If you’re feeling a little touch of turkey-itis this week, don’t blame it all on the bird. Your fatigue has just as much to do with your Aunt Gertrude’s stuffing and your Uncle Marty’s glass raising cheers of thanks.
Everyone blames Tryptophan, the apparent sleep agent in turkey but I did a little carving out of the truth. The turkey is a wild and crazy friend enjoying a night out with pals - not a date boring you with his early memories of the farm.
Yes, your main course has Tryptophan and in the body, that produces niacin. Niacin jumps right in there and produces the oh-so-calming, nappy time serotonin. Mmmm, big breath now…in through your nose … out through your mouth. And while this serotonin is indeed a sleep regulator, there’s a problem (and it’s not as far a stretch as the snooze bar). For Tryptophan to be the main suspect in slowing you down, it needs to be taken on an empty stomach and most definitely without protein. Good job, my dear Watson. So Tommy the Protein-packed Turkey is not working alone. Let’s get back to the scene of the crime – the buffet line – and the stuffing. What do we really know about Aunt Estelle anyway?
We know she carted in the high on the carb-o-meter gizzard-packed stuffing. It’s these high carbs that make the pancreas secrete insulin (not often that I can fit the word secrete into a column). Boom! Insulin makes competing amino acids check out of the bloodstream and in to the muscle cells, leaving a high level of Tryptophan swimming in the blood which makes you feel a smidge sleepy. But the Tryp to Snoozeville isn’t over yet.
In docks the gravy boat and you stir in the very fats that slow down digestion. Your stomach sucks all the energy out of the rest your body to deal with what came down the oesophageal pike. So the captain, your brain, sends out a message to return to your seat and settle in for the journey.
Alcohol gets a big pat on the back for its contribution to the nap-needing, too. By dessert, Uncle Marty has expressed thanks by way of a toast to family, sunny days, the CBC, Don Cherry, Viagra and shelled peanuts. Booze is a depressant for the central nervous system.
And overeating. Is there a big enough plate in the Country to lay host to the Thanksgiving Day feast? We shove, squeeze, jam and hoist food into our mouths with one hand while we reach for another buttered roll with the other. In the mere presence of turkey, we become pigs. It’s a ‘he who eats the fastest, gets the most’ world.
As the meal comes to an end, with Uncle Marty sleeping with his hand still gripping the wine glass and Aunt Estelle reminiscing about her Grandma Trudy that passed down that stuffing recipe, we push back our chairs and decompress. This relaxation, after an action packed, family filled holiday, provides the slow down and stretch out that’s the final straw to break the groggy camels back. You’re too pooped to even think about the yummy leftovers.
You lean back on the couch and cover your mouth with your hand as you let out a big yawn (and then reach for a napkin because you find a little piece of pumpkin pie on your upper lip). Soon, you snuggle back in and realize what you’re really thankful for. You’re thankful you’ll wake up after your nap – Tommy the Turkey has sadly sung his last swan song.
Hope the holiday was lovely for you all. I’m thankful you keep reading so I can keep writing.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Fail to plan and plan to wail
Go inside any McDonalds and there is a huge, backlit sign showcasing their complete price list. You know what you are getting yourself into financially when you supersize the fries (not that I have ever done that).
Wanna buy a car? The sticker price is for the base model and if you want to heat up your buns, you’ll pay more for the built-in seat warmer.
Telling people what they are going to pay for something seems standard operating procedure in this ‘selling you stuff’ world.
With the exception of one industry: dental offices. They write their own rules.
“We’re going to do X-rays this visit.”
“Ah, okay”. No mention of what the additional cost is – you just nod in acceptance.
When a retail sales clerk says “This belt is a great accessory for those pants”, you can flip over the price tag in the change room and do the old “Nah, I have one just like it at home”.
Hard to fake with a ‘We have an X-ray machine in the basement but thanks”.
Now truth be told (not always a given in this column), while I’m busy booking my next blind purchase, I mean, dentist appointment, my bill gets magically sent to the insurance company for payment. We have a Dental Plan.
