Ever feel like your head will explode if you're exposed to one...more...piece...of data? Lately, the chaos inside my melon feels like the last 35 seconds of The Beatles tune, "A Day in the Life". You know, the part with the searing violin crescendo just before the famous final piano chord. 

Every single day it's all about send this, answer that, call him, and email her. Oh, and remember to return those text messages, update all social media, check out a YouTube chuckle, and compose original cover letters for every single job application. The cursor blinks, the text chirps, the email pings, and the phone rings. It's everywhere you go. Nearly impossible to escape. And that, my fellow 21st Century adventurer, is information overload. It's exhausting.

The late actor Larry Hagman was known for his 'silent Sundays'. He just didn't speak. He turned down the noise. It seems a bit self-indulgent and not very much fun. But, I tried it a couple of times and it felt well, semi-marvelous! No phone, media, or email for a day. A total disconnect. That, along with hugs for my dogs, a run in the fresh air on a clear day, homemade cookies, a long, hot lavender-infused bath and a glass of fine red wine did the trick. It felt so good to just breathe.

That's my prescription for data overload and stress management. What's yours? Keep it clean....!

" Don't let the bastards get you down, Lisë!" I can still hear my father's words earlier this year.  He's right, of course, as he is so very often.

Those words fell upon my newly-numb ears. I, along with dozens of my colleagues, had just been told that we were out of work. Jobs that most of us had begun just the year before. Jobs we'd had every reason to believe would be given much more than a twelve month run. Ah, yin. The year had begun so very, well...yang! Too bad it wasn't the only 'yin' moment of the year. But as the (old) song goes, "Accentuate the Positive". So, that's what we do. Because we have to. Or, just watching the news may drag us down into a very deep mental well.

Here's the great part, 'yang' wins this annual story! Goodness and the milk of human kindness always does. Thanks to all of the dear friends and relatives who sent me fun, flavorful gifts and cards to cheer me up; 'mystery' money to help with gas costs; drinks bought, meals cooked, leftovers packed up and sent home with me. All done to help defray the high cost of being unemployed. And then there are strangers; people who sent words of encouragement through social media; shared with me their unexpired parking slips; granted me interviews and made me feel like my career thus far, actually mattered!  Thank you. Thank you to all of you! I can't wait to do something wonderful for each and every one of you in turn. And seriously, as another (old) song goes, "How lucky can one guy be, like a fella' once said, ain't that a kick in the head?"Ain't it , indeed?

 Time now to turn the page. Look forward, not back. And never, ever let the bastards get us down again. Now, doesn't that feel good? Happy New Yang Year to you!

Who says 'pay it forward' is dead? Nobody I know. And it certainly hasn't been my experience. It is most certainly ALIVE!! (cue Frankenstein music).

There are the random acts of kindness, the 'blind' pay it forwards if you will. It just happened for me again. On my way to a job interview in downtown Chicago, I ask a man who's walking toward his parking space whether he's leaving and he nods, yes. Then instead of pulling out of the space, he walks toward me as I sit in my car, hands me his paid ticket stub and says, "Would you like this, it's paid up till midnight?" I thank him profusely. He has no idea that the sixteen bucks he's just saved me will really, really help. He didn't have to do that. Which is exactly the point. He didn't have to do that. But he did.

Today, out of the blue, I got three, count 'em, 3 (!) bottles of the promotional Heinz Tomato Ketchup with Jalapeno delivered to my door. I'd lusted after them openly on Facebook but shied away from buying any because of the shipping cost. Somebody, maybe Heinz Ketchup,  or one of my crazy sweet friends who call me "The Condiment Queen", made this happen. No ID on the sender. So, how FUN is that?

Lately I've been on the receiving end of all kinds of kindness and goodness. What's going on here? Wait, take that back. No need to question why, just the need to say, Thank You! Yes, I say thank you to the thoughtful and generous family members, AND friends, AND acquaintances. All of whom have gone out of their way to feed me, amuse me, encourage me, and just generally make the past several lean months a lot easier to handle. You all know who you are. And to the strangers, may you blessed in multiple ways as someone else 'pays it forward' to you. Bless you. Peace.
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I like candy. Probably too much. Sometimes it's just so good and oh boy, does it hit the spot.  But sometimes, it makes me sick.  Eventually, my tummy settles down and the feeling passes. I eat all of the right things for a good, long time and I feel better. Except for a childhood Lake County Fair cotton candy and cream puff binge,  there's no trauma from any of the other ill-fated food fiestas or how cruddy they made me feel. It's garbage in, without the lingering after-effects.

