The Bubble, or How I Learned to Talk to Rich People

Dear Diary,

The BHE and I are in the middle of refinancing our mortage to cash out on our equity, said equity having accrued not from us having paid squat toward the principle of our loan, but rather from the inflated property values in our neighborhood. Because the housing bubble, you see, has yet to burst. Which is good news for those of us with basements that need refinishing (like us), and bad for those trying to break into the market in places like California, like my poor brother and sister in law, who are relegated to the quiet shame of renting (gasp), even though they are both well-paid corporate lawyers.

OK. The reason I have italicized these important terms is that you can throw them around them at a family party and immediately sound like an adult. How is this useful, you ask? Because at a party for the BHE's mother's birthday this weekend, we stunned her snooty rich friends (who, having seen that we both have TATTOOS, immediately assumed that we could not possibly be productive members of society, let alone able to carry on a coherent converstaion about anything other than killing puppies) with our keen knowledge of the housing market.

So in your face, snooty snoots. The BHE and I are in the know and cashing in (or out, rather). AND we have tattoos.

Love, Fluffy