Mortgage

Fortunately, we didn't get a mortgage when we wanted one. We were saved from our stupidity by a condescending loan officer, a pencil-necked geek in a suit and tie, a real tool of a man. He had probably been a salesman before getting promoted to an office, and now he was tasked with the unenviable job of telling newlyweds their jobs and their FICO scores weren't good enough for the bank to loan them money. In short, I had to have money in order to be loaned money. I didn't understand at the time that this was actually a blessing; all I knew was that our apartment was small and rundown, the new neighbors probably sold drugs, and my wife's bicycle was just stolen off of our front porch, probably in broad daylight. I was finally desperate enough to subject myself to the scrutiny of the mortgage application process, to wit: the endless anal probe by faceless financial institutions who seem to take unnatural pleasure in examining your past sins and pronouncing you redeemed or condemned. This was long before they were giving out half-million dollar loans to welfare mothers in San Jose, long before sub-prime no doc ARMs (adjustable rate mortgages, no documentation required, enjoy the 15% rate). The mortgage companies now have those houses back, thank you very much, or at least, they would have those houses back if the mortgage companies themselves weren't bankrupt. We've had a mortgage for 20 years now, and have never even been late, or missed a payment.