Paradise Lost . . . leaving California

Paradise Lost . . . leaving California

Four years ago I had to leave earth. Things were overwhelming me and I had to get away. All my tricks for coping no longer worked so I hopped the next space ship headed for parts unknown.  Fortunately after a few weeks in space I came back to earth and put both my feet firmly on the ground. At that time I didn’t have a clue that it was just a step toward much bigger trips. (You can read about it in the best blog I ever wrote. It’s at: http://oogiesixty.blogspot.com/2009/10/ground-control-to-major-tom.html)

We all take journeys in life. Some take just a few.  Some take many. That’s me. Lots and lots of journeys – some going nowhere – some very focused and purposeful. The most recent was packing up everything and moving to Southern California in November 2011.  It was the type of thing that only twelve months earlier I would have thought impossible.  I had spent a lifetime thinking of Southern California as a fantasyland (which it is) that was financially and culturally out of reach for a lifetime Midwesterner like me. It existed only in the movies and on television.  I mean, I had been to California many times; in fact I had spent a lot of time in San Francisco, vacationed a couple times in LaJolla and been to L.A. on business.   I had driven through Malibu and been to the Santa Monica pier but living in SoCal was still a completely undoable.

Funny how things just fall in your lap sometimes.  My daughter finds a job in SoCal.  I ride with her across country and spend some time there thinking about what it will be like to live there. I notice how great I feel.  (I have serious medical problems.) I think to myself “I wonder if I would feel this good if I lived here?” Six weeks later I come back for a test run and “Whammo” – I’m living there.  And it’s everything I’ve heard in every Beach Boys song.  Southern California IS the weather.  At this moment I’m sitting outside with the temperature around 70, bright sunshine and a beautiful cool breeze. When I was a kid I would hear that so-and-so moved to Florida “for her health.”  I didn’t really understand the connection between warm weather and good health but I accepted it and filed it away. I pulled it back out in 2011 and moved to Southern California for my health.  Several good friends told me what a remarkable thing this move was for me.  And I must say that I surprised even myself.  I was on another journey and once again re-invented myself.

Everything here flows from the weather.  That’s why it is so culturally different from the Midwest. I find the people to be much happier but surprisingly less friendly than those in the Midwest. After all, what’s not to like? I know – the traffic.  Yes it sucks – but since I’m retired, I rarely deal with it. I made a lot of friends out here. Yes, they’re all women, but what did you expect from me? I knew when I embarked on this trip to a strange and wonderful land that my biggest challenge would be to find new friends – to build a support network.  The biggest key to my success turned out to be a simple suggestion by my California daughter – try meetup.com.  It was something I never would have done in Michigan but it led me to meet my good friend the matchmaker. We formed a bond by helping out each other – I am her business and legal advisor and confidant – she is my matchmaker and confidant . . . When I arrivedt here I was a bloated 230 pounds and highly motivated to drop twenty-five pounds.  I immediately joined Weight Watchers and developed a crush on our group leader – she remains a friend. Oh yes, and I lost the weight . . . and then some. Actually, I did make friends with a couple of guys too.  One of them was my age and a studio musician who had played with some well-known artists. I had a wonderful experience with all the aides that helped me through my recovery, especially Gina who became my good friend and confidant. (Yes, I have a bunch of confidants.) I’ll really miss watching Dexter, Ray Donovan, Push Girls, Elementary, The Following, Royals Pains and our other regular TV fare.

Now my all-too-short stay in California has come to an end.  I had a very unfortunate episode that put me in the hospital flat on my back for almost two weeks last October.  The site of my pacemaker became very infected and nearly killed me.  In fact, I was so doped up on pain meds that I have no memory of the five days I spent in intensive care. Once I got home and began to recover, my oldest son and I had a long talk and agreed that my health was too susceptible to sudden turns for the worst for me to be 2,000 miles from most of my family.  My only family in California was Alex, my youngest daughter, and she was in no position to take off time from work to care for me.

