Money, Money Everywhere - Part Three

A solid, strong figure. A leather sectional sofa. An aptitude for math and puzzles. A tendency to over-indulge and keep it under the skin. A Hummel figurine from the '30's. A reproduction Empire-era four-poster bedroom suite. Short legs and big feet. Costume jewelry from the Jazz Age and WWII. A taste for spicy food. A piano and a dining room that stores everything and seats sixteen. A lack of ticklish.

I've inherited so much in my (nearly) half-century on this planet. However, though all of the genetics are from my ancestors, little of the stuff is. Mostly, those items have come from friends and acquaintances who move (and to whom I promise to pass the windfall along rather than sell it), or friends who change their minds and/or decor. Around here, we believe that the circle of life includes Basset, Ikea, and American Standard.

Inheritance seems like the easiest of the five ways to get money - all you have to do is sit back and wait for it to come to you, right? But it's much more complicated than that in reality. Inheritance, in fact, takes a lot of work. You must cultivate relationships, after all, and that's hard - harder still when there’s stuff involved. Money and things can cause the most horrific rifts between siblings, steps, exes, and buddies, and produce sorrow, anger, or guilt in the recipient. If we inherit not at the passing of a loved one but through the generosity of a friend, we might even find our inner cynical-suspicion guy, excessive-obligation woman, and can-everyone-else-really-see-how-broke-I-am gal. Traditionally, in fact, inheritance can be the Spartan 300 of emotional workouts. But only when you’re doing it wrong.

I let that all go years ago, and not just because my family has little to leave. When our daughter was born, the Big Lug and I were still in college. We had one income, which was part-time and small. I almost died due to complications, and it was over a hundred degrees every day for two months afterward. My pride wasn't worth my health, or the nakedness of my child, so I accepted a small air conditioner from a parent, a hefty credit to our heftier hospital bill (no insurance), a 30-gallon bag full of clothing from a neighbor (who, by the way, had less than we did), money from a public grant, and help with both house- and baby-work from a friend. Although I've had my stiff and obstinate moments, I remember what I owe for those early kindnesses.

Now, before I’m nominated for sainthood, I must confess that I was more Gordon Gecko than Mother Theresa at the time, that it’s still touch and go even now. We are born selfish and we default to that position every chance we get, especially when role models were lacking. Back then, I took it as my due, or at least I didn’t let it trouble my sleep. It was only later, when I got my head out of my ass, that I remembered those amazing acts of generosity and grace.

They shaped who I wanted to be, the inheritance I wanted to leave. Every day, I try to repay … not the people, because I could never do enough for those who saved my life, my finances, and my sanity, but repay the source itself. Whether you believe it's Karmic cycle, the Deeper Well, God's blessings, the Universe, or the great quantum pool, that's what you must focus on, and always be willing to part with as much (or more) as you receive - because this particular wheel does not turn by expectation or getting. It turns by giving, wherever and whenever you can, and doing so unconditionally.

And when you know this fact deep down, and truly put it to use, your life - whether you give or you get - will always be just one surprise away from a miracle.

Now that's fun!

Money, Money Everywhere - Part Two

Years ago, when we were still struggling even to make bills every month, I found a hobby that suited me to a "T" - contesting. Desperate for cash, a stay-at-home mom with three young children, I spent hour after hour pouring over my monthly newsletter (obtained for a minimal yearly cost), deciding which sweepstakes to enter. I would then laboriously fill out dozens of 3 X 5 cards with my name and address and whatever was required, hand write the destination on #10 envelopes (no machine-printed entries accepted), stuff and stamp them (stamps were 22 cents), and walk them to the post office (no car) to mail them. Then I would wait, hoping and praying, that I would be lucky enough to win The Big One - the payout that would solve all our problems and set us for life.

And I did win. Barbie dolls. Autographed baseballs. Hats. Shoes and handbags. All kinds of cool little items. But not a single dollar. All in all, I figure the year I spent contesting netted me about ... minus $250.00.

Recently, I decided to check out modern contesting. Holy Jimmy the Greek, there's a lot out there, and it's almost all online - stamp-free, envelope-free, free-free! Well, free-free if you don't mind a flurry of "courtesy" calls in the week or so after you enter, which I don't. Caller ID is cheaper than USPS, and who knows - I might win!

Understand, however, that I'm going into this with a completely different attitude these days. We're no longer frantic for cash - this fiscal adventure is not from that dark place at all. And I now know that luck is not a factor.