If only that were the case with reality shows, creepy movies, and cruel videos. There's no way to permanently purge memories of moments spent watching Real Housewives blather, slasher movie villains destroy, Honey Boo-Boo et al, do...whatever (!), or see yet another video where somebody, some 'thing' or some group is defiled. No figurative 'finger down the throat' to get the trash erased from my memory files. The garbage has been deposited. It's got to go somewhere. So, where does it come out? 

While I can only speak for myself, I sometimes hear myself say things that are easy, that don't make me stretch my mind.  Or, I get lazy. make excuses for things I've done, or not done. It's tough to get perspective on yourself.  On a personal note, from afar,  it sure seems like the mind crap has affected kids and adults in a variety of ways. I'll leave that analysis for the sociologists. 

 G.I.G.O., garbage in, garbage out. A steady diet of any kind of crap for your body and your brain will destroy you physically and cripple you mentally. On the other hand.....a little candy for your body, and a little candy for your mind isn't going to rot either one. But keep in mind that you can work off the sweet that goes from the lips to the hips. It's not quite so easy to work off, work out or erase the junk food you feed your brain. 

Moderation...still the key. 

Ever been so embarrassed by your child's behavior that you are, literally, speechless? Today was my turn. Granted, my 'kid' has four paws. I figured I was exempt from this level of, let's call it, bemused horror. Not. Even. Close.  In less than 60 seconds, I was alternately horrified and deeply amused by Harvey the Wonder Dog's actions.

So there I am at the dining room table, searching for a new job, career, the usual. (At least, lately.)  Suddenly, the hair stands up on Harvey's neck, his gigantic yellow Labrador retriever head shoots up, he leaps to his paws and bolts through the front door. For no apparent reason. So I scramble after him. In my pajamas. In bare feet. He seems to know exactly where he's going. Two doors down. To the house with the new family. They just moved in. The movers have just left. The front door is ajar. And so it begins.

Harvey blasts through the front door. I'm three steps behind him. Not close enough to stop him but close enough to see  him tackle the little boy, cover him with kisses, lick the two little girls, and tear down the hall. To the kitchen. Uh-oh...

At this point, the kid's grandparents, brooms in hand, appear in the hallway. The area is now littered with giggling children. A loud crash is heard in the kitchen. A woman laughs. (No, not me.)  The mom. The owner of the house. My....new....neighbor. The kids scramble into the kitchen and start squealing, " He ate the eggs, he ate the eggs!" Turns out the loud clatter was Harvey the Wonder Dog poaching the skillet off of the stove and crash-landing it onto the kitchen floor. As I round the corner, he's on his stomach. licking the pan lovingly. And I am absolutely horrified. Dumbstruck. I have no words. Except to finally blurt out, " I am SO, SO sorry!"

Nobody was hurt. Everybody laughed. And finally, my writer's block is gone. It's been nearly two years since my last blog entry, made just days before my mother died. Today is the first day that I've been able to really write. Thank you sweet, silly dog. Thank you, new neighbor. It's all going to be...okay.

This has been the hardest week of my life.

As I work furiously to assemble WWII era songs onto an ipod for my mother, I wonder if I will even make it there on time. 'There' being the hospital where she has existed since September 2010. I wonder if she will even be able to hear them IF I make it there on time. I wonder why I am doing this now when I have had months, weeks and certainly the past several days to do so. The reality of the situation may be just too real now.

It's possible that I don't want to watch her leave this life. The years spent handling her many errands, her desperate and immediate needs and demands, and her numerous doctor and clinic visits wore me out. Nothing was ever right or was ever enough. It just began to make me numb. But, I never stopped loving her. I never stopped hoping that the next time I saw her that we would have an overall positive encounter. She can't speak now, so it's up to me to make this a final positive encounter. As the POA, it is up to me to make the call for hospice and all my siblings are not in agreement about the next inevitable steps. It is ripping my family apart.

