We bought our wreck 21 years ago and all our worst fears (which you enumerate succinctly) came true. We are hostages, no, slaves, to this energy-devouring century-old heap, which delights in torturing us from its devious old mechanical heart to its leprous, flaking exterior. It has sucked every penny of disposable income from our combined labors while continuing to deteriorate before our eyes. We have made every imaginable mistake in attempting to “renovate” it, mistakes from which we seldom learn anything, because the next mistake arises from a totally different and unprecedented sort of calamity. Our so-called “investment” has kept us house-poor and chronically overwhelmed for what we laughingly call the “prime” of our lives. And unless someone gives us, oh, say, half a million dollars, it will never get any better. Needless to say, we love this pile of wretched wood and pipes with a passion so tender that to gaze upon it sometimes brings tears to our eyes, at least until a piece of woodwork or roofing falls off in plain sight.

— by Brenda from Flatbush (whose 2009 Prospect Park calendar is now available here) in First Time Homeowner Anxiety