After literally losing money at my garage sale (between the refreshments, dancing girls and full page display ad in the New York Times—which didn’t draw any New Yorkers) I needed a way to make some money. Anything to supplement my moving expenses (there was the projected cost for the truck and the movers, the beer and valium to ease my nerves and theirs; and the psychiatrist—to help me figure out why I was moving again –after only 10 years—was it that I had some form of memory loss, or worse yet, some form of masochistic tendencies? “Spank me, I’ve been bad.” Hey, spankings in the right context can be a lot of fun! Or can they? Well, at least now I have something to discuss with the psychiatrist.).
The psychiatrist is just one of the people I would owe money to. I would owe everyone for my move. How could I ever pay off these debts? There was no way. Was there? How could I pay the police department $100 in fines for a "permitless" (is that like a witless?) garage sale that actually took place in a front yard (did I really need a permit if it was a “yard” sale—or should I not mention that for fear of a $200 higher fine for not having it in the garage)? And did Grandma really get run over by a reindeer—answers in next week's episode of Soap. Well, this move really was turning into an episode from that TV show—all those questions—answered next week. Like: How could I pay for the $241.33, for mood altering drugs I would need and the mover’s would insist upon, after my move? And how could I pay $1221.98 to the movers (for their time and truck, plus a 20% tip for breaking all those things I didn’t know I could live without). Most of all, how could I pay the $19,837 for one years worth of psychiatric treatments and the “priceless” memories of my move that would hopefully, this time, be India-inked permanently—like my boxes—on the cardboard of my brain.).
How could I make this money? Have a fundraiser? Maybe. On the other hand, maybe I should just shave/tattoo my baldhead with an advertisement like, “Moving can be a headache, but not with HEADACHEFREEMOVERS,” or “Bubble wrap, packing tape, boxes—all inside. Delivered from here to your home” (VERY targeted marketing—since obviously I didn’t have a brain in my head since I was moving again). Perhaps, I should be even more creative to make this money—I could bite the image of Satan into a ham sandwich and sell it on eBay (the Virgin Mary has already been done to death—and Satan devotees are sure to have more money).
Another option would be to get a second job—this would be great because then I wouldn’t have any time to mess up/clutter/unpack from my move—and my condo would stay exactly as I bought it (except for the items the mover's are sure to break, the boxes obscuring the entire sliding glass window view and the bed frame laying unassembled in the bedroom).
The final option (the one I’m most apt to take) is that I could just pay for these moving expenses out of my checking account (where I stashed all my stock assets, 401K monies, and the proceeds from my second mortgage just in case my bank/mortgage person underestimated my closing costs by four or five figures—think U.S. budget). Of course, that would mean that if I systematically started a savings plan to recoup this money, it would take a little under 999 years. But hey, I’ve only moved 15 times (not bowel movements—and never all in one day!) in my lifetime, so far. How many more moves could a 42-year old man possible make? Tune in next move fora fresh episode of how the Bill Moves (not how the bill moves before it becomes a law).
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