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D. None of the above

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Long ago, back when my son was shorter than I, and when he listened to more of what I said, I was driving him and his teammate back from a baseball game that was more than an hour away from our house.

Those were the days when such long rides were part of our weekend routine, as we packed athletic gear, food, paper towels and flip-flops into the car to enable our children to compete against other children from distant towns or neighboring states, while also taking off their cleats and running into a deli to use the bathroom.

I don’t recall the details of the game because, even then, my son played in so many of them that the entire montage of memories blurs into a collection of highs, lows and everything in between.

Halfway home, we were the first car to stop at a red light. When another car pulled up next to us, we recognized the father of one of my son’s teammates.

Looking straight ahead, the father was screaming at the top of his lungs. My son and his teammate, who usually filled the car with nonstop commentary about the game, school, weekend plans and anything else that came to mind, were stunned into silence.

The three of us shifted our heads and saw his son sitting in the front seat with his head down, absorbing the ongoing verbal blows from his father, who had started gesticulating and was so frustrated that he spit on the windshield as he shouted.

During the entire red light, the father excoriated his son. As we drove away, my son’s teammate shared his memories of the game, pointing out that the boy in the other car had made a key error and struck out late in a close game.

METRO photo

After our next game, my son and I got in the car, and I had a chance to look at us more closely in the metaphorical mirror.

No, I wasn’t screaming at him. No, I didn’t spit on the window. The pattern I noticed, however, was one in which my son — when he was alone with me — focused only on the things that went wrong. He lamented everything he did wrong or didn’t do right. Sometimes, I recalled, I piled on, telling him how he could or should have done something differently.

As I tried to get a few words in after that game, he cut me off. He continued to criticize his performance until he was too exhausted to speak, at which point he urged me to talk.

I didn’t want to review the game. I wanted to discuss our interactions.

After considerable back and forth, I set new ground rules not for coach/player interactions, but for father/son discussions, particularly as they pertained to sports.

I never wanted to discuss whatever he thought went wrong in a game first. I wanted to begin with everything he did well. That could include positioning, fouling off a tough pitch, supporting his teammates, calling for a ball — even one that he dropped — and having a long at bat.

Then, we discussed what could have gone better. He threw the ball to the right base, but the throw was too low. He was fooled on a high pitch at the end of an at bat.

The first game after our discussion, he started off by criticizing himself. But then, something remarkable happened: he remembered our last discussion, and we started with everything he did well. Those first few moments built a positive foundation around which to start making improvements.

In future games, he started to focus on ways to perform well, even after he had struck out or had made a mistake. Instead of focusing on the ways he might have let himself or the team down, he wanted the opportunity to help.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

What says hello nonverbally more than a wave? I’m surprised nonhuman animals don’t do it more often. It’s efficient, requires minimal energy most of the time and can be as subtle as a lifted finger or as dramatic as a full-body wave signaling to someone at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

People wave to me frequently, particularly when I’m walking my dog. I suspect many of them are really waving to my dog. He is cuter, more charming and more personable than I am. Sure, I’m happy to engage in a conversation about the weather, the latest “Big Game,” my kids, or someone else’s family, but my dog is prepared to throw his head into someone’s knees as long as they pet him and assure him he’s wonderful.

Back to waving — I think the gesture merits categories, along with a short explanation.

— The-wave-or-maybe-not moment: We’ve all been there. Someone we kind of know or with whom we might want to interact appears to wave at us. Is that for me, we wonder? We consider swiveling our heads to check, but we’re not owls. We raise our hand tentatively. When we realize the more popular person behind us is the wave target, we awkwardly run our fingers through our hair. Great recovery, we mutter to ourselves.

— The “here-but-don’t-really-want-to-be” wave. Remember back when you were in high school, and your homeroom teacher took attendance? He or she would go down the list and when your name came up, you pulled your wrist back as casually as possible and pointed your fingers to the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling? It’s a wave and acknowledgment devoid of any enthusiasm.

— The “tickle the piano keys” wave. After lifting their wrists, some people wiggle their fingers next to their heads, as if they are tapping an imaginary musical instrument to send a visual and auditory greeting.

— The eraser wave. This can either be an enthusiastic or an unenthusiastic gesture. With this wave, people keep their fingers together and brush back and forth, as if they have an eraser in their hand and are removing an incorrect answer from the blackboard. This kind of wave can be an Eeyore greeting from the Winnie the Pooh series, in which he sighs and shares a burden with a deflated wave. With a head tilt, an affectionate smile, and faster side-to-side motion, this kind of wave can also signal a responsive and more enthusiastic greeting.

