We met with the mortgage broker the other day. We brought Nathan along with us and I pulled out these cute Japanese books I bought at Daiso. The broker’s assistant took note of this and asked, “Oh, so are you going to teach him Japanese?”
I shook my head. “No, I just like the pictures. They’re cute!”
Her face deflated at this. As trashy as I felt, I should have pushed it a little more by saying that the best honey mustard I’ve ever had was at Denny’s and sometimes I want to call them up and ask them what their “secret recipe” is. And the first time I ever dropped a chip in front of someone else, he said, “It’s okay, there’s the five second rule,” and I answered, “There’s a rule for that? I was going to eat it anyway!”
Luckily my idiocy had no adverse effect. Our loan gives us a housing option other than the airport tarmac. I thought that since Mike is an older, white male, the bank would just throw money at him, like that skit on SNL when Eddie Murphy went undercover as a white man. That didn’t happen.
I was worried that we would have to tell our realtor that we’re too poor for a real home and with that information (I didn’t find any MLS listings for quonset huts or cardboard forts), she’d call us later, saying, “Okay Mike and Mona. I found you a place. Are you ready? The bad news is that it’s a cave, but the good news is that there’s tons of storage! You can have a fireplace anywhere!”
A mortgage means in addition to my job, I’ll have to hustle on the side. I am filled with ideas. I could go to mommy and me get-togethers dressed in a trench coat lined with designer binkies and bottles of hooch. Maybe I could make cute bottles shaped like teddy bears. Who wouldn’t want to drink Bailey’s out of a bear?
Or, I could always peddle those Japanese books as manuals for the secret Asian alternative to Weight Watchers.
You can eat all the monkeys and watermelon you want.