Now, not to believe in luck is almost un-American. Tales of seemingly small actions resulting in riches and fame beyond our wildest dreams of avarice keep us buying those tickets and pulling those slot machines. But it's not luck. Not exactly.

"But," you say, "what about Publisher's Clearing House, or Lana Turner's discovery in that drug store, or that rock band, or my buddy who found a $50 bill on the sidewalk, or ..."

None of it. People who win big contests entered them - and with a gambling win, they probably shelled out more over time than the win brought in, because the house always has a huge advantage. Those who hit it big in entertainment or sports or business or science work for decades in order to make sure they are ready to capitalize on the "big break" - even if Lana's story is true, she didn't catch the producer's eye the minute she hit town but after years of putting her face all over Hollywood. And your friend who found the cash simply saw it - after thirty people who were wrapped up in their own problems walked right over it.

Winning stuff depends on taking action, not on trusting so-called "luck." It's all about making sure you're in the way of chance, probability, the good fortune that is always there, just waiting to find someone - anyone. Money is out there, in every crack and crevice of both our planet and our economy, but it's going to find someone who's trying to find it first.

Winning money, in my book, depends on little or no investment except one of time. There are tons of web sites devoted to contests, as I found. I go to one of these clearing-house sites monthly (so far), click on the cash-prize sweepstakes list (mostly), and then enter only those through companies I recognize, both in case of scams (educate yourself about these) and to insure payout should I win. Some sweeps require a one-time entry, all of which I do the day I see them. Others accept daily entries. These I bookmark and return to as often as I sign onto the internet - not daily, but about four times a week. My favorites are those that are nearly auto-enter - after the first time, I simply put my email address into the correct slot, hit enter, and watch the page fill in. Otherwise, it's just typing - time, and your manicure, is all you can lose.

State-run lotteries also are a favorite, but I buy only one ticket, and only for the bigger lotteries. I know the odds. I also know that buying a thousand entries does not substantially increase my chance of winning. That single string of numbers puts me solidly in the way of the probabilities just as much as multiples would.

When I can catch them, I also call into radio stations when they're running a giveaway. I just have trouble catching them. If you have a super-powered redialler and the time to use it, this would be a great option. I always seem to get the word when I'm in the car.

Some game shows also fit this category, but not all - some are a lot of work! However, more depend on either the knowledge you already possess (Wheel of Fortune) or on your personality to be chosen to play (The Price is Right). Those look like a blast to me!

The only gambling I'm likely to do any time at all is Bingo. I have the most amazing memories of playing every summer when we'd camp in Oregon - small town, no TV, what else could we do? I won cash twice, local honey and baked goods several times, but it was more about the wonderful people who came to this community event than about the gain. I'd like to see if it's changed.

Will I win any cash? Maybe. Am I depending on it to reach my goal?

Not a chance.

Money, Money Everywhere - Part One

Once upon a time, there lived a poor but honest shoemaker …

We all know the story of the elves and the shoemaker. How he and his wife were down to their last crumb of bread and final piece of leather. How he cut that small bit into shoe-parts before going to bed, and then woke to find a pair of Gucci-worthy loafers. How he sold them and bought enough cowhide to make two pairs of footwear, then, when he woke to spike heels and sling-backs, he sold them and bought the makings of four, then eight, etc., and left them each night while some mysterious force worked his creations into reality. Eventually, this enterprising oldster decided to ferret out the source of his success, and, sure enough, he found two elves, singing songs of Jimmy Choo and Prada as they hammered away. And though the elves didn’t stick around forever, the shoemaker led a charmed life ever afterward.

We should all be so lucky, right? We can be. We can steal the money, just like he did.

Wait, he wasn’t a thief! Was he?

Let’s see … he made his money with almost no effort … he contributed only raw materials and capitalized on the generosity of two industrious magical creatures instead of the sweat of his own brow … he claimed the work as his own …

No, this isn’t Harry Potter, and I’m not lobbying to free the elves with gifts of clothing (honestly, that’s how the shoemaker lost his work force). I’m talking about stealing funds in the most legal and purest sense. How?