— The stiff-fingered-salute. Often offered by older men, this isn’t a wave so much as it is a signal that the person sees you, but does not intend to encourage any kind of dialog or further gesturing. It’s a nonverbal stop sign, telling you that he’s coming through, he sees you, and he would prefer that you keep whatever eye contact you’re going to make to a minimum. In fact, if you need to look at something, look at his flat and indifferent hand.

— The tree-swaying-in-a-blustery-wind wave. Yes, this is one of those moments when people are so thrilled to see you that they raise their arms over their heads and wave quickly back and forth. They may even catch some air. People waving this way don’t care what others think and, more importantly, want to share how excited they are to see you. This kind of wave transitions into a full-body hug.

— Finally, to end on the opposite end of the spectrum from where we began, there’s the wave from someone you might otherwise want to ignore. That wave says, “I’m over here, I see you, but you’re not responding.” It has the same characteristics as the excited greeting, except that it adds the need for acknowledgment. If you’re embarrassed, that may be a bonus.

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Jelly donuts. METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

You don’t have to pay me. I’m not selling anything, and I don’t have any desire for you to provide testimonials.

Many of you have probably pledged to lose weight. It’s healthy, you’ll look and feel better, and you might increase your endurance, allowing you to walk, jog or engage in your exercise of choice for longer. Some of you may have gone to the gym for a week or even a month and are ready for a break or, maybe, a different way.

Before I proceed, I’d recommend that those with weak stomachs or who are eating one of their favorite meals not read this until you’ve happily digested your food and are now prepared for something that might not be all that pleasing.

No, I’m not going to suggest something harmful or particularly unhealthy. I’d like to suggest a few sensory images to keep in mind that will prevent you from eating too much of the wrong foods.

So, let’s say there’s a jelly donut at your office. Now, I want you to picture or imagine any of the following:

— You’re exercising at the gym (you don’t have to go to the gym. Just imagine yourself there). Maybe you’re on an elliptical machine. There, standing in front of you is a man who has a ring of hair above his ears and a bald spot on top of his head. He’s on the phone, with air pods in his ears, and he brings his index finger slowly to the bald part of his head. He starts digging his fingernail into that spot. Over and over and over again. You try to look away, but then, he’s still there, digging. Even with all the noise of other people grunting, sweating and clearing the phlegm from the backs of their throats, you can hear the scratching as if it were broadcast directly into your ears. You want him to leave, but he’s planted in front of you.

Yes, I know I may have turned you off the gym and food at the same time. Then again, were you really going to the gym or were you just looking for an excuse to cuddle up under the covers? And, yes, this did happen to me.

— Okay, next, you’re walking into a house filled with dogs after a rainstorm. The dogs are friendly enough and, in fact, want you to pet them, which is fairly unpleasant because their fur is covered with water. Soon, the smell of matted, wet, soggy dog fur overwhelms you. You can barely breathe as you search for an open window and fresh air. That donut might taste like wet fur at this moment, right?

— You don’t have to work out to imagine this one, either. Picture yourself in a gym locker room. You’ve changed into your work clothes and are ready to return to your desk. But, wait, the scent of body odor is so strong that you have to breathe shallowly through your mouth. You search for the exit, which seems to have moved, leaving you stuck in a foul-smelling maze. A jelly donut is the last thing on your mind.

— The heating system in your office suddenly goes on full blast, turning your office into a sauna. It’s so hot that sweat drips down your forehead and lands in a growing puddle on the floor. Your body sticks to the material on your seat. Even the saliva in your mouth feels too hot to swallow. Water is much more appealing and refreshing than food at this point.

Okay, so, if all you got out of that is that you now want a jelly donut, my apologies. Chances are, you wanted one anyway and maybe it’s time to find a gym that smells nice and where men aren’t scratching their scalps. If, however, those unappealing images work for you, consider this a free food stop sign.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

One day, you’re playing with your twin sons at home, running around with a ball on the driveway, calling and waving to neighbors who pass by when they walk their dogs or take their daily stroll through the neighborhood.

The next day, your life changes.

You want to know why or how, but you’re too busy trying to apply the brakes to a process that threatens the nature of your existence and your current and future happiness.

Your son had some gastrointestinal issues for a few weeks. You took him to the pediatrician and he said he’s got to get over a virus.

You wait, hope, and maybe say a few extra prayers, because the hardest thing for any parent to endure is the sickness of a child.

