.

First thing in the morning, we called Tonya. “I can’t believe you guys,” she said. I raised my eyebrows toward Andy, who was on another extension. He mouthed, “Ignore it,” and so I did.

That afternoon, Mr. Ragtag was back along with our lovely landlord. “It should be fixed now,” she said again, which was literally cold comfort.

“Great,” I said. But just in case, I headed out to buy space heaters. We’d decided to deduct the cost from our rent, but figured we’d fight that battle later.

Then, in the hardware store, I bumped into Mr. Ragtag. Seeing me eyeing the heaters, he said, “Man, she told you to buy those?”

“No,” I said. “I figured we should have a backup – you know, in case the heat goes off in the middle of the night again.”

At this, he laughed. “Lady,” he said. “That boiler’s shot. It’s gonna keep going off until she replaces it.”

“Really?” I said. “And you told Tonya that?”

He snorted. “I’ve been telling her that all week.” Then, in response to my look of disbelief, he added, “She’s cheap, your landlady.”

This was hardly a news flash.

With every rented apartment, there comes a time when a straw breaks the proverbial camel’s back. We could have battled Tonya to fix the boiler, but I’m pregnant now, and too old to deal with this nonsense. Besides, there was the kitchen’s poor layout, the water-damaged bedroom closet, and the tiles coming up in the bathroom.

“We’ll give her our 30 days’ notice,” Andy said when I gave him Mr. Ragtag’s update.

“My thoughts exactly,” I told him.

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/nysun_bcindex.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.