I got home from the hospital last November and we agreed that I would get myself well again and move to Columbus in spring. I worked very hard at my recovery and got myself as healthy as I had been in two years. Given the advanced state of my chronic illnesses my recovery was astonishing – and I am damned proud of myself. With the help of my son and daughter-in-law, Chris and Jamie, I found a very nice upscale place to live in Columbus near them.  I delayed my departure a couple of months until a first floor apartment came available and now I sit in a coffee house in Columbus finishing this blog that was started outside a Starbuck’s in Orange County.  My stuff and my car are on their way here and I’m visiting my amazing granddaughter Olivia – and her parents, of course.

It’s important to me to mention the superb medical care I got in California.  When I came to SoCal I was worried that I might not find doctors as great as the cardiologist and neurologist I had in Michigan (actually they were in Toledo of all places.) I knew that there were great doctors in Cali but would I find them? Well thanks to the recommendations of my docs in Toledo I found two of the best doctors I have ever met - Particularly the man who treated my dysautonomia and my pacemaker, Dr. David Cannom. I have encountered dozens and dozens of doctors over the past sixteen years but Dr. Cannom is the most learned, compassionate, understanding doctor I have ever met. No wonder he has a worldwide reputation. We developed a close bond – as far as I’m concerned, he and his partner saved my life.

So I’ve added a life event to my Facebook profile and started a new adventure here in Ohio – my birth state. I can already tell that being around my granddaughter Olivia makes me feel better and I know Beckett and Adair will have the same effect on me when I see them soon.  AND – hold the presses! – I’ve decided to venture into the world of senior online dating again. Makes me cringe just to think about it . . . plus I am very excited about setting up a web site to give support and insight to Dysautonomia and Parkinson’s patients. I hope to speak at conferences and write a second book.

I’m going to miss California. I thought it was truly paradise.  There is so much beauty there, so much to do, so many attractive people, and so many weird people (makes for great people watching.) I feel fortunate and proud that I went on this journey.  I had to pinch myself every day I was there because I thought I was dreaming.

Now when I meet Ms. Right, guess where we are going when the snow flies in the Midwest . . .

Thanks for reading.