You check on him, day after day, hoping he’s better, only to find that there’s no improvement.

Suddenly, three weeks later, you’re in the hospital, trying to keep yourself, your spouse, and your other son calm while doctors remove a malignant brain cancer in a 5-year-old boy who defines “goofy” and “playful.”

One of our close friends in our neighborhood just started this unimaginable battle against a disease many of us know all too well, although the specific form of cancer varies.

Their babysitter shared the horror of the prior weekend with me outside the window of her passing car, where she normally would have driven both the twins to school.

I heard the story because I asked about the empty car seat in the back, where both boys typically showed me whatever stuffed animals or toys they had decided to bring to school, either for show and tell or because they were carrying an object that began with a particular letter.

As I talked with the babysitter, who spoke in the kind of hushed and dramatic tones often associated with discussions about serious health crises, I thought about how hard it was and will be for the other son. I thought he needed the kind of 5-year-old normalcy that might become hard to find when he’s worried about his brother and the anxious adults around him.

I asked him to show me what he was holding. He had a pink llama, who he said wanted to poop on my head or on my dog’s head.

I told him that my dog wouldn’t appreciate the poop unless the stuffed llama somehow pooped pink marshmallows.

He laughed, flashing all his straight baby teeth.

As I walked home, I thought of all the things my wife and I planned to offer our neighbors. Maybe we’d babysit the healthy son, walk their dogs, help with house chores, bring over food, do anything to lighten the unbearably heavy load.

I also thought about all the scientists at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, Brookhaven National Laboratory and Stony Brook University I have known who are working towards cures for cancer.

Many of them know someone in their family, their friend group, their neighborhood, or their schools who, like my daughter’s beloved first-grade teacher, suddenly were in a battle for their lives against a disease that steals time and joy from people’s lives.

Their labs often invite or include family members of people with cancer to staff meetings and discussions about their work, making the connection between what the scientists are studying and the people desperate for solutions.

It seems utterly cliche to write it, but I’m going to do it anyway: we should appreciate and enjoy the days we have when we’re not in that battle. The annoyance of dealing with someone who got our order wrong at a restaurant seems so spectacularly small in comparison. 

We can appreciate that the person who seems like a total jerk for cutting us off on our way home may also be the one racing back to hug his child or spouse after an impossible day that changed his life.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

When our children were young, a friend recently told me, she viewed the parents of people she met through a binary process.

A mom of two boys, she figured she had a better chance, at least in the first 10 years or so of her sons’ lives, of interacting with the parents of other boys. When she met girls and their families, she was polite and friendly, without putting too much effort into getting to know them.

Fast forward almost two decades, and her children, like mine, are out of the house. She and her husband have an adorable small dog that they dote on, transferring their abundant parenting attention to a canine companion.

Nowadays, my friend said, she sees people through a similar lens. She takes her small dog to a dog park, where a fence separates pets under 40 pounds from the bigger, heavier versions. When she meets someone outside the park with a dog, she’s more likely to pay attention to their names and their stories if they have a small dog.

As I considered what she said about the parents of boys and girls, as well as the owners of dogs of different sizes, I wondered about the metaphorical fences we create.

Sure, those fences make it easier for us to find people who have similar interests and opinions and who might not challenge us or disagree with us in our decision-making. Those fences also, however, separate us from others with whom we might have even more connections or common interests than we thought, especially if the filter for our “in” and “out” groups is as arbitrary as having sons, daughters or small dogs.

What if a man with a large dog worked in a similar field, had two children about my friend’s offspring’s ages, and went to the same college at the same time? Then again, what if a woman on the other side of the fence had nothing in common with my friend? She had no children, grew up in another country, worked in a completely different field, and didn’t see any of the same movies or read the same books? Would that make her less or more interesting? Perhaps that woman might be fascinating for her life experiences, compelling for her opinions, and amazing in her own way.

Recently, I sat in the window seat of a plane next to a large man who was stuck in the middle. An army veteran, he laughed as we reached our destination, saying he was unaccustomed to landing in planes. I took the bait, asking him why. He said he’d made over 150 jumps out of airplanes. 

He and his unit jumped out of planes at 800 feet, although he didn’t need to do much jumping, as he felt as if a hand pulled him out when he got to the opening. He never had to pull a chord, as the parachute automatically started opening within a second of leaving the plane.