Well, first off, there’s the miracle of simple and compound interest. We have, or could have, all kinds of elves working behind the scenes for us - we give them cash, they do something weird and mysterious to it (singing heartily of Greenspan and Buffet), and, in general, after a day, a week, a year, ten years, somehow our money has multiplied. Sure, we speak of money “working for us” in investments, but it isn’t doing the actual labor – these arcane little men and women are. Whether it’s the slow but steady growth of bank savings, money market accounts, and T-bills, or the erratic accumulation (hopefully) of mutual funds and individual stocks, we take the efforts of our strange creatures and make it our own. Albert Einstein called compound interest “the eighth wonder of the world,” and that’s as good as saying it’s effing magic. I leave much of that to the masters.

Second, there are “rewards.” Not a big grower of assets, true, but these types of credit cards or bank accounts can help you pay off debt, or even get you free trips and huge discounts on purchases. Obviously these elves are more temperamental – they sometimes ask for yearly fees and really high interest rates in payment. I stay away from them (they’re trolls in disguise) and only use those that are free. The card I use (and carry no balance) puts a percentage toward my home loan’s principal. I also get rebate checks (some in-store only) from Staples, Costco, my insurance company, and various others, but these count only because they are refunds on things I usually buy anyway.

Third, there’s the other meaning of “steal” – to sneak, to move something quietly in the hope of not being seen. Yes, I thieve from myself, every chance I get. My husband’s 401K is growing because of the power (and invisibility) of automatic deductions. We also split his check between two accounts – the mortgage payment is transferred from one (which has no debit card) every month. In fifteen years, this stealth investing (with the help of my elves) has taken our red balance and made it black … with an extra zero.

I suspect I’m seeing only the tip of the magical iceberg in this first category. I know that money is all around us for the taking. And, like the air I breathe, I can have it for little or no effort. All I have to do is recognize it.

And steal it.

And Now, a Word

Do not try this at home. Professional stunt drivers on a closed track. May cause drowsiness, hyperactivity, or periods of day dreaming. Do not operate heavy machinery or incendiary devices while (insert dangerous thing here).

I’ve never been skydiving, but I’ve been jumping (and falling) forever, in every area of my life. Because of this, I am an authority on those face-first, blood-on-the-pavement, leaving-flesh-behind crashes and slides that cause pain, scars … and wisdom. Life doesn’t come with a manual. We must learn everything the hard way.

I am not a financial expert, nor should I be viewed as such. But I majored in road rash.

My first eighteen years were spent learning bad fiscal habits. The next ten or so were all about duplicating them. I spent another couple of years in panic mode, trying to fix things on my own, and despite the experts I made some pretty stupid choices - in part because I didn’t understand what they were talking about half the time, and in part because I was trying to do it their way, by their rules, for their reasons. I left an awful lot of an arm-and-a-leg on the money highway in those years.

Then I read a book called The Money Drunk: 90 Days to Financial Freedom (by Mark Bryant and Julia Cameron) and it started to click. Another book, Organizing for the Creative Person: Right-Brain Styles for Conquering Clutter, Mastering Time, and Reaching Your Goals (by Dorothy Lehmkuhl and Dolores Cotter Lamping) helped me truly understand why I couldn’t do it any way but my own. But it took me several more years, and another brilliant, calming book (Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy, by Sarah Ban Breathnach) to bring it all together.

For another decade, I employed what I’d learned about self-control, about loving what I have and who I am, and about the joys and benefits of temperance and restraint. No more great leaps. No more new hard-won wisdom. No more adventures. Just … moderation.

Moderation is fine - in small doses. But balance is what I needed, and balance is what I got – with time and much, much effort. Physically, spiritually, and mentally I am not the person I was thirty, twenty, even two years ago. Yet I still feel my nose on the asphalt more times than I should. And it still hurts like hell. But knowing how far I’ve come, knowing I must recover my self and use all of these lessons, is why the diva won.

In the next few months, I will reveal the five ways I’ve found to make money (and how I plan to do each of them), I will share my (hopefully) amusing and (always) real endeavors, and I will have fun with the doing, the done, and the telling of it. If you want to come along, I would love your company, your commentary, even your advice and your stories about your own adventures along the way. But don’t do it like me, with me, or for me. This is all about my proficiency exam, my road test – and your enjoyment.

But don’t worry - this time I remembered my parachute.

Rules of the Game

I am a creature of extremes - since childhood I've had only two settings, idle and overdrive. (And, being ambidirectional, I've hit some pretty spectacular speeds in both forward and reverse.) I live my life in bursts of inspiration and activity followed by stretches of puttering and revising, which is usually just code for burnout. Oddly, this lifestyle doesn't encourage risk-taking, but it does make me, as a pillow in my office reminds me, the "Queen of Unfinished Projects." And I almost let it happen here.

