Entry into the Bourgeois

I had a bridal shower yesterday (less painful than expected, actually), and one of the gifts I received was one of those countertop things you use to display fruit in a way that you might actually remember to eat it.  You know, one of those things that has a bowl made out of artfully arranged wire-type metal (to keep the one bad apple from spoiling the whole bunch, girl) and a hook that you hang bananas from.

Kinda like this:

Ours is better, though—you know, because such things totally matter.  We actually registered for a banana-thing because marriage is going to make us just that bougey.  (We say bougey.  Boo-zhee.  For some reason giving it a cute diminutive name makes us feel less bad about becoming it.)  We also registered for it because, when we walked past it on the shelf, we had this conversation:

J: I want that.
A: Okay, sure… . Wait.  Do you know what that is?
J: It’s a … thing.
A: Do you know what it’s for?
J: Fine.  No.  I’m a man.  But I’m sure it has a use, and it looks cool.
A: It’s for bananas.  Hanging them keeps their bottoms from getting brown.  And then you put fruit in the bowl.
J: Oh.  Well, I like bananas.  So we need it.

Anyway, our brand new banana display-thing has this odd little hollow under the bowl, and we had this discussion:

J: What’s that for?  What do I put in there?
A: Um … loose change.  And stray dollar bills.  Money in general.
J: What?  I don’t have any money.  And why would we keep it in the banana holder?
A:  …
J: Oh.  Because there’s always money in the banana stand.