On one type of plane, he stepped out and immediately started falling. Another had a small “bubble” outside the entrance, where he and others stood before leaving the plane. One of his army unit once forgot about the platform, took a small hop on the landing, and then rolled along the entire side of the plane. The others heard as his body scraped the airplane all the way to the back. Fortunately, the impact didn’t cause severe injuries.

One of the many instructions he received was to keep his chin on his chest as he exited. On his first jump, he didn’t, which caused enough discomfort that he never made that mistake again. He reached the ground at 38 miles per hour, at which point he was supposed to tuck and roll, ending on his back. Once, a crosswind turned him upside down and he landed on his head, cracking his helmet and causing a concussion.

Listening to his stories, I learned about something I will likely never do and connected with someone I will likely never see again. He did, however, expand my horizons and share his compelling life experiences, among other stories. I appreciated the opportunity to connect with someone who lives outside whatever fences I intentionally or unintentionally put up around me.

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Pixabay photos

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even as we study evolution, we ourselves evolve over time. No, we don’t learn to fly or to breathe underwater. We change over the decades, in part because of social pressure and in part because, well, our cells, organs and experiences align to make us different decadal versions of ourselves. With that in mind, I’d like to share some snapshots from my life.

First decade:

Likes: I adored my parents (most of the time). I also appreciated the opportunity to make new friends and to play any game that involved chasing a ball.

Dislikes: long distances running, homework, dark nights, losing electricity, sitting in the middle of a station wagon with my legs cramped under me. 

Favorite food: pizza and grilled cheese with ketchup. It’s not for everyone, but I loved it.

Favorite sport to play: basketball.

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: finding parents.

Second decade:

Likes: time with friends, the freedom to drive somewhere on my own (later in the decade, of course).

Dislikes: tough teachers eager to teach me too many lessons, rejections from friends, and too many questions from parents. Waiting for parents to pick me up (until I could drive). Developing an intolerance to dairy, which removed pizza, ice cream and mac and cheese from food options.

Favorite food: Good Steer burger supremes with a root beer and ballpark hot dogs.

Favorite sport to play: baseball

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: Losing parents. Getting into college.

Third decade

Likes: getting a job where someone not only paid me to do something I wasn’t sure I was qualified to do, but also sent me on planes to do it. Spending time with friends. Going on vacations with friends and family.

Dislikes: working on weekends and holidays. Going on horrible dates with people who were a little too eager to see fights where teeth got knocked out during hockey games. Then again, some of those unsuccessful dates still bring a smile to my face.

Favorite food: Thai food at a restaurant on the Upper East Side.

Favorite sport to play: volleyball.

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: Finding enough time to exercise.

Fourth decade:

Likes: enjoying the miraculous connection that comes from meeting girlfriend/wife. Listening to my wife laugh and seeing her smile. Holding my son and daughter and feeling them relax enough to go to sleep.

Dislikes: trying to figure out how to handle when children got sick, needing something we didn’t have, and packing enough stuff in the diaper bag and the car for needy children.

Favorite food: Who tastes food at this point? We inhaled it in between picking up the food the kids spilled on the floor or in the car.

Favorite sport to play: softball in Central Park.

Favorite sport to watch: my daughter’s active and exciting volleyball matches and my son’s soccer games. I knew nothing about soccer, so I could just be a supportive father and fan without offering unwelcome and unhelpful advice.

Biggest worry: How to keep kids healthy.

Fifth decade:

Likes: holidays, vacations and not needing to stand over the kids when they got too close to the water. Hooray for independent swimming.

Dislikes: driving everywhere with kids and their friends who made the car stink so badly at times that I opened windows in freezing temperatures. Watching kids disappear into their cell phones.

Favorite food: fresh fish on vacations.

Favorite sport to play: I barely played anything. I coached kids and bobbed and weaved between the entitled requests from parents.

Favorite sport to watch: daughter’s volleyball and son’s baseball.

Biggest worry: helping steer kids in the right direction.

Sixth decade:

Likes: time with family and friends, days when pain in my hip stays the same or, rarely, is less than the day before.

Dislikes: not knowing how to handle important technology, an awareness that I’m older than my friend’s parents were when I was growing up, and I thought they were old.

Favorite food: anything that doesn’t keep me up at night.

Favorite sport to play: baseball or anything that doesn’t cause pain the next day.

Favorite sport to watch: baseball.

Biggest worry: the speed at which each day, month and year passes. The prevalence of anger for its own sake and the health of the planet our children are inheriting.

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Photo from Wikimedia Commons

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I heard from a friend, who heard from another friend whose neighbor’s cousin is the babysitter of someone who works in Congress. So, it has to be true.