I would like to help her leave this life listening to the songs of her youth, her glory days. They are the songs that defined the 'greatest generation'. The generation of so many immigrants who defended our freedom in so many of the most ultimate ways. The generation who may have given us too much because so many of them had grown up with so little due to the Great Depression.

So, I scramble to figure out how to help her exit this world, I realize that writing this blog just made it easier for me to deal with her passing.

Thank you for listening.

Three nights a week, as I walk from work to my parking space, I see a person. A very small, obviously homeless person. I had never seen the face or even been sure of the gender of the person until last week.

Now I know it's a woman. She wears a hoodie, tied tightly around her tiny head, dirty coveralls and heavy army boots. She is always huddled in a tiny ball in the doorway of the same shop. She is usually motionless, which always makes me wonder whether tonight is the last night that I will see her. On occasion, as I pass, I will see her shift a bit or hear her murmur something or mutter. A few times I have left a bit of food for her. I stopped doing that last year after a piercing shriek and a tiny,dark fist shot out from the sleeping bag-bundled form. She was probably just scared. Now, so was I.

Week after week, I would check to be sure she had a blanket or a wrap of some sort and she always did. Every week, she seemed to get smaller and my concern only grew. Then, the Groundhog Day blizzard hit Chicago followed by a deep dive in the temperature. That Friday I noticed she was only covered in newspapers and a filthy towel. It shook me to the bone to see her that way. Nothing is open at midnight so I couldn't help that way and there was no blanket in my car. But, I vowed to drop off something to her next week when I worked. I prayed for her safety and well-being until I could help her.

And I tried. I really tried. But, she didn't want the blanket that I brought for her. Or, the small area rug that would separate her from the damp, cold concrete. She waved me off and pointed to the new blanket that enveloped her and said she was fine. Her face was small and dark and deeply-lined. Her eyes large and dark but serene. Her voice was soft and soothing when shoe spoke to me. And, she was so calm. So very calm. She made it clear that she wanted to be left alone. So I walked away, feeling a little bit useless and a day late to help.

But now I know what I truly didn't know before. Don't wait to help. Step up to the plate today, and not tomorrow. The next time someone needs something, I want to be there the day before, with an armful of 'blankets'.

It's not springtime but I am cleaning. Clothes, cards, papers, etc., all to try to streamline and de-clutter my life for all kinds of reasons. Sound familiar?

During the process, I unearthed a journal I had kept from a 2 1/2 week, life-changing trip to Australia and New Zealand in May of 2006. It was only the beginning of a re-awakening of all sorts of adventure and creativity for me. A second chance to grow and I truly felt like a seed about to germinate. With apologies to those of you who love L. A., below is the first entry. It was written during a long layover at LAX on my way to Sydney, Australia.

May 19, 2006

"Leaving my little home is never easy for me. No matter how exciting or mundane the destination, I always feel a twinge of sadness as I drive off and away from it. Today was no exception, despite the fact that I am going over halfway around the world to a country I have dreamed of visiting for nearly all of my life. Clothes were washed, sinks were cleaned, dishes and silverware were sanitized. It just doesn't feel respectful to leave 'her' alone for any amount of time in any sort of unkempt way.

It's beyond me why I feel compelled to make things right before I go, but I do. It makes it a little bit easier to leave, knowing that I will come back to the same , sweet, serene setting that I left behind. Ah, maybe therein lies the secret. A sense of continuity and sameness. A lack of disruption, perhaps. No, the first reason is more apt, it's more half-full!

So here I sit in the slightly humid air of the International Terminal of LAX, just trying to make the most of my six hour layover between planes. It strikes me again, in an instant, why I don't like L.A. It's not an immediate,in your face sort of artifice, like Las Vegas. It's more that these people really take it seriously. The falseness, I mean. This is a place where vacuousness is embraced and expected in so many circles.

Give me American Gothic over this Dali-esque existence any old day. Oops, my Midwest roots are showing. Which I am A, 100% okay with on any given day. So there!"

Upon discovering and reading this from nearly five years ago, I realized that there has been an awful lot of living between then and now. And, you know what? It's all good......

It's the little things. Truly, it is!

Every day is not Christmas Day or my birthday or the anniversary of something fabulous that happened in my or a loved ones life. Lately, it's about cherishing micro moments in time. The ones that burst with sweetness. Or, those that are quick or cute or funny or just uniquely beautiful.

