From the desk (and the reading chair) of The Rich Grandma

The Elites Sell It To You New. I Buy It Back For A Dollar.

Pull up a chair, sweetie. For $7 I'll build you your own side-hustle plan, around what you already know.

Oh, good. You're here.

Sit down. No, not that chair, that's a 1962 Danish teak and it's worth more than your car. The other one.

Let me look at you. Hm. You've worked hard your whole life. You did what they told you. You saved, you paid your bills on time, you trusted the bank with your money.

And how's that working out, dear?

Don't answer. I've seen the interest rate on your savings account. I've seen kinder numbers on a thermometer in January.

Here's what nobody told you.

The whole system runs on one trick. They sell you something new, at full price, with a smile. Then they make sure you're tired of it in three years. Then you haul it to the curb or the donation bin and go buy a new one.

The banks finance it. Wall Street bets on it. The big-box stores stack it to the ceiling.

Everybody makes money on the way in.

Nobody's paying attention on the way out.

Except me.

I'm the Rich Grandma. And I'm spoiled rotten.

I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I like nice things. I like brunch. I like telling my financial advisor to mind his own business.

And I got here picking through what other people threw away.

Garage sales on Saturday. Thrift stores on Tuesday, because that's when they put out the new stuff (write that down). Estate sales on Friday, before the dealers wake up. I buy things for a dollar or five, and I find the people who actually want them.

That's it. That's the whole secret the elites don't want you to know. It isn't a secret. They just don't want you thinking about it.

"But Grandma, I'm too old to start something."

Oh, please.

You know what a real wool coat feels like. You know Pyrex from junk. You remember what a good tool weighed in your hand. Some twenty-five-year-old with a phone and no patience can't tell the difference between solid wood and particleboard.

You can. From across the room.

Your age isn't the problem, honey. It's the advantage. You just never had anyone tell you how to use it.

So here's what I'm going to do for you.

I'm going to sit down with you, the way I'd sit down with my own grandkids, and build you a plan.

Not a generic plan. Yours.

You'll chat with me (yes, really, I'm right there in the app, sass and all). I'll ask you a few questions:

• What did you do for work? What are you good at?
• How much do you like getting out of the house? (Be honest. Some of you are homebodies. I respect it.)
• How much room have you got, a garage or a kitchen table?
• How comfortable are you with a computer? Wonderful, terrible, "my grandson sets it up"?

Then I'll match you to one of my side hustles and write out your personal plan. Step by step. Your first week, in plain English. What to do Monday, where to go Saturday, what to look for, and what to skip.

If you're a homebody, I won't send you to estate sales at 7 a.m. If you love a bargain hunt, I won't stick you behind a screen. And if you get stuck, you come right back and ask me. I don't get tired of questions. I get tired of excuses.

And because I like you, a little gift.

Bonus ebook: "5 Senior-Friendly Side Hustles."

Five of my favorites, picked because they're easy on the knees, easy on the wallet, and don't need you to become some kind of computer wizard. What each one is, who it suits, and how to take your first step this week. Keep it on the nightstand.

Now, the price.

The banks would charge you a "consultation fee." Wall Street would charge you a percentage of your whole life. The big-box stores would sell you a starter kit you'll never open.

I'm charging you $7.

Why so cheap? Because I'm rich, sweetie. I don't need your money. I need you to stop handing yours to people who don't deserve it.

That's it. One payment. No monthly anything sneaking onto your card.

And you're protected.

Your order is covered by ClickBank's refund policy. Covered by ClickBank's 60-day refund policy. If you chat with me and decide I'm a cranky old bat who isn't for you, ask for your money back. No hard feelings. Well, a few. I'll get over them at brunch.

So here's where we are.

You can close this page. Go back to your savings account and its lovely little interest rate. Keep buying new, keep throwing out, keep the elites in yachts.

Or you can pull up a chair and let me build you a plan.

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Love (and a little judgment),

The Rich Grandma

P.S. Every Saturday, people drag perfectly good things to the curb. I'm not saying you'll find treasure every time. Nobody can promise that, and I'm not going to. I'm saying you'll finally know what to look for. That plan is $7. Build my plan →

P.P.S. Still thinking? That's the system talking, dear. It taught you to hesitate on seven dollars and not blink at a forty-dollar "convenience fee." Click the button.

The Rich Grandma is a fictional character. Your plan is educational guidance, not financial, legal or tax advice.