Haven't you wondered why it took me until April to get moving when this all began in January? Well, the searing flash of inspiration (that I could be rich) launched me into a frenzy of brainstorming - four increasingly endless weeks spent hunched over research books and a notepad (my standard weapons in any new war), jotting down everything that struck me -hitting the jackpot in the markets, personal strengths to exploit, assets I could upgrade or increase to maximize potential, and even the odd, Eureka moments ("Yard Sale!"). In fact, in my frenzy of list-making, I even catalogued my "cutoff points," lines I would absolutely never cross in this oh-so-focused pursuit of wealth. I had to. I think I forgot what I was doing. Or maybe I was tempted. I don't remember. Because I was already feeling the foggy, smoke-swirled sensation I knew so well.

"I have everything I need," I decided, and "we'll be just fine when we retire" - at the usual time at the usual level. Then there was, "Hey, we aren't the kind of people who become wealthy, anyway." Straight-up, standard Bunny rationalization that covered my flames-licking-the-engine-block, screaming-into-the-atmosphere crash. But no matter how long I puttered around the house in the haze afterward, I couldn't let it go. Because it still felt absolutely, amazingly, paradoxically right. And, for a change, no one knew I'd started, so no one knew I'd shot myself in the foot again. Maybe I could, possibly, perhaps ...

By the time my inner diva decided I'd suffered enough, and showed me why this idea was so perfect (on so many levels), I was ready to start again. I pulled out my notes, determined to find out why I - in the immortal words of my favorite NASCAR wag - "blowed up."

I found a mountain of spreadsheets and inventories of assets and income (both current and future), scribbles on investment strategies for long-term gain, short-term gain, low risk, high risk - even something with three columns labelled and lined neatly. Did I do that? Me? It was as if I'd found a story in my handwriting but written in Munchkin! Columns and Quicken and cash, oh, my!

And then there was The List.

"Things I will never do for money:
"1. I will never break the law to get money.
"2. I will never hurt anyone intentionally, including myself, to get money.
"3. I will never risk more than I can afford to lose."

After I gave the studio audience my patented, dry, "Duh" look, I sat back and just shook my head. Holy Captain Obvious! No wonder I spontaneously combusted! The miracle is that I made it past day one!

I needed a new game. And it didn't take any thought at all.

What I WILL do ... for my husband:
1. I WILL try as many new, God-I-always-wanted-to-do-that-but-it-scares-me-witless things as I can cram into every year.
2. I WILL reduce, recycle, and reuse every chance I get - generally treat everyone and everything I touch as if I'm the guardian, not the master.
3. I WILL listen to my instincts, my intuition, and my inner Diva (because she's obviously smarter than I am).
4. I WILL have fun!

Fun? With money? Yes, I say, and yes, and YES! I just finished my taxes and paid some pretty hefty bills, and still I say YES! Why?

Because fear and inertia are energy-suckers, and don't belong anywhere near our money. Because money as a hobby sounds like a hell of an excuse to indulge in everything I love to do, and find more. Because life's too ... not too short, but too rich not to strain toward every brass ring we can possibly reach (and even those we can't) in every moment of every day.

Because money isn't the real end game. Life is.

I'm going to ride this merry-go-round all the way to the finish - and I'm taking the love of my life with me.

Crazy Bunny

This quest is nuts. You know it, I know it - even my terrier knows it. What kind of normal, average adult person would think she's capable of earning five million dollars in just a few years? I mean, other than politicians, criminals, and conspicuous consumers, who would even try?

Uh, that would be me. No politician, no criminal (yes, I see the redundancy), and no exhibitionist addicted to bigger and better stuff - I am crazy enough, and motivated enough, to do this, and do it right. Believe me, I know all about right, because I've done so much wrong before.

(Cue flashback music ...)

Last January, I was reading Larry Winget's fabulous book, You're Broke Because You Want to Be. I swear, I was previewing it for one of my grown children (because she needs her butt royally kicked about handling money sometimes) but it spoke to me, too. Fifteen years ago I was just as big a blockhead with finances as she is now, and I hoped to help her avoid the guillotine that made me change my wicked ways. As I read his lessons, I realized I had already made several of the corrections he (and other experts) suggested, and, while I'm hardly perfect, we are well into the black now instead of blood red as we were then. So, I was busily patting myself on the back when he asked how rich I plan to be.

