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D: None of the Above

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

This is not so much a shaggy dog story, as a smelly dog story.

I recently brought my dog to a boarding facility for a long weekend. I feel less dog owner guilt that comes from taking him away from home, the cats he barely tolerates, the squirrels he chases, and the bed that serves as a place to sleep, a chew toy and more, because he seems so happy to race through the door to visit with his friends at the facility.

I suspect he’s much more excited to see the people who work there than the other dogs, although he gets along with every dog except the one on the block who attacked him in our driveway when he got away from his owner a few years ago.

Our dog was fine, thanks, but my wife and I try to avoid that aggressive dog whenever we walk our powder puff up and down the block. Sure, our dog now barks angrily when he sees that other dog and even seems to have convinced our neighbor’s dog to snarl and bark in sympathy.

Anyway, I left our dog for the weekend knowing he was in good hands.

When I returned from our trip, I reflexively opened the door to our house slowly, knowing that he often naps against the door. When the door didn’t present any resistance, I also looked down and listened for the tap, tap, tap of his nails across the wood floor.

I knew, of course, that I hadn’t picked him up and that no such tail wagging greeting was coming my way.

At the boarding house, I exchanged banter with the friendly tattooed young man who is a boarding house fixture. I tried to suppress a smile as I waited expectantly for my furry friend.

When he came through the door, he was as happy to go home as he was to visit. He threw his butt and tail into my knees and looked back at me as I pet him.

Mud and moisture in and of themselves don’t necessarily have a foul odor. And yet, somehow, stuck to a furry, matted dog, the scent was overwhelming.

“Hi, puppy!” I shouted repeatedly as I breathed out of my mouth.

When I got him in the car, the stench was so overwhelming that I had to open the windows.

I had far too much work to do to bathe him immediately and was glad my wife wasn’t home to endure the stench. The dog wandered in and out of my home office several times, which made it hard to finish sentences, much less to breathe.

I considered locking him out of the room, but that seemed unfair, especially after we’d been apart for a few days.

Finally, after I finished my work around 9:30 p.m., I climbed into bed, ready to relax and prepare for sleep. Happy to be home, the dog was sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I couldn’t possibly sleep with a foul odor that seemed to get stronger by the second. The scent was so powerful that someone might one day want to consider using it as a smelling salt.

Like “Harry the Dirty Dog” and many others, our dog hates to bathe. And yet, he seemed perfectly happy to head into the bathroom and even to get into the shower. He has, however, figured out how to push open the shower door, which means that he gets covered in water and shampoo and then wanders into the bathroom, shaking sudsy water all over the floor, wall and counter top.

I gave him such a thorough cleaning that he shined in the bathroom light. During the vigorous rub down drying, he moaned.

After his bath, he raced across the house and into the corner where he gets his post bath treat.

Once I settled into bed, I looked for my now sweet-smelling puppy. He and his shiny coat were, of course, in the next room because, after all, what’s the fun of sleeping near me when he smells like flowers and not smelly dog?

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Fire departments from Wading River to Mount Sinai came to the 9/11 Community Memorial in Shoreham Sept. 11, 2019 to commemorate that fateful day. Photo by Kyle Barr

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

September 11th is not just another day.

The country, and the world, stood still for hours, horrified and stunned by the mass murder committed by terrorists in Manhattan, Washington DC and in a field in Western Pennsylvania.

We can focus on the bravery of the first responders that day, on the remarkable effort by the passengers aboard Flight 93 to retake the plane, the loss of 2,977 people, and the passage of time since that horrible day.

We can also consider the incredible generosity and sensitivity of the country in the days, weeks and months afterwards. I know that didn’t apply to everyone and I remember how taxi drivers from mostly Muslim countries put bumper stickers on their cars indicating they were proud Americans. I also recall the unfair and horrific questioning of people who looked different or who might have originally come from Saudi Arabia or any neighboring countries.

Still, in the wake of a day that also lives in infamy, people gave of themselves and their time.