If I pay attention, there's at least one a day. How the sun glints off the gorgeous fall foliage, even as it fades. Kids tossing the football in the street. Playing chuck-a-ball with Harvey the Wonder Dog and reveling in the unadulterated, pure joy that he takes in retrieving the ball for me. Okay, he IS a Labrador retriever, but that's beside the point!

One of the best laugh out loud moments came not too long ago. After reading aloud the book that I wrote about Harvey to my two very young great-nephews, the 4 year old asked me to read "Harvey Finds His Smile" and pointed it out on the back of the book. I told him that I had yet to write that next book. He cocked his head in a most quizzical and thoughtful way and said, "Well, can't you just write it right now while you're here this weekend?" I paused, laughed, hugged him hard and thought about what he said and just smiled. A magical moment of pure innocence.

Truly a joy. In a very small package.

It's a new level. Or maybe a new refuge, simply renamed. I am the eye of the tornado. More than merely 'inside' of the eye of the tornado. What I mean is that I AM the eye. Here inside of mine, it is rather serene with no sound louder than the quiet hum of a faraway vacuum.

But the question that begs to be asked is this: When you go here, if you do, if you are able, is it because you are really calm and away from the absolute violence and the unpredictable nature of the winds and the rain and the hail that really hurts? Or, safe from the lightning that once it strikes you, is so stunning and damaging that nothing is ever the same? You are not the same. Or, because in that calm center, the winds and rain can't lash at you and pull at you and rip you all to shreds? So, is it a temporary respite and healthy, like meditation? Or, is it avoidance, because it's just all too much at once?

It seems to help, at least temporarily. But to inure oneself from the unpleasant too often is to miss life. Or worse, accept what is not so good. So, I will take three deep breaths to decompress, let the storm close to me dissipate and allow the swift, dark and angry clouds to swirl about until their energy is spent.

While I am not sure I completely answered my original question completely, there is at least something to consider. Personally, I opt for the former. As a temporary defense mechanism, it may be a good tool and certainly not pharmaceutically addictive. Maybe the eye is an okay place to be. Once in awhile.

This didn't start yesterday. The awareness, the annoyance and yes, sometimes the outright disgust while watching somebody litter for no good, or obvious reason. It was fostered by my parents, both of them. For this lesson, I am so very grateful.

Certainly, I don't recall ever seeing either of them drop something on the ground in public or around our house or on our property with the expectation that somebody else would, could, should or might be hired to pick up after them. If they dropped it or tossed it, they picked it up. We were expected to do the same and without question, we did. Not because we were perfect kids. Oh my heavens, no! But, because the logic of it all made sense. The logic that we were presented with was so simple, yet so direct. If everybody dropped just one piece of litter every day, what would the world, the ocean, the lake, the country, the state, the town, the street, the neighborhood look like? When delivered that way by them to us, without accusation, judgement, or condemnation, it was thought-provoking. And most importantly,it worked!

We were shown, by example, that we were responsible for the space around us wherever we were. That we were caretakers of wherever we were in the world. That we could effect a change just by doing the right thing. By not causing damage.

The concept is one that I embrace each and every day. It is powerful and wonderful and a task that I am proud to practice, to carry out and to pay forward.

Thanks for listening. I would love to hear your thoughts.

He woke up and asked for ravioli. Just opened his eyes, sat up, and asked the nurse at Stanford Hospital to bring him ravioli. He loved Italian food. This, after a surgery two days prior that did not go at all as planned by the doctors. It took seven hours instead of three, was not successful, and determined his fate as terminal. Not terminal in the sense that it was possible to physically knock off anything on a bucket list that he may have been keeping for himself. Terminal in that his family was told 24-48 hours are all that he has left.

It's not clear whether he knew this. That he had extremely limited time or that there was a very clear and driving reason to just be there, present in the moment. To be awake and present for as long as it would take. All I know is that he woke up on a Thursday afternoon and was completely lucid. Not just any Thursday afternoon. The Thursday afternoon just hours before the tip-of the Lakers-Celtics Game 7.

If you were his friend, even casually, you know what this means. At least, I think I know what this means. Somehow, on some level, as he drifted into and out of consciousness the past week, he knew. Knew that his beloved Los Angeles Lakers were about to make some history of their own and that it was TONIGHT. So, he ate his ravioli, watched the basketball team that to him , hung the sun, the moon and the stars. Then he went back to sleep.