Here’s the deal: I know some of the concessions Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) made to become speaker of the house.

The person who heard it fourth hand was in the bathroom, minding his own business, trying, from what I understand, to make his best guesses at Wordle on his phone while battling an upset stomach when three of the principal negotiators in the process entered the bathroom and spoke in whispers.

The first concession is that McCarthy must begin each day by saying the words “we are all equal, but some are more equal than others,” at which point he’s supposed to subtly make the letters G and O in sign language with his hands to show that he’s thinking about “Animal Farm” author George Orwell.

Then, he has to look at the audience carefully to see if Rep. Matt Gaetz (R-FL) has had a bad night. If Gaetz gives him a particular signal, he’s not allowed to bang his gavel too loudly, to prevent a headache from getting worse.

Once he’s gotten everyone’s attention, he then agreed that he’ll lead the house in the Pledge of Allegiance, pausing when he reached the “under God” section to make it clear that religion is not only okay, but that many people, particularly those who might not have otherwise voted for him, believe in God.

When President Joe Biden (D) gives his state of the union address, he will give at least 15 head shakes, five winces and nine arched eyebrows. At the end of the speech, to defend former president Donald Trump (R), he plans to take a page out of the previous speaker’s playbook by picking up the copy of Biden’s speech and tearing it up in disgust as it were the first chapter of a book he’d like to ban from libraries around the country.

Speaking of beyond belief, McCarthy has then agreed that if Rep. George Santos (R-NY), whose name might have changed by the time this is relevant, is still in the house, McCarthy should ask him to sing a few songs.

For starters, according to Santos’s resume, he has won at least three Grammy awards, which means he has a wonderful and lyrical singing voice.

When things get too tense during deliberations with other Republicans, let alone the Democrats who are ruining the government and the country, McCarthy has a playlist for Santos. He’s going to sing the Meghan Trainor song, “Lips are Movin,” with a slight modification in the wording.“If my lips are moving, then I’m lyin’, lyin’, lyin’, baby.”

If things continue to be tense for hours, as a politician continues grandstanding, Santos can provide a Billy Joel encore, again with a slight tweak:

“Honesty is such a lonely word

I am certainly so untrue

Honestly is hardly ever heard

And rarely what I give to you.”

Following the example of Trump, McCarthy also agreed to hug a flag in public at least three times a year, to normalize the behavior and to demonstrate his commitment to America and the country’s values.

He also promised to support at least 13, for the original colonies, investigations in his first year as speaker, with a commitment to at least another dozen in his second.

Finally, in a subtle gesture meant to celebrate the political right, he planned to stand to the right of the podium and only to hit the gavel with his right hand while pausing to emphasize the word “right” every time he utters it.

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Elon Musk. Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Our story begins some time around now. No, there’s no chocolate, despite the season, and there’s no meadow where everything is edible.

No, our modern-day story begins where so much of us live these days, online.

You see, a famous and once marvelous company called Twitter is run by an eccentric, wealthy and successful businessman named Elon Musk, who somehow figured out how to create and mass produce electric cars that require no gas and that sound like spaceships.

Musk has decided, after many hours of running Twitter, that he needs to find a successor.

So, borrowing a page from Willy Wonka, he provides invitations that cost 3 cents per tweet to enter a sweepstakes.

When he narrows the field down to those who get the golden tweet, he plans to invite a group of five people to come to a virtual, top secret Twitter tour.

A few people try to make fake tickets, but the ever vigilant Musk spots the fraud. Day after day, people wait until, finally, five people, some of whom have never tweeted in their lives, have a chance to run the company.

Musk appears on screen wearing a top hat and a menacing smile. He demands that no one record what they see or take a screenshot of the secrets he is prepared to share.

Each person has a tiny image — about 1/4 the size of Musk’s — as they virtually walk through a factory floor.

On the first stop, Musk invites them to join him in the secret Hunter Biden/ New York Post room. Ah, yes, the story about the infamous laptop, which will undoubtedly become a part of an extensive investigation into the Biden progeny, is in this room.

“Don’t try to read anything!” he snaps.

But, of course, one of the contestants can’t resist. With a special tool that tracks eye movements, Musk knows that contestant No. 1, who is chewing gum constantly, is trying to decipher all the information. Her screen develops a horrible virus that turns it (and her entire computer) purple.

“You see?” he says, shaking his virtual head at the other small characters. “That’s what you get when you don’t listen. Oh, look, here they come now.”