My family, which included our then three-month old daughter and my wife, walked to an upper east side fire station that lost several members when the World Trade Center collapsed.

There, we saw other people in our community who were bringing toys, pies, gifts and money to the department. The members of the fire station, whom we thanked, forced appreciative smiles on their faces and, more often than not, comforted many community members who choked out heartfelt words of thanks to the station’s survivors.

Outside the station, a car from one of those killed that day was barely visible under an enormous collection of flowers.

Prior to 9/11, I had spent considerable time writing about banks and financial services companies. I had a particular and lasting connection with several members of the boutique firm Keefe, Bruyette & Woods.

KBW provided research and investment banking services for a range of banks. In the months after the attack and the loss of lives, banks made sure to include KBW on investment banking deals, trying to help the survivors and the firm stay in business.

On Long Island, a range of companies donated construction materials to create lasting memorials to the people lost on that day, while offering families a place to go to reflect on the people they were fortunate enough to know.

The frenetic city that never sleeps entered a grieving cycle in which people implicitly knew the rules. A collection of cars passing by with their lights on behind a hearse required people always in a hurry to make way.

Despite the need to do things yesterday, to get somewhere faster than everyone else and to beat people’s own records in traveling from one place to another, people stood by, slowed down and made supportive eye contact with those who were putting up pictures of lost loved ones.

As we drove along the roads around New York City, we saw the efficient removal of debris from the World Trade Center site, with twisted metal and concrete sitting on passing flat bed trucks. Cars made room on highways for these huge trucks and turned on their lights in support and sympathy.

In a more insular way, many of us checked on our friends and family, setting aside ongoing familial disagreements.

I remember watching the video of President George W. Bush (41), who had lost the popular vote in 2000 to Al Gore but had won the election on the strength of the final recount in Florida. He was sitting in a classroom when the secret service whispered in his ear about the attacks. He seemed to take a long time to process what he heard.

Yes, people wondered where he went and what was happening with the center of government power and yes, some criticized him even as they flocked to the Churchillian resolve of Mayor Rudy Giuliani, who somehow symbolized the combination of pain and determination in the days after the attack.

People wanted to help each other, donating, volunteering and coalescing around the notion of a country in need of healing and recovery.

Many of the most helpful and supportive moments reflected the strength of a unified nation with a readiness to set aside political squabbles to defend the country. In our darkest moment, we gave flowers, food, support and respect.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m a good person. Really, I am.

What’s my proof? I don’t drink single use plastic bottles, which are bad for the environment. 

I love the environment. I’m going to go hug a tree. Not that one, because it’s kind of prickly and it makes my skin itch. Not that one either, because it’s too wide and my arms are too short. The one over there doesn’t work either, because it’s too far in the woods and I might get poison ivy.

You know what? I’m not going to hug a tree literally, but I’m going to do it figuratively.

Wait, what’s that you’re holding? It’s a picture of me drinking out of a single use water bottle? That must have been taken a long time ago.

No? You have a date on it and it says it was taken in the last few months. Oh, well, I was helping someone and she needed a drink and I didn’t want her to feel like she was drinking alone, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol and I didn’t swallow the water because it was too hot.

You want to know who I was helping? That’s none of your business. Also, I don’t want anyone else to have to answer these kinds of questions, so to protect her privacy, I’m not going to tell you.

I don’t care whether you believe me. Okay, well, maybe I care a little. You’re right, you’re right, I wasn’t helping anyone, but that picture of me holding a water bottle? That’s not actually me. That’s someone else and I have 10 people who can confirm that I wasn’t drinking that water on that day, even though I don’t know what day it was and that shirt looks like one of the ones I wear all the time.

Other people have that kind of shirt, too. Yeah, I know it might be unlikely that someone would have the exact same soy sauce stain in the same place, but it’s still possible. 

So, you get my point, right, about being a good person. Maybe the water bottle wasn’t a great example, but I used to coach sports and I won a bunch of championships.