Nine days later, my friend Mike passed away. He lived a life that was full and fast and full of friends. So many of these friends had fur. Horse fur and dog fur of any and all type. Those friends loved him purely and completely. And so did we. The friends of Mike who wanted nothing more than his crinkly blue-eyed smile, his energy that knew no bounds, the drive that catapulted those who worked for him into sales a stratosphere that they may have only previously dreamed about.

I will miss him so very much. My good, kind and dear friend of childhood, adolescence and adulthood. He was yours, too. Let's be kind, be good and be a real friend. What a great way to honor our friend, Mike.

Intrinsically, I must have always known. Always known that I was my mother's keeper. Certainly, always her emotional keeper, and not because I wanted to be. As a young child, adolescent and adult, I out of all four of her children would have to be the one to handle, deflect and absorb her immature outbursts and financial mismanagement. Never a task that I cared to shoulder and one that has kept us at odds ever since I can remember. One that I now realize figured in very prominently to my personal indecision about motherhood.

As a second-grader I was called into the principal's office. In all earnestness and with good intentions, both my teacher and the head of the school explained to me that they understood that my parents were behaving like children and that I would have to be the parent. Hey, it was 1962 and clearly, they had no idea what sort of impact something like this might have on a child. It was confusing. It was also strangely calming. At least they got it, I thought. They must have an idea about what I was going through at home. My position as peace-keeper in the family had only just begun.

Fast-forward forty-seven years later and not a lot has changed. Except for me. Or, at least the way that I have learned to cope and to shut myself down emotionally when it comes to her and to the family situations connected to her. It may sound cold,but it's for self-preservation and really important for emotional well-being and survival. It's important.

What is equally important is how distance, albeit even just emotional, creates perspective. She was/is a physically beautiful woman. A knockout, really. Even at 85 years of age people remark at her attractiveness. She is used to being complimented and a little bit vain but not in an unlikeable way. Her energy is high and her mind is whip fast. Her body is breaking down and she is pissed about it.

For the first time, I find her a little bit vulnerable. I begin to take the time to listen to what her childhood friends say about her, the stories they recall about times together when they were young and wild and free. They speak of their 'salad days' and how much fun she was back then. And, how drastically her outlook and personality changed with the sudden, tragic death of her father in her early 20's. The more I listen, the more I understand. The more I understand, the more bittersweet each exchange becomes for me. I want to be angry when she is verbally and emotionally abusive to me. It's a natural decades-old reflex. But, the specter of her mortality allows me to be softer, slower, a little bit more patient and forgiving. Ah, forgiveness. The gift you give yourself. That may be so, but it works both ways. By getting past my expectation of what I wanted our mother-daughter relationship to be, I am able to accept what is and even better, who she is. And that, is plenty good enough.

I bought a bunch of flowers today. They weren't anything special or exotic. Just a simple bunch of pink tulips. Grocery store flowers. Pretty, but not captivating. Not a 'must-have' item. They weren't on the grocery list. They certainly were not in the budget. It felt a little bit frivolous and unnecessary and like a real waste of money. But, I bought them anyway without even really being sure why.

On the short drive home, I thought about the past two years, twelve months,twelve days, and most of all, twelve hours. A meeting with the admins at the nursing home where my very physically frail but mentally alert mother is currently living, a phone conversation about a very attractive but risky job opportunity and an email from a close childhood friend who had just heard the word one fears the most-cancer.

I slowly unpacked, put away the groceries and arranged the flowers in a vase. One by one, I assigned a blessing or a prayer to each of the twelve (!) flowers in the arrangement. Some were sad, some bittersweet but all tinged with love. A moment in time that I would not have enjoyed had I not 'splurged' on the purchase.

Just one small bunch of flowers and a head and heart full of thoughts, hopes and prayers. Not a bad bargain for $5.99 plus tax.

It's official!!  The Book Stall on Chestnut in Winnetka finally announced this Saturday's reading and signing for "Harvey the Hungry Dog". Round up  every wide-eyed or even sleepy-eyed child and bring 'em on over cause the fun starts at 11 a.m.  Here's how the schedule is supposed to work: