What on Earth to Eat?

No wonder I’m confused about diet plans.  The tried-and-true low-fat/high-grain model has been challenged by the low-carb/high-fat model.  But only the right fat.   Three meals a day with no snacks. Wait, make that five little meals with constant snacking.  Hunger burns fat.  Don’t eat three hours before bed.  Oops, too much hunger converts everything to fat.  Avoid sugar.  No, have sugar- everything in moderation!  Unless you have allergies or addictions.  Avoid white flour, dairy, legumes, red meats, salt, sugar, preservatives, alcohol, gluten, wheat, corn, potatoes, rice, nuts, and cheese, except for blue cheese.   Wait! Avoiding things leads to bingeing. Don’t avoid anything.  Except preservatives.   Eat dairy, no don’t.  Eat yogurt, but only low fat, no high fat, Greek, and unsweetened.  Use light cream, use heavy cream, use almond milk.  Eat organic. Nope, not necessary.  Eat lots of veggies and fruit.  Limit veggies and fruit.  Well, eat veggies, just no fruit.  Except berries and kiwis.  No bananas. Eat apples, but not cooked ones, just yellow ones, and only organic. Women shouldn’t eat fruit, men shouldn’t drink beer.  Should women drink beer?   No, just wine.   Only red, only organic, only two glasses, only before 5pm.   So should I start drinking at noon?  Drinking causes cancer in women, but it’s good for your heart.   It causes you to eat more.   Eat cookies sweetened with fruit.  No, you’ll end up bingeing on the real ones later.  Try low-fat ice cream.  No make it full fat, so you’ll know when you’re full. Have a banana instead.  I thought   bananas were bad.   Eat butter, no don’t.  Eat margarine.  Margarine is poison.  Sugar is poison.  Fat is the enemy. Fat is flavor.  Fat makes you fat, not eating fat makes you fat, fat makes you  full, fat clogs your arteries.  Fat makes you gain weight, fat helps you lose weight.  We’re too fat. We eat too much fat.  Eat fat, but only unsaturated, vegetable oil.  Canola oil? No!  Olive oil, but not in cooking. What? The smoke point is too high.  Smoke point?   Grapeseed is better for cooking but not in salads.  Flax seed is good.  Flax seed is BAD.  You need medium-chain triglycerides to improve absorption and digestion, like palm kernel oil.  I thought palm kernel oil clogged arteries?  Coconut oil is the best!  Won’t coconut and oil make me fat?  They might, but coconut oil helps you lose weight! Does Splenda cause cancer now? Should I use honey, maple syrup or agave nectar? Only if you want to get fat. They’re sweeter than sugar. Try rice malt.  I thought rice was a bad carb.  It is.  Fructose is the real culprit.      What about Sucrose and Glucose? No. Dextrin? You’re thinking of Dexter, he’s a serial killer. What happened to Maltose? Well, at least we all know that High Fructose Corn Syrup is bad, right? Not according to a recent ad campaign…

So, what about that banana?

Or should I just go straight to happy hour?   

Megan Davis Collins, LICSW, loves obsessing about food and dietary trends. Email her at megdavcol@gmail.com

The Contest

 

 

I got lured into a magazine contest about love, laughing at first, because I felt inept to comment on the subject. Impatient, not very gushy, I wasn’t someone who wrote essays about love, I made jokes about it. Inexplicably, I found the challenge irresistible.

I listened to favorite musicians, hearing love letters in the lyrics of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Van Morrison, The Who and Percy Sledge; Love could give sight to the blind, and flowers with green grass so tall. When you shiver, love gives you a blanket, and if you swallow anything evil, love is right there at the ready to jam its fingers down your throat. 

 While Jeff was deployed, I splurged on a luxurious mattress pad to help me sleep, converting a king-sized bed into a bed fit for a king.  I loved it.  I knew he would too, when he got home.   

 After Jeff returned from Iraq, he confessed that the mattress topper was bothering his neck and back.  He wanted to get rid of it.  I reacted like he had asked me to remove my kidney, then gently suggested he quit whining and try sleeping on his back.

 As my husband rubbed his aching neck, and I concocted ways to keep the mattress pad, I questioned why love had to be so painful.  I also questioned his military training. What did you sleep on in Iraq, anyway?

Apparently, my heart was ice.  There I was, cursing my husband because the mattress was hurting his back.  (Yes, the same husband who had just returned from war)  What’s ‘a matter, Goldilocks, bed too soft?   