I know I said that the championships weren’t about me and I didn’t win anything. But that was then. Today? I’m taking a little credit.

What did I do? Well, I gave my players advice. Yes, I know some of them ignored me, while others got their own coaches and played well despite my advice.

Still, I won those championships. Well, I mean, I didn’t do it alone, but I was the leader and you can be sure that the team wouldn’t have won without me.

How can you be sure? Well, for starters, you can’t not be sure, and that should be good enough.

So, we agree, right? I’m a good person. No? What’s it going to take?

Oh, you want me to hold the door open for you? Yeah, I would but the air conditioning might get out. You see? I don’t want to waste energy. Oh, I know it’s not a waste of energy for me to help, but I don’t want to waste the energy it would take to cool the hot air I’m letting in. That’s even better than that bottle example.

So, to conclude, I’m a good person because I’m sure, deep down inside, beneath all the complicated layers that undoubtedly make me interesting mostly to myself, I care about things, people and stuff.

Sure, I might not do as much about as I could or should and yes, I have done the opposite of what that good deepness might suggest, but I know I’m a good person and I never lie.

Except that one. That was a lie, but that’s the lie that proves the truth. Right? No, I’m not running for office. Lots of other people would do a better job or even an adequate job, which would also be better. I’m just letting you and everyone else know that, basically, and with no hidden agenda beyond, maybe hoping for a few giggles, that I am a pretty good person who might one day, turn out to be slightly better than I am now.

After all, I’m just a man, standing in front of a crowd, asking them not to dismiss him totally. Is that too much to ask from someone whose goodness may, one day, surprise us all and come out?

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Fear sells. It’s as true when companies are urging people to buy products to protect themselves, families, homes and cars as it is when politicians are trying to scare you  into voting for them or, just as importantly, voting against their opponent.

Sure, they make some effort to suggest that their policies will help you, but they spend considerably more time showing unnerving images of what might happen if you vote for the other team.

One side suggests that a vote for the other candidate could mean the end of democracy, elections and a host of freedoms, while the other suggests that a vote for the other side could mean an end to the world.

Whatever you believe, we have clearly reached an extreme of brinkmanship. 

On top of that, the news is filled with stories and images of murder and mayhem.

These days, all you need to do is turn on your phone and someone, somewhere, is struggling, threatened, or dying.

On top of that, people are sharing concerns about existential threats to the future, with global warming and declines in the food and water necessary to sustain the population.

Regardless of where people check in with the information of the day, threats lurk around every corner.

It’s no wonder that mental health has declined. The world is a place with dark shadows and horrifying possibilities.

Happily ever after has become the launching pad for fractured fairy tales, where couples can’t find affordable homes and, even if they did, couldn’t carry the mortgage.

This mental health strain and the difficulty of disconnecting from a phone that shares these bad news bulletins in constant alerts may be contributing to the record low fertility rate for the country reported this spring in the National Center for Health Statistics at the CDC. 

Specifically, the rates declined for women aged 20 to 39, hitting a record low for women between 20 and 24.

There are numerous other reasons people are foregoing the spectacularly rewarding and challenging decision to have children. Yes, men and women are pursuing careers.

And, yes, people may be more confident and comfortable having children later, putting off the life-altering decision until after a set of vacations, a work milestone or other goals.

But to know exactly why any one or group of people are making the decisions they do requires more than statistics or even surveys. When people answer questions in a survey, they sometimes offer the kinds of replies that look good or that the questioner expects.

I spoke anecdotally with a few 50’ish parents and some children around 30 and got a range of responses about the decision to have or not have children.

Both sides suggested that developing careers made it tougher to start a family. Parents, some of whom seemed eager to have grandchildren, expressed some frustration and, perhaps, judgement, about the decisions of their children and step-children.

Some of the younger crowd said their friends didn’t receive much parenting help from their partners, making the task of raising children more difficult and exhausting and dissuading them and their friends.

They also shared concerns about the high cost of raising children.

One of the younger set added that her mother had been dealing with a lifelong illness and that she had caretaking responsibilities from the time she was young. Her mother continues to need medical and family attention, which she said has made caring for a child less appealing.

One of the younger set asked me what I thought about being a parent. It has filled me with unbelievable joy, affection, love, and laughter and has helped me understand my own parents and grandparents better. Of course, we’ve had our share of challenges interspersed with stomach dropping moments.

Not to blame the media entirely, as I work and live inside that profession, but I feel like the nonstop stream of information, stories, videos, and social media shaming has left people feeling vulnerable and exhausted.

Parenting requires energy and optimism. When people lose sleep, they don’t have much energy and, if they look at their phones, they risk losing their hold on optimism. 

If we want to encourage this generation to continue the chain, we should let them know when they’re ready and when they ask, about the amazing and fulfilling moments, large and small, that make parenting the role of a lifetime.

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Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Sports resides somewhere near the center of the currency of communication in our house.

In fact, recently our daughter, who is a gifted back row volleyball player despite just clearing five feet tall, and her brother, who is a lifelong baseball player, exchanged amusing anecdotes.

Our daughter attended a minor league baseball game with her friends. In the middle of a close game, she wondered aloud whether, with runners on first and second base and no outs, the batter would bunt.

“Huh?” one of her friends responded. “Why? What are you talking about?”

She tried to explain the strategy, but gave up after it was clear that her friends were more excited to go out together than they were to inhale the drama of a baseball game.

Her brother was watching Olympic volleyball with his friends. They didn’t understand much about back row hitting or trying to spike the ball on the second hit.

Our family enjoyed the parts of the Olympics we watched and, of course, discussed some of our favorite events.

One of mine was the 1,500 meter men’s race. All of the build up described the fierce on-the-track rivalry and off-the-track trash talking between Norwegian Jakob Ingebrigtsen and Brit Josh Kerr.

The spotlight followed them from the moments before the race through the starter’s gun. While this one competition might not settle who is the fairest of them all, I mean, the better runner, it would give one of them a gold medal, presumably, and, perhaps more importantly, bragging rights.

Ingebrigtsen dashed off to the front of the pack, setting a blistering pace while maintaining what looked like a business-like attitude.

But then, a funny thing happened on the way to the expected finish. American Cole Hocker snuck around Ingebrigtsen’s left side, finding a higher gear and accelerating towards the finish. Kerr pushed towards the line as well, even as American Yared Nuguse closed the gap. At the end, it was Hocker first, Kerr second and Nuguse third, a mere hundredth of a second behind Kerr.

Oh, and Ingebrigtsen came in fourth.

It was such a delightful unscripted moment, particularly after humility seemed to be in such short supply between the favorites.

There are a few things we will not miss. We didn’t need extreme close ups of athletes who are doing as much in their chairs waiting to compete as we are watching them. At one point, Simone Biles, whose name you might have heard a few thousand times over the fortnight, took off her warm up jacket, which we all saw on TV. The announcer, lacking any other detail to share and exhausted from overusing the word “redemption,” decided to announce that she was taking off her jacket. You stuck the landing on that insightful observation, buddy boy.

So, now, here we are. The Olympics are over, the flame is out, the days of trying to avoid sports headlines until after watching the prime time replay are over.

We can go back to reading the important news of the day, assuming we can find some. 

What’s changed in our house? Well, our dog is much happier. He probably has nothing against the Olympics, but we shouted at the TV much more often than we typically do during a baseball or basketball game.

We can consider the what ifs in our own lives. These Olympians train every day, eat the right foods, try to stay on a sleep regimen and forego other id-driven moments.

And then, on that day, they might win by a hundredth of a second or less. 

At their best, they can inspire us, the way a new year sends people into a list making frenzy. If they can be so amazing, maybe we can, too.