It would be way more fun to have a Disneyland Plan, or an Early Retirement Plan (I think the dentist has one of those) or a Barbie Dream Castle Floor Plan (I think the dentist has one of those, too). But it’s hard to pay for a Dental Plan AND have one of those plans.
I thought my parents had provided me with a lifelong dental plan: brush, floss, rinse, spit, don’t eat rocks and don’t crack-open beers with your molars (thanks for that tip, Grammy Davies).
Doesn’t that sound like a solid dental plan?
The paid-for plan includes metal probes, power tools, recliner chairs and deep scaling. There’s a hooked suction hose that is supposed to void your rivers of saliva but instead it vacuum seals itself to the inside of your cheek.
And the paid-for plan also includes the use of mad scientist torture devices like the Dr. Jekyll cold iron needle plunger. Yikes. Can we not make a pink one with a little portion of the plan premium going to breast cancer research? Why does it have to look so terrorizing? And what’s with creepy dentist holding it down low, rolling the chair a little closer, a little closer, and then BAM – in one swift move, he stabs the needle right into the roof of your mouth? My God – is there any part on your body that seems less interested in having a needle jammed into it than the cratered moon-like surface of the roof of your mouth? It’s like hardened rubber up there.
Within minutes of your roof-top injection, you find yourself numb from the temples down, your feet are elevated, your head is downhill, the blood is rushing to your ears, the light is in your eyes, there is a tray of metal instruments to your left, a masked assistant to your right, the suction hook latches onto your cheek and you think ‘Is this really the right Plan for me?”
Dogs chew Denta Stix. They’re laughing at us.
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian.
Wanna buy a car? The sticker price is for the base model and if you want to heat up your buns, you’ll pay more for the built-in seat warmer.
Telling people what they are going to pay for something seems standard operating procedure in this ‘selling you stuff’ world.
With the exception of one industry: dental offices. They write their own rules.
“We’re going to do X-rays this visit.”
“Ah, okay”. No mention of what the additional cost is – you just nod in acceptance.
When a retail sales clerk says “This belt is a great accessory for those pants”, you can flip over the price tag in the change room and do the old “Nah, I have one just like it at home”.
Hard to fake with a ‘We have an X-ray machine in the basement but thanks”.
Now truth be told (not always a given in this column), while I’m busy booking my next blind purchase, I mean, dentist appointment, my bill gets magically sent to the insurance company for payment. We have a Dental Plan.
It would be way more fun to have a Disneyland Plan, or an Early Retirement Plan (I think the dentist has one of those) or a Barbie Dream Castle Floor Plan (I think the dentist has one of those, too). But it’s hard to pay for a Dental Plan AND have one of those plans.
I thought my parents had provided me with a lifelong dental plan: brush, floss, rinse, spit, don’t eat rocks and don’t crack-open beers with your molars (thanks for that tip, Grammy Davies).
Doesn’t that sound like a solid dental plan?
The paid-for plan includes metal probes, power tools, recliner chairs and deep scaling. There’s a hooked suction hose that is supposed to void your rivers of saliva but instead it vacuum seals itself to the inside of your cheek.
And the paid-for plan also includes the use of mad scientist torture devices like the Dr. Jekyll cold iron needle plunger. Yikes. Can we not make a pink one with a little portion of the plan premium going to breast cancer research? Why does it have to look so terrorizing? And what’s with creepy dentist holding it down low, rolling the chair a little closer, a little closer, and then BAM – in one swift move, he stabs the needle right into the roof of your mouth? My God – is there any part on your body that seems less interested in having a needle jammed into it than the cratered moon-like surface of the roof of your mouth? It’s like hardened rubber up there.
Within minutes of your roof-top injection, you find yourself numb from the temples down, your feet are elevated, your head is downhill, the blood is rushing to your ears, the light is in your eyes, there is a tray of metal instruments to your left, a masked assistant to your right, the suction hook latches onto your cheek and you think ‘Is this really the right Plan for me?”
Dogs chew Denta Stix. They’re laughing at us.
Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian.
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