Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

One of the many humorous/inspiring/possibly fake/probably plagiarized emails that periodically circulates around the Internet is about "resigning from adulthood." It talks about turning in your driver's license and becoming a kid again.

Are you kidding? Who would ever want to be a kid again? True, adults have more responsibility in the gainful employment and buying your own groceries departments. I'll accept that responsibility any day in return for all the benefits of being an adult, like no algebra homework, no school lunches, and choosing your own bedtime.

Here is my Top Ten list of the reasons it's better to be an adult than a kid:

10. You get to plan your own menus.

9. In the car, you almost always get to sit in the front by a window.

8. You can paint your room whatever color you wish.

7. You can eat watermelon just before bedtime if you want to.

6. You can decide for yourself whether you're cold and should put on a sweater.

5. Nobody says you can only read one more chapter before you go to bed.

4. You can do anything your older siblings get to do.

3. If you want a puppy or a kitten, you don't have to settle for a goldfish.

2. Two words: driver's license.

And the top reason it's better to be an adult than a kid?

1. Grandchildren.

Have you heard the one about the midgets, the professional wrestler, and the kangaroo?

No, it isn't an off-color and politically incorrect joke. It's a love story. Well, a wedding story, at least, from this year's Sturgis Rally. The description of the ceremony made the August 9 Rapid City Journal—in the "nation and world" section rather than "life and style."

The wrestler, here for the Rally in a professional capacity, was the bride. The midgets, both guys who are part of her team of performers, were wedding attendants. (I know, I know, the preferred term is "little people," but the bride called them midgets.) Jack, the kangaroo, escorted the bride down the improvised aisle at the Buffalo Chip campground.

Oh, there was a groom, too. Being neither midget nor marsupial, he rated only a brief mention toward the end of the article.

The bride wore a white leather bikini top trimmed tastefully with fringe. The matching bikini bottom and sheer white overskirt fit just low enough to accent the tattoo across her abdomen. Jack, despite having no visible tattoos, was dapper in his own fur coat and a black leather vest. The rest of the wedding party presumably wore Harley black.

Jack lives at the Roo Ranch near Deadwood, though, as you might expect, he isn't a South Dakota native. He's from Texas. I'm not sure why the Black Hills has a tourist attraction featuring kangaroos and other critters from Down Under instead of native species like the buffalo or the jackalope. Maybe the local tourism market has more of those than it knows what to do with. Or maybe eventually we'll see a new hybrid—the jackaroo, perhaps, or the roo-alope or the buffaroo.

At any rate, Jack, an experienced advertising model, performed his role as the bride's escort with all the dignity appropriate to such a solemn occasion. A good thing, too. Given the bride's profession, she probably would have been able to ensure his cooperation if necessary with a choke hold or a full body slam. She chose a softer method of persuasion, however, coaxing him up to the altar with a handful of his favorite treats. It's amazing the things a guy will do just to get a couple of breath mints.

Each of the bride's previous wedding ceremonies had been, she said, "very traditional. I thought, 'That's not working for me.'"

Apparently not. This was her sixth wedding.

Maybe, this time, everyone involved will live hoppily ever after.

Raccoons have invaded Safeway. It's the only logical explanation.

If you're raising sweet corn, raccoons are not your friends. It wouldn't be so bad if they just helped themselves to a few ears for dinner now and then, but they destroy far more than they eat. A couple of them can ruin whole rows of almost ripe corn in just a few nights.

Like people, raccoons want their corn on the cob to be just right. They'll go along a row, pulling down ear after ear of corn with their clever little hands and stripping the husks from the top to see whether the corn is ripe. It if isn't perfect, they go on to the next one, leaving the rejected ear to dry out and die.

Apparently, also like people, raccoons have discovered that it can be more convenient to buy sweet corn at the store than to pick it yourself. The bin of corn at Safeway has their handprints all over it. Sometimes half the ears have a wide strip of husk peeled down from the top. Rejected as not quite perfect, the ears have been tossed back into the bin. They lie there, drying out and becoming increasing unappealing to subsequent shoppers, until eventually the produce manager decides it's time to throw them out.