The Wish Credo . . . and how it's going to change my life

Hmmm, my first blog in five months. Maybe that's a good sign -- like I may have some positive energy to burn. We'll see . . . Spike Lee made a comedy concert movie in 2000 called The Original Kings of Comedy. It has moved up to my top ten best movies of all time list. High praise for a movie that got so so reviews, but I love it. The comedians featured are Steve Harvey, Cedric the Entertainer, D.L. Hughely and the late Bernie Mac. They show this film constantly on Showtime and every time I flip through the channel guide and see it, I stop and watch. I actually cheer for Bernie Mac at the end. But this blog is not about The Original Kings of Comedy. It's about the hope creed (or as I sometimes call it, the hope credo.) In the movie, Cedric the Entertainer explains that whites live by a different creed than blacks. Whites live by the hope creed. If they're running a little late for a concert they hope no one will be in their seats. They hope there won't be any trouble. Blacks live by a different creed. They live by the wish creed. "I wish somebody WOULD be in our chairs. I'll show them what it's all about." I just figured out that that's what I'm doing -- living by the hope credo. "I hope I can hide my symptoms long enough so I can get a woman to see the real me before she sees the illnesses." "I hope I can win her over before I have to disclose the ugly truth." It's no wonder (a) I'm getting nowhere and (b) I'm a fucking nervous wreck while I'm doing it. I need the wish creed. "I wish a woman WOULD say someone critical about my physical condition. I'll show what the fuck's going on." Do you get the subtle difference between the wish credo and what my dad taught me about wishin' and hopin'. You know, "Wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up the fastest." The wish credo is I wish someone WOULD fuck with me. I'll show them what goings on. I'm not joking. The way I'm going about this is like trying to make a good impression while balancing on one leg and holding your breath at the same time. What do I mean by that, you ask. I mean I'm trying to do what I am very good at which is anticipate all the conditions and circumstances that could occur when I meet someone new and control them to reveal only the you-don't-look-sick Jim. I done this in my career with a great deal of success. I got good at it as a lawyer and businessman. Only there it was just business -- it's wasn't my life and my future. But the difference now is "I'm tired. My body's weary." as Bernie Mac said in that very same movie. "I can't do it like I used to." It's too mentally exhausting trying to balance everything -- hoping the damn Sinemet is working to the maximum so my tremor doesn't show. But worrying about whether the tremor shows creates stress; and stress worsens my tremor. I think you get the picture. Then there's my stomach and my body temperature and on and on. So I've got to stop the hope credo -- "I hope I can mange all this shit" -- and switch to the wish credo -- "I wish somebody WOULD care whether I'm perfectly healthy or not. I'll show them what really matters." Time for me to face facts. Time for some parallel processing. I'm not to quit the hope creed. I'm going to continue to try to manage things. I'm going to put my best foot forward. I going to work my ass off to raise the level of my health and quality of life as high as I can -- and given my history that's pretty damned high. So I'll hope I can meet the right woman who's that perfect combination of caring, compassion, attractiveness, brains, self-sufficiency and so on. And I'll be prepared to pay her back in kind for all she's got to give and then some. But I need to start up the wish credo. I wish someone WOULD limit me to Florence Nightingale types. I'll show them a woman whose motives are a bit more pragmatic. Why not combine the two extremes -- loving caring partner and paid caregiver and come up with loving caring paid partner? You know, a mutual arrangement. Think they're just gossip and innuendo -- try mutualarrangements.com. I used to wonder why my therapist in Ann Arbor used to suggest I look at these Eastern European brides websites. He's the one who pointed out mutual arrangements to me. Finally it makes sense. A business arrangement of the heart. It doesn't have to be as cold and calculated as you're thinking. I always thought it was beneath me. Well welcome to reality, Jim. Now all I need is a cash infusion that's a little more feasible than winning the lottery or waiting until my youngest becomes a billionaire. Actually it's not THAT far away. I just need to make some semi-serious money. It can be dome. I've done it before -- it's a matter of motivation and effort. I know my brain usually works ok; and I know I don't have much stamina; but there are ways. Now what are they? Any ideas? Thanks, faithful reader.

Psyching up for the big game

For a long, long time I have been reluctant to write blogs because I’m rarely in a happy, high-energy mood. Managing my health 90% of the time doesn’t leave me cheerful and effusive. So this blog is written to psych me up. I doubt that it will entertaining to you. I’m preparing myself to hop on a plane to return from Ohio to LA twelve days after my intended departure. I am anxious, uncertain and filled with doubt. Briefly, this is how I got here.

I moved from Michigan to Orange County, California on December 1st. I was full of energy and pride. I had done it. I had unloaded my condo in Michigan at much expense, time and energy – and stress. I packed all my shit. Sold or gave away a boatload of stuff including my beloved pool table. I did all this for one reason – to improve my health and the consequential quality of life. I believed that this would happen because I had been to California twice last Summer and had concluded that I felt measurably better – objectively as well as subjectively. I ran this idea by my two cardiologists. They supported the idea and my dysautonomia specialist Dr. Grubb encouraged me to do it.

The energy and good health so high during my first two weeks in California dissipated. My blood pressure was not staying up with the drugs I take to raise it. I was angry and disappointed because I thought the pacemaker I had received on August 12, 2012 was not helping with my pressure. I wanted to swap it for a Biotronik with CLS. That’s a pacer that senses changes in blood pressure and responds by increasing heart rate and strength of the contraction. I discussed this with my LA cardiologist and he agreed – based solely on my prior experience with that kind of pacer. I had that particular pacer replaced on August 12, 2012 because the site of the pacer was inflamed and infected.) I wanted the surgery to happen in Toledo so I could get the benefit of the experience of Dr. Grubb. I had the surgery on March 26, 2012.