Or, perhaps, we can figure out what else to watch or binge watch on TV. Oh, and there’ll be a winter games, assuming there’ll be a winter, in Italy in two years. Those athletes are undoubtedly doing everything they can to shave another hundredth of a second off their times.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I’m tired, crabby, angry, annoyed, frustrated, disappointed, appalled and short tempered. 

Sleep, as a feature in TBR News Media this week suggests, will cure some of that.

But I’m just so fed up with the nonstop negativity in the country. Half the country not only wants to win, but seems thrilled with the prospect that the other half will lose. The worse the losers feel, the happier they are.

We’ve become a society of stomping toddlers, eager to crush the careful creations and ideas of those we oppose under our feet. Cut it out! This isn’t helping.

Okay, let’s take a step back from politicians and discuss us, you know, John and Joan Q. Public.

We are generally sleep deprived, according to statistics and people who pinch themselves not out of sheer joy but out of the necessity of staying awake each day.

More than one out of two people in the cars next to us may not only be texting and/or talking on the phone, but is also likely struggling to stay awake. That’s not good for them or for us.

Think about it: when you go to a store for stuff, call a company to send someone to fix your air conditioners in overbearing heat, or need someone to provide a skill set that you don’t possess, you don’t ask a long list of questions to make sure they were on the winning political team or that they believe everything you believe or even that they got enough sleep the previous night.

But, wait, what if the help we need is part of the other political team or, even going outside the realm of politics, is a devoted fan of the Red Sox, believes in red herrings, or is a fan of the color red?

You might privately enjoy the victory of your team or your would-be political leader, but are you really eager for them — you know, the “others” who are a part of our lives — to be miserable?

Their misery could become your misery.

It might tickle you to watch them cry and to ponder the existential threat that the person you support won and the person they supported lost, but you still need them even if you have no use for their political leaders.

If they lose sleep and are worse at their jobs, you might have to wait longer in line, deal with an incorrect bill you have to keep fighting, or suffer through the consequences of getting a meal that contains an allergen you told the waitress you couldn’t eat.

Even if you feel a momentary satisfaction that people who are supporting the wrong candidates  lost, you shouldn’t be too eager to push their head in the mud or to throw tomatoes at them. You might need those people and your tomatoes.

What happened to agreeing to disagree, to the art of compromise or even just to listening?

If whichever side loses feels like they still have a seat at the table, an ability to affect policies, an opportunity to help our children learn — is anyone on this campaign talking about education, ever? — and confidence that someone will listen to their ideas, the political and cultural temperature wouldn’t be so high and we the people would sleep and work better.

Yes, the extremes on each side can be absurd and frustrating, but even those people with the most ridiculous signs can be agreeable and helpful outside the context of political ideology.

So, just to recap, we might want to consider this great experiment in democracy as a team effort. We don’t always say and do the right things and we don’t always back the right horses, but, together, we can be greater than any one election or one would-be leader.

Unless we’re ready to live on a farm and eat our own food, educate our children, provide our own energy and entertainment and perform necessary surgeries on ourselves, we need each other. Once we remember that, we might have a better chance of sleeping well at night, which will make us better at our many roles, from parenting, to working, to contributing to our communities.

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Students are asked to craft a story inspired by the above sea glass fragment.

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Once a piece of glass falls in the ocean, the magic begins.

Given an opportunity to enter the Whaling Museum & Educational Center of Cold Spring Harbor’s sea glass fiction writing contest, students from around Long Island accepted the challenge, offering a dynamic, exciting and inspiring range of stories.

Students from third grade through high school looked at the same piece of glass and developed stories filled with literary devices like onomatopoeia (where a word, like “whack” comes from a sound), personification and more.

The narratives ran the gamut from tales of mermaids to creations of new mythology to a search for meaning and identity. 

Along the way, the writers seized on the opportunity to share the journey sea glass takes as it transitions from a sharp piece of glass into a smoother, colorful object.

Some of the stories offered vivid descriptions of the world beneath the waves, taking readers into a magnificent aquatic seascape.

