Small Wonders

One of the most valuable parenting lessons I learned came before I was even a parent. It had nothing to do with diapers, puberty or college funds. It had everything to do with macaroni and cheese. I was single, childless and naturally wise beyond my years (of course). Left at my sister's home one day with approximately 23 of her children — seriously, we lost count in 1995 — I was asked to make lunch for the unruly brood. With but one box of the ubiquitous Kraft Mac & Cheese in the cupboard, I set out to artistically supplement its contents in order to feed the battalion.

Last Friday marked the two-year anniversary of the day I was laid off. My employer folded, and I joined the ranks of the unemployed. I was in good company. In response to the post-victory question, “You just lost your job! What are you going to do,” the next day I took the family to Disneyland. And the following Monday I began calling myself a “writer-slash-house-dad” rather than jobless. It was perhaps the most enlightening, painful and ultimately rewarding period of my life.

Ever since M*A*S*H went off the air, I've been a little disillusioned with TV. That's not to say I don't watch, or like, certain TV shows: “30 Rock” and “Modern Family” stand out. While channel surfing, I will stop and view random mind-numbing programs with a measure of unabashed shame and guilt. “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” comes to mind. But only because I like Bruce Jenner. “Project Runway” because my wife likes to watch it. “Hillbilly Handfishin'” because, well, damn, they pull 40-pound catfish out of muddy rivers with their hands.

I know I’m a week late, but I just had to chime in on the Rapture. Big disappointment, eh? I bring it up after the fact because, well, what if Old Harold was right? Hey, the Centers for Disease Control released their zombie apocalypse-preparedness tips before the big day. Maybe they knew more than we did. But Harold Camping sure didn’t. As proof that the world's latest apocalyptic prognosticator has apparently lost all semblance of the Christian humility he’s supposed to embody, Harold refused to admit he was wrong about his Rapture date.

I'm back. And I can now let you in on why I needed a break. Mercury was in retrograde. I knew you'd understand. A planet is in retrograde when its movement across our sky appears to be going in reverse of its normal path. This apparent shift in trajectory can be disconcerting and troubling to the observer. It happens with Mercury three to four times each year. And it happens with earthlings at least that many times each week. I leave it to street corner astronomers to explain the phenomenon, but astrologers (and yes, I did just this week learn the difference between the two)

What's that saying about lipstick on a pig? Or a new dress on an old… Well, you get the idea. Not exactly the phrase I'm looking for; neither makeup nor evening wear, pigs nor prostitutes are on my mind. But in hopes of adding to our lexicon, this is: You can put a fresh coat of paint on an old barbershop and it will still be an old barbershop. Thankfully. I pass through the intersection of Chevy Chase and Glenoaks in Glendale often. I went to elementary school just up the road; played Asteroids, Pac Man and other seminal video games at what is now a chiropractic office on the corner; bought candy bars for a quarter at Cañon Liquor while waiting for my mother to pick me up, too lazy to ride my bike home.

Few places offer a more intense view into the makeup of the human condition than the elevator. Where else in our daily lives are we forced to spend valuable seconds - even a full minute - tightly confined with a group of fellow earthlings in the microcosmic journey to our final destinations? In my non-columnist life, I work in a monolith to a media giant. My cubicle is on one of the upper floors, so I spend a lot of time sealed in the suspended 6-by-6-foot vertical people-mover chronicling tips and observations about humanity and survival in my 10 to 20 elevator rides per day. Some might be valuable life lessons.

Love. Has any word lost its meaning more than love? Frederick Buechner, from his whimsically insightful dictionary “Wishful Thinking: A Seeker's ABC,” offers that “the first stage is to believe that there is only one kind of love.” And I think this is where we reside most of the time in our frenetic lives. Our minds overflow with time and task management: work, chores, money, health, school, after-school activities, meal planning and making, couch sitting and TV watching.

Everything was going just fine. Work is going well, both for me and the wife. The kids are as happy and healthy as two twitchy, frustrating mutant life forms can be — able to bathe and entertain themselves with some semblance of independence. A roof over our heads, cars that are almost paid off, manageable credit-card debt, food on the table. We’re easing into summer, the barbecue is ready, the lawn is green, the garage tidy and everyone is sleeping through the night. Britney Spears is back on tour and a Kardashian is getting married.

R emember when movies started with the lights dimming and the curtain opening? I can't recall the last time I saw a movie that started with the curtains dramatically sweeping apart as the projector chattered its images upon it. There were no advertising slide shows to keep us occupied while we waited for the feature to begin. It was just you, your popcorn and your anticipation, staring with bated breath at an enormous drape. When we were kids, my brother and I used to sit in the front row of the Alex Theatre.