Now here I sit on April 12th. I cannot get my blood pressure elevated enough to stay on my feet for much more than 60 seconds. I am a semi-invalid. I’ve been staying with my eighty-six-year old mother for the past two weeks in the house I moved to in third grade and grew up in.

I could write pages and pages about how utterly frustrating, depressing and scary it has been. But I won’t. I have to get my ass on that plane tomorrow and get “home”. I have to accept where I am and work my way back. I have stepped back in time to where I was 18 months ago. I worked through it then and I will do it again. I have to remind myself every day that I thought I was not going to live out the year back then – but I made. I exceeded everyone’s expectations including my own.

I’m not one of those guys who ignores every set back and pushes ahead single-mindedly. I analyze and over-analyze. I imagine the worst. I ask myself if this is it. I’ve finally slipped into invalidism. Bring on the wheelchair and diapers. So I can’t just think positive thoughts, but what I can do is remember that I have been through this. I refused to give in and I improved my quality of life until it was at a very high level. That’s what I will do again. I have dysautonomia and Parkinson’s – they don’t have me.

I am not religious or even spiritual. No divine being or inner peace is going to carry me through this. Faith is not going to cure me – expect faith in myself. And my amazing family and friends who support and encourage me continuously. Do you know how much I love my grandchildren? Off the scale. I have another one due in less than six weeks. I’m going to watch these kids grow up and they’re going to remember me because I was part of their life.

OK, so there's a pep talk and there is grim reality. There’s the hard work of living with and trough the misery. For example I wish I could pump myself up to the point that I’m saying bring it on tomorrow and in the following days and weeks. But I will be nervous and miserable. But I’ll live through it – the fucking plane will land in LA and my daughter will pick me up and I’ll sleep in my own bed. I hired aides to come in three days a week and I have an aide coming to take me to my LA cardiologist on Monday. When I get there I will insist that they adjust my pacer to improve its functioning. I will feel more secure when I leave that office. I’ll exercise as best I can. I’ll get stronger and I will walk. I’ll walk until I can walk for an hour without sitting down.

Whatever it takes, that’s what I’ll do. . . OK, it’s out of my head and on paper. That helps. It’s just the first step. Let’s get some sleep and get on that damned plane. Time to stop being scared.

Good night.

59 Years and Counting . . .

Not long ago I was sitting in the Northwest Florida Regional Airport waiting for my flight to Dallas and then on to LAX. I was leaving Florida and had three hours to kill and I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do than tell you about a friendship that has lasted more than fifty years. But this is not just a friendship of two guys or even three. This is five guys who graduated from high school in 1965 and remain close friends today.

I was in the airport flying home to California after spending a week in Florida with my friends. Their names are Fast Eddie, The Load, Dr. Philippe, and Lucky Chesterfield. Since four of us are retired, we can come and go as we please. Dr. Philippe still works and was snowed under with work and had to take a pass on Florida. I'm the only guy who's single but oddly enough the other guys' wives don't seem to mind that much if they take off for a week -- or more. As I said we graduated from high school together but that wasn't the beginning of our friendship. I've known Lucky since kindergarten in lovely Fairborn, Ohio in 1953. A mere fifty-nine years. I 've known The Load and Dr.Philippe since fourth grade and Fast Eddie since we were sophomores in high school. That's a helluva long time. What's really amazing is that we are as close now as we were in high school even though we don't live close together any more. Since we were in our late fifties we've gotten together regularly a couple of times every year. We communicate by email on a daily basis. Well, as least The Load does. I believe he has a bit too much time on his hands.

We of course grew up in the same town and were constant companions throughout high school. By constant companions I mean we hung out together every day during school and after school. For reasons none of us can figure out, we never got into much trouble. In fact I can't remember the whole group ever getting in trouble at school or with the law or our parents. We sure as hell weren't goody two-shoes, but we weren't badasses either. Before high school we did have a gang - the Top Hats. We were scary little fuckers. We had jackets with top hats sewn on the back. I have no clue what this little adventure signified but there it was. We were freshmen in 1962 at a time where seventh, eight and ninth graders went to junior high and sophomores were the low rung in high school. As freshman, Lucky went to a Catholic high school and we didn't know Fast Eddie yet. -- By the way, I think we also called Fast Eddie Muscle Breath, but I don't think I'll use that name since he can still kick the shit out of me. -- So for a year it was just The Load, Dr. Philippe and me as the big shots at Five Points Junior High. By then we had started to develop separate paths at school. As a freshman I played football, baseball and basketball -- and wasn't worth a damn in any of them. Philippe and Load were in the band which would continue throughout high school.

As I said we were inseparable in high school and, damn, we had some fun times. The kind of crap that we still think is hilarious today no matter how many times we say "Remember when we . . . " Lucky Chesterfield has a unique mind -- he had it then and he has it now. He comes out with some stuff that is utterly hysterical, "Like what" you may say. I'll try to think of an easy-to-relate example but suffice it to say that he can make us fall out of our chairs laughing.

When we were seniors we had another member of the group. Large Louis. After high school, he and Dr. Philippe went off to get high in Vietnam and after they returned from their tour he headed for New Zealand where he has been since. During high school we did some really stupid shit like everyone else, but we seemed to be more clever about it. We were pretty well known and the bond amongst us was pretty strong. For example, when we were seniors I was going steady with this smart, pretty, sweet girl who was all a kid like me could ask for. Lucky was going with this overbearing bitch that I thought bossed him around too much. So genius that I am, I told him I would break up with the girl of my dreams if he broke up with his girl. He did and I did. How mature.

After high school there was Vietnam. As I mentioned Dr. Philippe and Louis went over there. The Load and Fast Eddie joined the Army but stayed in the states. Lucky and I dodged the draft - successfully. After that we really started to drift apart. I was married while in undergraduate school and I had little contact with the guys. We would attend class reunions religiously every five years and laugh our asses off, but that was pretty much it. We all had families and careers and were at times totally estranged from each other - almost. But for reasons that I don't fully understand, Fast Eddie always kept us together by setting up - what else? - get-togethers. Rarely were all of us there at the same time. Lucky had some dark times. The Load had two girls to raise and had moved one town over. Dr. Philippe was globe hopping with his daughter and wife - also a long time friend of mine. Fast Eddie had moved to Nerk - that's the way they pronounce Newark there.

Now our families have been raised, we've retired - most of us - and we have time to look back on fond memories. It is truly amazing and wonderful that we can still be good friends after all these years. Men and women are very different about friendships. Men's best friends are often guys that they have known all their lives. Something about the basic mistrust men have for other men, particularly in the workplace, that makes this true. That's why I feel so fortunate to have these guys as friends. The comfort we have around each other is a rare thing. It gives one a great sense of security to be able to totally relax and talk about anything that's on your mind to other guys. Rarely do men find that in friends they make at work. Too much competitiveness. The way these guys look out for me because of my health gives me a sense of absolute safety. I know that I don't have to hide my illnesses from them. Each one of them has been incredibly generous in their praise of my effort to rise above my illnesses and live a high quality of life. You can't imagine how much that means to me.

So I hope we will get together again this fall at Fast Eddie's farm or somewhere exotic, but wherever it is I know we will talk he same bullshit, laugh at the same shit we've been laughing about for fifty years and be totally relaxed in each other's company.

101 Blind Dates

Every time I heard something like "Your Southern California Toyota Dealers . . ." on the radio or TV, I think: "Holy shit. I live in Southern California." Honestly, I didn't think it was a real place. It seemed to exist only on television. The best way I can illustrate it is to think of sitting and watching Jimmy Kimmel. If I'm watching in Michigan I know I'm watching a show that was taped a few hours ago somewhere in Hollywood. But there's no physical location that you associate with it so it's like it's out there in the ether somewhere. When I'm watching it here I think "Oh yeah, that's just up the road on Hollywood boulevard." I know I'm an over-analytic nut case and you probably don't think this way but these strange little things fascinate me. . .

Little did I know when I woke up a few days ago that I would be having humble pie for breakfast. I'll explain of course, but first I have to figure out how to make it entertaining enough to read. . . I'm not sure that I've written an entertaining blog since 2009 but I'm going to write one today.

So back to the humble pie. I had my first California date. Here's how it happened. A really nice woman was the organizer of a mixer that I attended and we started talking. She is very interested in matchmaking. So we got into a conversation about dating and dating services. I have an extensive background in that arena. So I immediately puff out my chest and say "Well I've been on more than a hundred blind dates -- That's right; a hundred. And blah, blah, blah." (I can be such a dipshit at times.) She was very interested to know what I had learned. As we talked she told me that she was hosting a small group discussion on dating and that I should come to it. Which I did. Prior to the meeting she sent me the name of a woman, whom I'll call Sandra, and asked me to check her out. She said she was going to try to get her to come to the group.

Sandra couldn't attend but the discussion was fun and my friend did an excellent job of hosting it. It's not often that single men and women can openly discuss expectations and behaviors in dating in a non-threatening environment. Afterward it was over it was up to me to make a connection with Sandra; so I did. We agreed to meet for lunch in Laguna Beach. She suggested that we get food to go at this healthy Mexican food place and walk over onto the grounds of the Montage resort. It was stunning; absolutely beautiful surroundings and a gorgeous day. We had a very nice conversation and I really enjoyed it, and was impressed by Sandra.

However on the walk over to Montage we had to climb down several flights of stairs. As soon as we went down the first set of stairs I knew my cover was blown. I knew there was no way in hell I could climb up those stairs so I was going to have to ask here to drive down to the hotel and pick me up. You see, one thing I have learned on those 100 blind dates is that I don't give my entire medical history away on the first date. It's a real show-stopper. Since I generally don't look sick or act sick, I allow some time to pass before I recite the litany of shit that's wrong with me. Sandra accepted this information without reaction and even told me about her own medical stuff.

I left feeling good. I was trying to piece together the signals she had given me and I couldn't quite figure out how she felt about the date. So that evening after I had been re-hashing the date and expanding it's significance in my head, I sat down to write her an email note. By then my exuberance had overtaken me and I wrote a message that was a bit over the top. I did have the good sense to stop myself and sent it first to my good friend Romy to ask her opinion. Unfortunately Romy didn't get back to me until the morning and in my impatience, I sent the message to Sandra. She came back shortly with a polite response which was open for interpretation. I took it as a brush off; my therapist took it as an invitation for more intimacy. (Yes, that's right. I talked to my therapist about it. I am crazy, you know.) So I waited three days and called Sandra. She was in the middle of something so I asked if I could call the following day -- Super Bowl Sunday. Before I got a chance to call, I received an email that was polite and contained the phrase "lack of chemistry". Now there's a signal that is not subject to interpretation. It means thanks, but no thanks. I was crushed -- at least for a while. I actually thought there was lots of chemistry. I did think my inability to climb stairs may have been a problem.

We've actually exchanged a couple of emails since and seem to agree that we each would like to be friends. Later today when I call her I guess I'll find out how much interpretation is necessary for the phrase "just friends."

You know I can see why my kids don't read my blogs. If I was their age it would freak me out that my 64 year old father was still dealing with dating and relationships at his age. I think kids think a guy my age should have his life settled long ago and just do old people shit. Whatever that may be. But some things never change. The complexity and silliness of relationships between men and women lasts a lifetime. If it doesn't, then you should stick to old people shit.

Thanks for reading.

Weight Watching

As Charles Barkley says "I joined Weight Watchers. That's right I said it."

Since I been a member twice before, it's really not that radical a thing for me to do. But it was at the top of my list of things to do when I got to California. Losing weight is only one reason to join WW. Equally as appealing is the social interaction with the other members, who are mostly women of course. I's say the ratio of women to men approaches twenty to one. Not bad odds . . . and that's just the half of it. The other men who join are -- how can I say this -- not much competition. Not because I am as big a lady killer as I think I am; but because they have either joined with their wife or they are unattractively obese. Hmm, does that me you can be attractively obese? I think that's a topic for a whole different blog.

Back in Michigan I found that my weight was depressing the hell out of me. Not only was I at my maximum density, but I was developing a revolting beer gut like 99 million other middle aged men. With the failing state of my body from the illnesses, living with a disgustingly ugly gut was just one physical insult too many. There's no denying that I'm vain. And of course, the illnesses also make dieting difficult because it lowers your blood pressure. An added benefit for most everyone, but not for me.

I've told all my family and friends how hard I work at looking and acting healthy even though I'm not. Any small thing I can do to counteract the degeneration that's going on inside me to make me look better on the outside is a big boost psychologically . . . and a little present to myself for fighting the good fight. Thus the weight loss.

My plan was to slowly and consistently lose about a pound a week for six months and then level off and stay there for good. I figured this might work for two reasons: it would be gradual enough to prevent lowering my blood pressure and it would allow me to permanently change my lifestyle with respect to food. In my previous tenures with WW I lost thirty pounds each time in about ten weeks. I was hungry ALL THE TIME but I can be so obsessive about achieving goals that I forced myself to lose the weight. When I got to target, I said "Thank God, I can eat again." and that was that.

I joined five weeks ago and I've lost 8.4 lbs. A little faster then I wanted to, but it feels really good. I don't feel like a stuffed pig and my digestive system has felt pretty good. The only way I can make it work is by going to weekly meetings. The meetings seem completely different than those in the past. First there's the group leader. Wow! Smart, energetic, great looking, fit, realistic, savvy, generous and enthusiastic. . . Imagine this -- somehow I find it easy to pay attention to a stunning woman. Who would've guessed! Since I'm paying attention, I'm really giving this WW thing some thought. I think it's really sinking in that it's about changing your lifestyle -- it's not a diet. As Kris (not her real name) says, it's like a wedding and a marriage. Losing the weight and reaching goal is getting through the wedding. Being married for the rest of your life is maintaining your goal weight. That's exactly what I'm trying to figure out. I know I can reach goal. Can I change permanently and stay there is the issue.

I don't know much about Alcoholics Anonymous but it seems that the concept of attending meetings for support and encouragement is the same with WW. Particularly for me, the new guy in town who doesn't really have any local friends yet. I really look forward to Tuesday mornings. . . and tracking the foods I eat on my iPhone fits my obsessive behavior to reach my goal. BTW, my goal is to lose 24.5 pounds.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Goodbye Michigan, Hello Sunshine

Six months ago when I last wrote a blog, I had made up my mind to move to California and reap the benefits of its magnificent weather. Now it's six months later and I did it. I actually did it! Frankly I think when I wrote that last blog I didn't really believe it would happen. I certainly had no idea the level of effort it would take to pull it off. I am very proud of myself for making it happen.

California is truly a strange and wonderful place. As many times as I have been here on business and holiday, I still had no sense of what it like to live here. Even when I am feeling depressed and angry because I'm alone, I still want to stay here. Of course the weather is amazing, but it goes well beyond that. First, the people are nice and generally happy. Probably because they live in such a pleasant place. Second, there is so much to do. Again, the weather makes being outdoors so appealing that life is built around it. And lastly, the people are so attractive. I swear in the first ten days I was here I saw 3 fat people -- three! In Michigan you can see that many in 10 seconds. If ever there was a place where I could have every possibility of meeting a woman that I could be with, I believe this is it. The attitude is so relaxed.