As I wondered how to solve this princess-in-a-pea problem, I yearned for wisdom.  Do I slice the mattress in half?  Maybe if I merely suggest it, as King Solomon once did, I can eliminate my competition.  And where the heck was Percy Sledge when I needed him?  Didn’t he say that…he’d give up all his comforts, sleep out in the rain, if she said that’s the way it ought to be…?

I was a witchy witch.  Not only did I have no chance of winning that contest, I would probably be disqualified.  I needed a miracle.  Or some Van Morrison to …take away my trouble, take away my grief, take away my heartache in the night like a thief…

And then something struck me unexpectedly, most likely an arrow from Cupid’s pouch, because there is no other explanation for what I did next. 

Without any discussion, I hoisted the behemoth pad onto my back and out of the room.  Then I remade the bed, on its sad amputated frame, not fit for a king or even a wicked queen.   

And I smiled. 

Because it was my turn to feel a pain in my neck and back, then my chest, ricocheting itself into my melting heart, which had grown three sizes that day. 

The Cable Guy

If I could do it all over again, I would have pursued a trade. Maybe become a hair stylist, but only if I could sit down while I cut.   A plumber might be good, but not if I had to put my hand in a toilet.  And I think I’m too afraid of getting shocked to become an electrician.  

But a computer technician would be a smart career.  They’re in high demand, likely employed for life.

When our internet service went down, I made the dreaded call to Verizon.  I should know by now that that’s not my best move.  Actually I do know that by now.  But it was my day off and my husband kind of dared me to do it, by implying that I would get eaten alive by Customer Service.  Remember, it’s not our computer.  Keep putting it back on them.  If only I knew exactly what I was putting back.

I’m pretty good in a tense situation.  I maintain my cool and don’t usually get too pissy.  But the flip side   is that I can’t always scare people into giving me what I want.  I don’t always have what it takes to get all up in anyone’s grill, especially when it involves a computer.

So I can’t get swept up in their good manners and exotic accents.  They are seated at desks, far away from my frozen DSL cable.  That alone should get me worked up, but it doesn’t.  They are so polite, talking to them feels very removed from my frustration at Verizon.  I know I need to stay focused on the problem, but I’m just not a good angry consumer. 

The really pleasant Anita doesn’t help matters. She never interrupted, and in fact waited at least 12 seconds before responding, saying things like “Ok now kindly go to your tools bar”  “OK, now please, if you will, click the Advanced Controls”   Soon I was carried away by her unending patience, feeling privileged to have met her.

Before I knew it, I was dripping with sweat, hooking and unhooking wires, listening to Anita’s polite voice from the speaker phone, directing me what to do.   While I fumbled with the tangle of cables, afraid to get a shock, I wondered how I had become a computer technician on my day off.  I also wondered why the computer technician was the only one not being paid for this call.  I think that’s what it took to finally get me angry. 

Folded over a file cabinet, my head hanging upside-down in back of the “tower”, I was searching for some wire that was supposed to plug into the router.  I was also searching for a filter on the phone and a reset button on the modem. 

I had stopped searching for the day off that had somehow slipped into cyberspace.  Actually, I think it had found the lovely Anita who was sitting at her desk calmly ordering me around, probably playing Solitaire.     

Megan Davis Collins successfully cleared a browser history and reset a modem, but that’s it.

Holiday Card Reflections

As I look at the end result, I wonder why I feel the need to drag my kids out into a dismal backyard scene of blowing snow and dilapidated fences to photograph them and then send it to our friends.

When they were really young, I couldn’t even think of getting organized enough to create a card.  I used to look at the ones sent to us: three smiling children in a row under a tree, hugging, laughing, frolicking, and wonder how they did it with such composure.  To create a holiday scene like theirs, I would have had to have hired a choreographer, stage manager and probably hair and make-up crew.

I became enticed by the images arriving in our mailbox.  How are these families so glowing and polished?  What do they feed their kids? We look like we’ve been camping for weeks.  When I finally convinced my kids to get their photos done professionally by a kind mom who volunteered for a local preschool (Thank you Denise Roberge and Little Learners) we became enchanted.  My daughter got in touch with her inner glamour girl, and my son just laughed.  That was the year I decided that we had what it takes to pull off a holiday card.

I obsessed for days over the color and design details.  My kids looked like they skipped right out of a Dickens novel and landed in a one-horse open sleigh.  We even added lightly falling snow.  It was a work of art.  And, it was the beginning of my love affair with the once-dreaded holiday card.  I went spastic, ordering about hundred and fifty of them.  I think we only had fourteen friends and twelve relatives.

So we sent them to unsuspecting businesses around town.  (Why would Rick from Chung King want our card? Or his comrades at Emerald Rose?)  

Over the years, I’ve toned down the preparation and staging. I like to capture my kids outside, organically and casually if possible.  (This year was neither)  Procrastinating made things feel rushed and forced.  And everyone had opinions about the holiday card.

After fretting needlessly that my son appeared forlorn, and my daughter’s hair didn’t look the way it usually does, I stood back and just took the snapshots…and then slowly lost control as the props in my holiday tableau came to life.  They didn’t want to wear a sweater, change a hairstyle, or even pose for some forced holiday scene.   They did, however, want to antagonize one another and compete for the dog’s affections with hidden meat-flavored bribes.   

The finished product–a compromise, not a masterpiece- reflects, not stellar choreography or gentle snowflakes,  but the essence of my children: an earnest young boy attempting to hide his dimples by not completely smiling, and his teenaged sister flashing a grin as she issues orders from her post beside the tree. 

And this is the year I decided that we may no longer have what it takes to pull off the holiday card.

Megan Davis Collins wishes you Happy New Year! megdavcol@gmail.com

Lullabuys

Insomnia can lead you into an entire world of weird.  

Have you ever tried to trick yourself into falling back to sleep after awakening at 2:35am?  The more you concentrate on sleep, the more it eludes you.  The first time I faced insomnia, I thought I could just ignore it.   An hour and a half later, lying there irritated and wide awake, I finally gave up and decided to do a load of laundry.  That was sixteen years ago; I was pregnant with my first child, and I’ve had insomnia ever since. 

Now, when I wake up at 3:40, I jump into action immediately, sometimes starting not just a load of laundry, but a pot roast or an epic novel. 

I am convinced my insomnia is hereditary, or related to age or hormones, fueled by caffeine, maybe alcohol.  In short, I have no idea.  But I also have no interest in fixing it.  I have learned to embrace it, concluding that I can either battle in vain, or surrender.  Or watch infomercials. 

Watching late-night television is similar to visiting a creepy aquarium.  I’ve stumbled upon some unusual creatures- a rare melon from Southern France that contains the secret to younger-looking skin.  Or a strange religious man who offers to sew your seed for $58.00, so you can get a fresh start on life.  There is a bizarre yet very cold pillow, apparently designed to help those who are dripping with sweat at bedtime.  It’s called the “Chillow” which is what they should call that French melon.

Then there’s Beachbody, as well as a device to vacuum-pack your linens, or a portable heating pot that warms food without overcooking or burning anything.  There seems to be an underground market for hair- men want it, women want it removed.  In my haze, I imagined starting an exchange program.   

The other night, I raised the bar, migrating over to PBS for a change, unexpectedly catching a refresher course in history, revisiting both the Gettysburg Address, and the grim life of Lee Harvey Oswald.  I guess I never realized what a lunatic he was, or that his suspicious behavior went virtually undetected prior to the assassination of our president.  I became so disturbed by his activities that, by the time Dear Abe stepped up to the podium in the next segment, I was positively desperate for a morsel of hope.  And Lincoln delivered: 272 words of succinct eloquence.  By 4:50, I was in tears, vowing to be a better American, and to uphold the Constitution whenever possible.  I was so distraught and overheated, I almost ordered a Chillow.

Unfortunately, I paused long enough to finally catch up with the Kardashians, confirming that there is nothing to catch.  And I still can’t figure out why Cindy Crawford is peddling cosmetics in the middle of the night.  Certainly she has something better to do.  She seems so nice.  I just worry that she is going to let that man sew her seed for $58.00.  

Megan Davis Collins embraces insomnia.  Email her at megdavcol@gmail.com

Mama Say Mama Saw

We all know motherly advice.  One asks every time she sees her daughter if she’s had a productive bowel movement, reminding her to eat her fiber.  Another focuses on hydration.  Have you had your eight glasses?  My mom’s aunt would always call out “Come back like you went!”  In early years, she was referring to honesty and integrity.  Later, she was talking chastity.

Don’t talk to strangers, or swim right after eating. Wash your hands, don’t bite your fingernails.   

Oddly, my mother used to push shoulder pads.  After discovering that a sturdy set could make one’s neck look longer, she became a crusader.  Big interview?  Get your shoulder pads!  Feeling slouchy? Shoulder pads!

We desperately try to save our kids from mistake we’ve made.  My husband’s great grandmother repeatedly told him to take care of his teeth: brush twice a day, floss, don’t eat hard candy.   Having grown up in the age of poor dental hygiene, she knew what it meant to lose a mouthful of teeth.

The more we experience life, the more we become aware of what can go wrong.  Bend your knees if you stand too long.  And we just want to tell our children how to avoid some of the awful things we’ve seen.   Wear your seat belt, don’t hitchhike, and remember the solar glare!  Don’t answer the door, even if he’s wearing a gas company hat.  Never tell someone your social security number over the phone.  Don’t share drinks, or lick your hands after feeding a cow. 

Our awareness has been so heightened, even doctors, coaches and clergy are no longer automatically trusted.

Don’t leave your drink at a party.  Even if it’s just soda, someone can spike it or slip you a “roofie” and then assault you.  Never accept a drink from someone you don’t know, even if it’s in a can.   Wipe off all flip-top lids in case they’ve been tainted with drugs or poison.   This really creates pressure for those trying to follow mom’s other advice to stay hydrated.  

In this cruel world, I often wonder if I’ve underestimated the shoulder pad.  It does make you look bigger and perhaps more threatening.  Some of those outfits transform a petite woman into a linebacker.  You could also probably hide a weapon in one, a GPS locator in the other.  And let’s face it:  if you’re wearing shoulder pads, you have purpose.  You’re heading somewhere- to work, a seminar, your arraignment.  Someone is waiting or looking for you.  An assailant would definitely have trouble wrestling you to the ground or into a car if you were packing pads.

 As my daughter gets ready to go out, I anticipate the inevitable eye roll as I remind her not to set her drink down anywhere.  I know I only have a few moments to ply her with all the advice I think she may need for the night.  

And I feel a strong urge to slip her a few shoulder pads.

 

Megan Davis Collins, LICSW loves a good dose of motherly advice. Email her megdavcol@gmail.com  

Hey, Has Anyone Ever Told You That You Look Like….?

 

                I have learned to appreciate my pleasant but not super-attractive looks, grateful even for not being a bombshell.  I began to see how annoying it would be to have people staring or clawing at you all day, lurking around you as you try to shop or walk or order a drink.   

                So, over the years, I have cherished the occasional comment about my beauty- (three to be exact, and one was my grandmother.)  I always felt like I had basically settled into a pleasant cross between Danny Partridge and Angela Lansbury. 

                       So, over the course of my lifetime, I have been injected with just enough confidence to be ready for a compliment when it comes my way.   

                As my husband and I pulled into O’Connors parking lot, an older woman approached our car tentatively and confused us slightly by asking Jeff a question about some batteries and a fire alarm.   

                She looked at me coyly, pulled another box out of her plastic bag and began peppering Jeff with questions about the expiration date on another smoke detector.  But she seemed to have another agenda.  Then she made her move.  She leaned in, over Jeff and pointed right at me.  “I thought you were that singer”, she confessed with amusement, “ I thought, is she really here?”

                I perked right up. It didn’t matter that this person might have been senile, or even blind

                  When she mentioned the possibility of me being a famous singer, I melted just a little bit.  I turned to face her, as I if I understood how she could have made such a mistake.  It happens all the time, I seemed to say.

                 Famous Singer?  Not Madonna? I was hoping for Katy Perry.  Or Pink? But this woman was in her eighties.  Carly Simon?  Who do I look like?  Joni Mitchell?  It couldn’t be Jewel:  there are limits to my beauty, after all.   

                “Yeah that singer from Scotland on America’s Got Talent, what’s her name?”  My jaw dropped:  “Susan Boyle?”  “Yes!  I came right over to see if it could really be her.”

                I was frozen.    DID SHE JUST ASK ME IF I COULD REALLY BE SUSAN BOYLE?

                I sat stunned in the front seat, as Jeff entertained her with answers, guesses really, about her purchases and whether she should return anything.  I had tuned out by then.     

                   As I got out of the car, I approached my little friend.   Was I looking for a fight? A second opinion?   She looked me over and then apologized, saying that now that I was out of the car, I didn’t really look like her.   Relieved, I hugged her.  Then the truth hit me.  We strolled arm in arm into O’Connor’s, my eighty-three year old admirer with her bagful of expired smoke detectors and me- the one she thought was almost, but not quite, as cute as Susan Boyle.