Amid narratives about pirates and mermaids, some writers chose to address dramatic and challenging themes, weaving emotionally resonant stories that tackled broken families, alcoholism and infidelity.

As a judge for the contest, I was not only surprised by the directions these stories took, but was also appreciative of the combination of realism and fantasy that suffused the writing, the willingness to take chances, and the pieces of the writers I could hear through their imaginations.

The writers imagined the glass either as the centerpiece of an important story or as a passenger, observing the dynamics that define the way people interact.

Judging writing and fiction is a subjective process, with each judge bringing his or her own ideas to the process.

I’m glad I wasn’t the only judge and enjoyed the opportunity to consider why the readers at the Whaling Museum & Education Center of Cold Spring Harbor chose to rank the submissions in a particular order.

I invite TBR readers to immerse themselves in these entries and to enjoy the worlds these writers have created or, in some cases, reflected. You can see some of the entries in the Arts & Lifestyles section of this week’s papers.

As for the writers, I want to thank them for finding time in their lives to share their ideas and to create their own stories.

In a contest in which third through fifth graders could write up to 500 words, sixth through eighth graders, 750 words, and high schoolers, 1,000 words, they developed stories, backdrops and themes that offered complete narratives and that carried readers off the page.

I particularly appreciate how these writers found the time to prepare and submit an entry. Student lives are filled with activities and assignments. Homework, required reading, chores, and sports and theater practices, to name a few, fill busy schedules that rarely leave them time to add an extra assignment or challenge to their calendars.

And, of course, social media and virtual communication often require regular check-ins and updates. The modern-day student, after all, can’t take too long to answer an urgent text from a friend at the risk of becoming less of a confidant or of sliding down the social hierarchy.

And yet, somehow, even with the importance of staying plugged in, none of the sea glass stories included references to social media and none was told through the prism of a social media world.

I hope the students enjoyed the opportunity to write something outside the context of a graded assignment and that they reveled in the freedom to go in any direction, imagine any characters, and create excitement or drama that appealed to them.

As for what’s next, the museum plans to run the competition next year, giving new entrants the opportunity to unleash their imaginations.

Many of the stories shared similarities with the sea glass itself: they shined in the distance, becoming increasingly interesting on closer inspection.

See pages B13 to B16 for the winning entries.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

When we don’t know how to reprogram our remote control for our garage, search engines like Google can not only offer a written explanation, but can also provide videos with step by step guides that make even the least mechanical people — okay, me —barely competent.

Yes, I can change most light bulbs. Let me rephrase that: I can change most conventional light bulbs. For whatever reason, the fluorescent ones that require turning them at exactly the right angle befuddle me.

Google can also help us find ways to improve our daughter’s softball swing, can explain the Pythagorean Theorem, and can give us quizzes to help us prepare for important exams in school.

When we don’t know the history of an important event, when we want to find some information about someone before we go to a job interview, or when we are curious about what other movies someone who looks vaguely familiar in a streaming show has also been in, we can type their names and find instant answers.

And yet, shockingly, Google and other search engines have their limitations.

Search engines connect the words we’re looking for to the information, or misinformation, available online. These engines don’t have a fact filter, a scientifically proven filter, or an incontrovertible truth filter. It’s up to us to decide whether what we see or read is valid.

In fact, I would advocate for a high school class on information vs. misinformation, giving students a chance to think for themselves to spot online fakes. Most teenagers and 20-somethings, for example, can spot an altered photograph based on the unusual shape of an arm, different shading patterns, or, perhaps, a turn in a shoulder that defies our normal biological range of motion.

When people are in panic mode about a rash, the sudden onset of vague symptoms — a high fever, fatigue and muscle aches, perhaps — they sometimes race to plug those symptoms in to a search engine in the hopes of self diagnosing.

While that might save them the trouble of going to an emergency room in the middle of the night, where they could have to wait hours to see a medical professional, the use of a search engine can also create unnecessary anxiety and frustration or provide a false sense of security.