That doesn't mean it's that easy to make friends when you're my age and brand new -- and exude the standoffishness that I do. Sometimes I forget how often I was told that I give off an air of arrogance. Which is funny when you get to know me. Yes, I used to be an arrogant little prick but I'm all grown up now and I don't mind saying I'm really a nice guy. So my prediction in the previous blog that making friends would be the hardest part of the move has proven to be true. I have been doing -- and will continue to do -- all the right things: join Weight Watchers, sign up for yoga class, and join a social group. Still it is hard to find someone I can get comfortable with. All the old reasons why I have been somewhat of a loner are still there. All I can do is work to change them.

I can't say that I've had any real fun misadventures here so far -- nothing that entertaining enough to write about, so I'll go back to my last month in Michigan. I used to eat dinner at the bar at Friday's in Michigan four or five nights a week. It's one of those places where everybody knows your name -- in my case, they definitely did and treated me very well. But in all the hundreds of meals I have eaten there, I don't think I have ever had more than one or two women strike up a conversation with me. So I was taken aback one Thursday night when a very young girl started talking to me the moment I sat down. Despite her youth and my lack of recent practice, I immediately slipped into charming mode. You know; lowered my voice and tried to be mysterious. After a couple of minutes she got around to mentioning that she was born in Orange County California. Actually not that surprising since I had just said that I was moving to the O.C. in a few weeks. Next thing I know she has moved over next to me and I noticed she was drunk. She mentioned that she was 23 and started telling me about her mom. As always, I'm in a daze and asking myself why a 23 year old is hitting on a grandpa. Even though she was drunk, she occasionally said some pretty honest sensible things about age, people and relationships. Well she continued to tell me that her mom was 55 and beautiful -- repeatedly. Eventually she asked if I would like to do something like go to a casino with her and her mom. I said sure, why not. She was with her cousin and the two of them went off to the girls' room. I waited awhile then left.

The next day I asked myself if I wanted to sit home that night or go out with the mother and drunken daughter. I said "what the hell" and texted them to meet me at a restaurant at 8:00. The restaurant was jammed so I got a table. When they showed up I immediately chuckled to myself. As I could have guessed, the mother was not attractive at all. As the evening wore on I realized her personality was less attractive than her appearance. I mean, I know bitter and this woman was bitter. She talked about some crazy-assed books she had read that nothing to do with anything we were talking about. The climax of the evening was when I returned from the restroom and figured out that both the mother and the daughter had gotten into separate confrontations with management of the restaurant over issues that were very vague. As in they made no sense to me. As we left the daughter made us exchange phone numbers and hug each other. The mother was stalling so much to keep from leaving that it took her 15 minutes to write down her number. Neither of them bothered to say thank you for dinner. I was glad to leave and assumed I would never see them again.

Flash forward to the night before I moved. My neighbor was helping me pack and I suggested that we take a break and have something to eat at Friday's. We sat at the bar and in about one minute I hear "Hello, Jim." It's the daughter - -and yes, she's drunk again. Three times I've seen her; three times she been drunk. She immediately mentioned that I never called her mother. I brushed that off and turned to my neighbor and told her that this was "the daughter." My neighbor is a woman, of course, and I had told her abou the prior encounter. After a bit more gibberish, daughter walks up next to me and says "You should have slept with my mom." What! My neighbor and I look at each other in amazement. Daughter proceeds to tell us that her mom was a Playboy Playmate in 1989 and the you can look it up. Again were smirked at each other. After shaking my hand for about 3 minutes the daughter left. All my neighbor could say was how sorry she felt for this crazy messed up little girl who seemed to be pimping her mom for a new dad.

Boy, I can really attract them can't I?

More to come. Thanks for reading.