In which I describe my somewhat underhanded method for getting your stuff moved

There's no need to describe here the irritation, dismay, and frustration of waking up on moving day and slowly realizing that all the friends who'd said "Sure, I'll help! What time?" simply aren't going to show. We all know the feeling. It's certainly got to rank among the top five grievances aired at Festivus gatherings around the world each year.

Now, to be sure, these pledges to lend a hand, and a back, to the task are frequently made in ill-considered haste, perhaps only out of a neurotic fear of appearing lazy or selfish, perhaps out of peer pressure, or unwillingness to disappoint. Those people need to take it up with their therapists.

And often that eagerly blurted agreement to help out is made with the best of intentions, only to be countermanded by genuine unplanned circumstances that place further up in the vaguely-defined hierarchy of social obligation. Things like appendicitis or indictment or a sudden opportunity for crazy monkey sex.

But we all know that by far the most common reason for the lack of people power on moving day is simply the classic flake-out. Your friends wake up and peer through the blinds and find that it's drizzling, or it's windy. Maybe they're hung over. Maybe they're experiencing acute existential paralysis and will barely manage to negotiate a day of eating Count Chocula and watching Green Acres reruns in their pajamas. Or they just forgot, the way they do.

There is a work-around for this problem, and while it requires a small investment of time, the payoff is well worth it. The key is to understand that, given the reasons that your friends are your friends, the qualities that brought you together in the first place, it should be obvious that they're not the sort of people you should be depending on for something like moving furniture. Backing up an alibi, creating a distraction, posting bail, donating a kidney -- they can be counted on, rock-solid, for important things like that. So just let them do what they do best and don't trouble them with trivialities.

Instead, you want some new pals, purpose-built for the job at hand.

And so about six or so weeks before your scheduled move, you should start attending AA meetings.

Don't worry, there's no need to abandon the cause of and solution to all of life's problems. Briefly considering it is close enough to the spirit of the thing, in my view. Just find a meeting at a time and place convenient to you, and start showing up. You don't have to share, just politely pass. Pretend to be shy, withdrawn, perhaps a bit disturbed. Do word search puzzles with a twitchy eye, or needlepoint while muttering the periodic table under your breath. But keep it low key, and when the inevitable swarm of people approach afterwards to introduce themselves and welcome you, stow the disturbiness and gratefully accept their proffered phone numbers. Nod humbly and try to suppress that predatory grin when, one after another, they say, "If you need anything, call me."

Oh, you will, and you will.

After all, it says Service right there in their logo, right?

So give it a few weeks, tune out as much as you need to, be cordial. You may even meet someone you enjoy talking with -- just try to remember not to invite them out for a beer. Cultivate an air of mild dysthemia, maybe with a touch of OCD , but avoid appearing needy. In fact, you want precisely to project the appearance of a needy person who is determined not to seem needy. It's easier than you think.

Finally, as your moving day approaches, mention it, and ask, as if it pained you more than tongue-kissing a light socket, if anyone might possibly be able to help out just for a little while, and how you don't have all that much stuff, and you'll make coffee. Try not to smirk when it occurs to you that you won't have to supply the traditional case of beer. A pizza might be nice, though, if it's past lunchtime.

Then prepare to be amazed, because damn! these people show up. In droves! Cheerfully.

And often they even bring their own coffee! And sometimes, donuts!

Not only that, for some reason they're really quick to organize into tiny task forces (Fish tank gang! Weight bench bunch!), and form bucket brigades as if driven by a hive mind. It's quite a thing to behold. And before you're even through with your first donut, all your stuff is neatly stowed in the U-Haul and you're ready to go. Upon arrival at your new place, your caffeine-infused new pals will have all your boxes toted and stacked in the appropriate rooms in no time, and any challenges posed by awkwardly-shaped furniture and/or peculiar hallway angles or doorway configurations will be cleverly solved.

Now, you ask, once your belongings are safely transported, the truck's been returned, and all your coffee-swilling minions have been plied with vast amounts of pizza and/or donuts, what to do with them? Clearly you are to thank them profusely, perhaps while wiping away an imagined tear. Make sure all the pizza and donuts are taken away with them. Wave wildly as they depart, shouting more cliches of gratitude, until they're out of sight and earshot.

Take a deep breath. Let it out. Go pour yourself a shot of Bushmill's from the bottle you stashed in the box of National Geographics. Congratulations! You've been moved!

But, I hear you asking, what about your former new teetotalling, furniture-hauling buddies? Not to worry. You're not likely to see them out on your rounds of nightspots, dives, beer gardens, and lounges, and if you do, well, a knowing wink and a nod will suffice. Should you run into one of them in a neutral setting, like a supermarket or therapist's waiting room, and they ask why they haven't seen you at a meeting lately, either assume a benign gaze and explain that you're attending meetings closer to your new digs, or shrug and say you've hopped off the wagon, probably for good, but you sure enjoyed the coffee and donuts.