A search engine diagnosis that indicates you or your loved one might have some horrific disease likely raises your blood pressure and may cause you to drive erratically to a hospital.

A friend of ours once received a horrific call that his daughter was injured at school. During a long and excruciatingly painful drive through the night, he set his cruise control to the speed limit, despite his urge to drive 100 miles per hour. He recognized that he wouldn’t do himself, his family or his daughter any good by getting into a car accident or endangering the lives of others on the road during that painful trip. Fortunately, his daughter made a complete recovery.

Such rational thinking on the part of someone in intense distress, however, may not apply when people make a search engine diagnosis.

Recently, I spoke with Dr. Sharon Nachman, Chief of the Division of Pediatric Infectious Disease at Stony Brook Children’s Hospital, about several different viruses. I suggested to her that the symptoms for different conditions seemed remarkably similar, with the kinds of general physical discomfort, fever, and aches dominating the list, making it difficult to come up with an accurate diagnosis. 

“That’s why Dr. Google is not the right answer,” Dr. Nachman said.

For illnesses or symptoms that rise to the level of genuine concern, people should consult physicians who can test for a range of potential problems, ruling out conditions until they come up with an informed diagnosis.

In some cases, time is of the essence, with drugs like Paxlovid providing effective relief for Covid-19 within a limited time window, or Ttaamiflu offering the most effective benefit for people with the flu within 48 hours of the beginning of symptoms.

And, while Google may help with your science homework, the search engine may prove especially useful in directing you to experts at hospitals or urgent care centers who can interpret your symptoms and offer an informed diagnosis.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

When our children were young, our first, primary and most important mission was to make sure they were safe and healthy.

We didn’t sit down at the beach because each of them had a tendency, like me I suppose, to head directly into the water. Sometimes, they weren’t on board with our efforts to protect them.

We would put them in a car seat and, almost instantly, they would arch their backs so far that it was impossible to strap them in.

Or we would try to apply sunscreen and they would wiggle away and giggle, as we dropped a glob of white cream on the floor or sprayed it into the air.

We made them hold our hands even when they didn’t want to touch us. Anyone who read last week’s column can understand why my children, in particular, might not want to hold my intolerably sweaty hand during the heat of the summer.

We also urged them to wear bike helmets, even though they weren’t cool, to wear mittens or gloves in the winter and to get enough sleep so they could function the next day at school or at their numerous basketball/baseball/softball/volleyball/music practices over the weekend or in the evening after a long day of listening to adults talk at them.

One day, after a particularly exciting and challenging basketball game for our son, one of his friends asked if he could bring him to a movie with his family.

“Uh, I guess so,” I shrugged, as I counted the basketballs I shoved into a mesh bag to make sure I had exactly the number the league had given me. “What movie?”

“Hunger Games,” my son’s friend said.

I looked at my wife. I’d heard that the movie was particularly violent and knew that our son, who was under nine, might struggle to make it through a PG-13 movie, particularly one that involved violence among children.

“Are you sure you want to go?” I whispered to our son, hoping that I could encourage him to do something else that evening that might not cost him and, perhaps, us some sleep.

“Daaaaddd,” he said, giving me the can’t-you-be-a-fun-dad-just-this-once look.

My wife and I locked eyes, trying to figure out if either of us should step in and suggest that we’d rather he didn’t go.

We rolled the dice, holding our breath as he jogged away from us across the gym.

We considered taking a nap before he came home, just to prepare ourselves for a restless night.

When he finally returned, he had a broad grin on his face.

“You gotta see the movie, it’s amazing,” he said.

We weren’t sure whether he was just being tough in front of his friend or if he really liked it. Each of the next eight times we asked, he never changed his answer or wavered.

That night, all of us slept well.

Fast forward to today. Our kids are watching and streaming whatever appeals to them. Somehow, one of them asked if we had seen the series “Black Mirror,” suggesting it was a modern version of “The Twilight Zone.”