Wearing virtual clothing embroidered with the Tesla logo, a modern day group of Oompa-Loompas appears on screen.

“Oompa, loompa, doompa dee do.

I’ve got another riddle for you.

Oompa loompa, doompa dee dee

if you are wise, you’ll listen to me.

What do you get when you don’t listen to Musk?

A virus on your computer that will kill it before dusk.

Who do you think should have the last laugh?

It certainly won’t be you or your staff.

Take a moment to ponder this fact,

Running Twitter may take too much tact.”

“Well,” Musk interrupts, waving away the virtual characters. “That’s enough of that. Now, let’s go for a virtual boat ride.”

In everyone steps as a boat careens through a choppy river, passing one door after another, with the names of celebrities who have been suspended hanging from each virtual room.

The boat stops near an embankment. The Musk character invites his guests to look at some special doors.

When he turns around, his virtual eyes widen in shock, his lower jaw drops down to his knees, and he hunches his shoulders.

“How? What? Wait, what’s going on?” he stammers, looking closely at the faces of his remaining four contestants.

Sure enough, on screen, Musk recognizes that two of the faces are the same as his, while the other two look like versions of Donald Trump.

“No, but, I made this game,” he whines. “How will we find out who wins?”

“Ah,” one of the Trumps says. “For that, you’ll have to tune into the sequel, which will only cost $99 and will become a collector’s item in no time.”

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Takeout food. METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I could take it personally, you know. I mean, come on! Does this happen to everyone?

Okay, so, check it out. First, I’m coming back from the airport, and I’m starving. I don’t tend to eat too much on days when I’m on a plane. I have a sensitive stomach, yeah, right, poor me, and I’m a bit, which is an understatement, of a neurotic flier. The combination doesn’t tend to make travel, food and me a harmonious trio.

Okay, so, there I am in the car, on the way home, and my wife can tell that I’m hungry. Ever the solution-finder, she suggests I order food from a local restaurant. When I call, the woman on the phone takes my order, which includes a salad with blackened chicken, and tells me I have to get there within half an hour because they’re closing.

When we arrive home, I bring in my small bag, grab the keys, and race out to the restaurant.

“Are you Dan?” she asks hopefully as I step towards the counter.

“Yes,” I say, realizing that I’ve cut the half-hour mark pretty close.

“Here’s your food,” she says, shoving the bag across the counter.

“This is everything?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, as she rings me up and is clearly eager for me to step outside so she can lock the door and go on to the portion of her evening that doesn’t involve taking food requests, handing people food and charging them for it, all while standing near a gratuity jar that says, not so subtly, “Even the Titanic tipped.” That, I suppose, should inspire me to consider forking over a few extra dollars.

I stop at the supermarket for a few items next door, drive home and bring the bag into the dining room, where my wife opens it.

“Uh, Dan?” she says tentatively. “They forgot your salad.”

“What?” I rage, between clenched teeth in the kitchen as I unload the groceries.

“Your salad isn’t here. Did they charge you for it?”

“Yes,” I say, as I grab some slices of turkey I bought for lunch and a few salad items.

The next day, I called the restaurant to explain that my food didn’t come. The manager said he came in that morning and saw a salad with blackened chicken in the refrigerator. He says he can make a new one that day or can leave me a gift card. I opt for a new salad,

When I arrive, the same redheaded woman with a nose ring from the night before greets me.

“If it makes you feel better, I forgot much bigger parts of other people’s order,” she says, with a curious mix of sheepishness, humor and pride.

“No, how is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask.

Still in food ordering mode, and perhaps not having learned my lesson, I ordered two breakfasts the next morning and, this time, received a single order that was a hybrid of my wife’s and mine.

That night, my wife and I went to a professional basketball game. Stunningly, the person operating the scoreboard had the wrong statistics for each player and the wrong names and uniform numbers of the players on the floor.

What’s happening? Is customer service a thing of the past? Are we better off with artificial intelligence or online systems?

I realize that the missed food could have happened with anyone at any time and that the thankless job of taking orders, preparing food and making sure people get what they order isn’t particularly exciting. 

Are people not taking responsibility in their jobs? Are they proud of their mistakes? Has customer service become like our appendix, a vestigial organ in our culture?

I’m the type of consumer who would eagerly become more loyal and would recommend services when the people who work at these establishments show me they care, want my business, and can be bothered to provide the products I purchased. Companies, and their staff, should recognize that I’m likely not the only one who enjoys efficient, professional and considerate customer service.

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