Rich? Me? (Plan?) Hadn't really thought about “rich,” much less the dreaded p-word - at first because I was fighting to get us solvent and to build funds in see-no-money, spend-no-money auto deductions, and then, later, because I didn't dare think about any money that could mysteriously make its way back into the income-outlay stream. With my emotion-driven, impulse-control-challenged personality, I hadn't even done an asset vs. obligation worksheet since we were mid-five-figures in debt. But I couldn’t help wondering how rich was rich.

"Five million," said my inner diva.

"Why five million?" said I.

"Why not?" she purred.

Why not, indeed? In fifteen years, I had developed good fiscal habits, learned to short-circuit even the tiniest "more" button, and kissed the last of my energy-gobbling, food-eating, money sinkholes (whom I adore) goodbye years ago. For all I knew we were halfway there already.

But the very things that had saved our future back then told me I didn't need that much, not now, not in retirement. We were comfortably chugging along, and with a bit of tweaking ...

"Not for you," said the persuasive little rat. "For him."

Damn. She had me. I grew up in a household that spent money when we had it, starved when we didn't, and moved every time my father decided his boss was a jerk (we moved 16 times). I married a man who's had only three jobs in the three decades I've known him, and one of them was a part-time college make-do. Why? Because before he even popped the question he decided that he would give me the security I’d never known, and the freedom to work at whatever I wanted, wherever I wanted, forevermore. And, mostly, I have.

I want so badly to return that gift. And I know he will never retire "selfishly" unless I make him an offer he can't refuse. So I gave into my diva because I love him with everything in me, and - miracle of miracles - he loves me more.

Want proof? For one thing, the man calls me "Bunny." I'm nearly six feet tall, and though I've spent a year losing the equivalent weight of both my grandchildren combined, I still tip the scales at 180. I'm more "Blue Ox" than "Babe," more "Harvey" than "Bunny," and always have been. But he thinks I'm adorable. And brilliant. And funny. And sexy. And wise.

Wouldn't you give a dope like that anything he wants?

One man's ... huh?

I went treasure hunting yesterday.

I didn’t intend to. It started out like any other trip to this small town my husband and I frequent. He wanted to go to his favorite tobacco store, while I was planning to sit in the car, read the paper, and avoid the choking cloud he and his cronies generate – not the nicotine and tar kind, though that’s bad enough to an ex-smoker, but the politics and off-color jokes (which, for some reason, men always believe we don’t know) kind. I decided to multitask instead: go cash a check, take a much needed walk, and hit an antique store I remembered two blocks away. It was no longer there. It had been replaced by a consignment store.

Slowly, so as not to frighten off the bargain fairies, I sidled through the door and paused at the threshhold. A glissando and a shimmer from window proved to be a small chandelier (modern) hung with prisms that tinkled in the wake of the draft from the door. A cackle of laughter from the counter told me some regulars were in gossiping with the clerk as they sorted through faux-Vera-Wang scarves. And that old-book-and-brocade smell wafted from every corner. God, I love that smell. Smells like … money.

I strolled in and began my oh-so-casual, laser-guided glance at every item on every shelf within view … Okay, so I wasn’t that methodical. You’ve heard the phrase “bull in a china shop?” That's me, most days. Big Taurean, narrow aisles, pretty much equals me lumbering around, trying not to bump things off the displays with my big purse or my bigger butt. But, really, I did hope to find treasure. Not just because I love to find great things – that’s so last year. As of a revelation last New Year’s Day, I’m doing so much more with my little hunts. I’m even planning to expand them to rock hounding rubies and diamonds (must learn what they look like when they're not in Tiffany's), and writing the great American novel (could happen!), and playing the lotto (shut up – one ticket for big drawings every once in awhile is just putting myself in the way of luck), and … and … all kinds of other things I haven’t thought of yet.

Oh, I did find a real prize – a milk glass, Hobbs & Bruckner, Panelled Wheat cream pitcher (circa 1896) in pristine condition, for $5.00! Hey, stop laughing – it’s worth at least $25.00, maybe more if I put it with other pieces and sell it all as a set.

Yes, I’m a geek. But I’m a geek with a plan. Five million dollars. In the bank. By Christmas, 2021.

Oh, yeah – it’s a surprise.

So, $20.00 profit, added to what I have in assets now … only four million, five hundred thousand, nine hundred and eighty dollars to go.

Damn. That’s a lot of shops.