The first episode, with Salma Hayek, was clever and amusing at the same time. Playing herself, Hayek was particularly funny. Psychologically, it was what we thought and expected.

Then, we watched a few more episodes that became darker and more unnerving. Both of us lost some sleep after watching scenes that exceeded our gore threshold.

We started a text chain with our children, letting them know that we liked the first one and then felt as if the program did a bait-and-switch on us, taking us in a different direction from the psychological into the painful and gory.

They instantly offered their thoughts on different episodes and what they advised was appropriate for mom and dad to watch.

Our kids sent messages like “this one is not scary” and “I think it’s safe to watch.”

At least as far as some TV programs, we’ve come full circle. We are no longer trying to offer them parental guidance, at least where movies are concerned. Maybe they can help establish a new film rating system for sensitive parents.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

If sweat were a valuable commodity, I’d be in high demand.

As it is, however, my thick, heavy high-volume sweat is as welcome as a cup of warm water on a hot, sticky day.

When I was a teenager and attended basketball camp, I used to sit in the back seat with two other campers, squeezing my thick thighs together as much as possible to avoid sharing the sweat that coated my legs.

I had and continue to have the kind of sweat glands that would give marathoners from Ethiopia a run for their money.

No, I can’t run as far or as fast as a marathon runner, but I still sometimes looked like one, especially on those summer days when I walked a few miles to work and arrived in a puddle-stained suit.

Fortunately, the public, even before the notion of “fake news” became trendy, rarely had high expectations for the attire of a reporter.

When the temperature and humidity are high enough, I can picture the various characters from the Disney/Pixar movie “Inside Out” pushing and shoving as they try to climb into a small raft in a sweat-drenched control room.

The process almost always starts on my upper lip. That’s where beady sweat scouts come out, checking to see if it is indeed worth alerting the rest of my body that it’s a good time to join the fun.

Within seconds, my arms and wrists have the almost modest effect of glistening, as a thin layer of perspiration can catch the sun at just the right angle, giving my skin a mildly reflective look. After a few short moments, the production line kicks into higher gear. My fingers, which often swell when I walk more than a mile or so, become drenched.

I have had a few occasions when I’ve run into people who introduce me to others in this condition. When they stick out their hands to shake mine, I’m stuck.

While holding my hand back is disrespectful, soaking someone I’ve met with a soggy handshake makes the wrong kind of first impression.

My sister-in-law carries a collection of mostly healthy snacks in her purse for when my typically charming and delightful brother enters the hangry stage of the day and needs food to carry him to the next meal.

I don’t often become frustrated or angry when I’m hungry. I do, however, become embarrassed when I can feel the thick, heavy drops of sweat racing down my back, slaloming down my legs and collecting in my shoes.

Maybe I should suggest to my wife that she carry wipes, paper towels, an electric fan, or a magical towel that comes out of a tiny purse but can absorb a full day’s worth of sweat. I bet Mary Poppins could pull that off.

Since I’m not always with my wife and this isn’t her problem, I rub my hands against my legs. That kind of works, although that then leaves a soaked hand print on the outside of my pant leg which is usually met by the layer of moisture accumulating on the inside of my pants.

Now, dry fit shirts have become a true gift for me, as they don’t immediately become drenched with perspiration. Maybe some day someone will invent a dry fit suit, which looks like normal business attire, but doesn’t become a magnet for moisture.

I know astronauts drink a purified form of urine, the moisture they exhale and their own sweat. When I interviewed Astronaut Scott Kelly several years ago, he mentioned that he particularly enjoyed the taste of the purified water aboard the International Space Station, where he lived for 340 straight days.

I suppose that means I’d be a valuable commodity as an older, slower moving astronaut, assuming that I didn’t need to drink every ounce and then some, of what I produced when I sweat.

Oh well, that probably won’t work and I’m not that eager to travel into space. In the spirit of reduce, reuse, recycle, maybe I should figure out how to turn my own sweat into an icy cold drink.

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