Surely people wouldn't do this. Not responsible, local-produce-buying, reusable-bag-carrying grocery shoppers. They surely would know that a solid, even ear without obvious signs of bugs will probably be perfectly good. Or they would have figured out that you can check an ear of corn for ripeness without ruining it; you just make a small slit with your fingernail in one side of the husk to peek at the kernels. Above all, people would certainly realize that wasting so much corn means the store has to charge more for it.

Nope, all those annoying corn vandals have to be raccoons. Admittedly, I've never actually seen a raccoon pushing a shopping cart through the produce section at Safeway. But then, I wouldn't necessarily recognize one if I did see it. After all, it would have been wearing a mask.

The subject line of the email was "erase wrinkles while you sleep." I assumed it was an ad for some miracle face cream made with yak butter, a newly discovered rejuvenating supplement, or a newly rediscovered ancient secret ingredient harvested from deep in the rain forest.

Ordinarily I would have sent it straight to the trash with the rest of the spam. I'd have missed this opportunity to look younger, just as I regularly spurn opportunities to find free government grants, buy cheaper car insurance, order upside-down tomato planters, and of course gain millions by sending my bank account information to someone from Nigeria.

But my computer was slow that morning. While I was waiting for it to finish thinking, I had time to read the wrinkle-erasing ad. It wasn't selling a cream, a supplement, or a new form of Botox. It was selling a pillowcase. Only $19.95, plus $7.95 shipping and handling—and order now to get a second one absolutely free except for additional shipping and handling.

These pillowcases, described as "the world's best kept beauty secret," are made from silk charmeuse, which sounds as if it comes from French-speaking silkworms. According to the ad, this silk contains natural protein. It also hydrates your skin.

I'm not sure the idea of a skin-hydrating pillowcase is all that appealing. It sounds too much like trying to go to sleep on one of those hot, muggy summer nights when everything feels clammy and you keep turning your pillow over just in case the underside might be a little bit cooler.

Then there is the minor technical detail that, in order to take advantage of the wonderful proteins and skin-hydrators in your silk charmeuse pillowcase, you would presumably need to sleep with your face mashed into the fabric. If you sleep on your side, you'd have to be sure to turn over in the middle of the night in order to avoid waking up with one side of your face looking younger than the other. If you sleep on your back, you'd apparently just be out of luck.

What I found most fascinating, however, was the refreshing truth in advertising of this email. My guess is that one of these pillowcases would work exactly as specified.

Nowhere in the careful wording of its two paragraphs was it stated that this beauty secret would eliminate wrinkles in your skin. You might indeed wake up in the morning and find fewer wrinkles than usual. Not in your face, though. In your pillowcase.

It's probably not worth $19.95, plus shipping and handling, to find out for sure.

Last week one of my relatives had abdominal surgery (which went well, thank you for asking, and he's recovering nicely). When all the cutting and stitching was finished, he was left without his belly button.

This led me to contemplate something I'd never considered before: the navel. On the inside.

We all know about the outside of the navel. It marks the place where the umbilical cord attaches to bring in all the oxygen and nutrients the developing fetus needs. After we emerge from the womb to become air-breathing little mammals, the cord dries up and drops off, leaving a neat little innie or outie behind to collect lint and help us locate our waists.

But obviously, all the good stuff traveling through the cord has to get somewhere inside the unborn baby's body. So exactly does it connect to in there, and how? And after we're born, is it still attached to anything? Or is it just there, like a bricked-over doorway that's no longer needed?

This required research. I asked one R.N., two veterinarians, and several mothers. Then I Googled "umbilicus." I do love the Internet; there was stuff online about the belly button that I never even knew I wanted to know.

First, briefly, the biology. In the fetus, the umbilical cord includes one vein and two arteries. It connects to the liver and the heart. I think it connects to other places as well, but finding out exactly where involved more multi-syllabic words than I wanted to look up.

This is the cool part. Within a week or so after a baby is born, the internal umbilical blood vessels become ligaments. There are six of these that connect our belly buttons to various places, including the liver and the bladder. I don't know just how important those ligaments are in holding everything together in there. Still, we probably ought to stand up straight and suck in our bellies; they probably appreciate the help.

Of course, the Internet being the Internet, my search results didn't stop at the physiology of the navel. I found a rhyming dictionary site with a bunch of words that rhyme with "umbilicus." These included Bacchus, hibiscus, circus, and hocus-pocus; feel free to create your own poem.

I also found a site with detailed descriptions, complete with photographs, of ways to enhance the appearance of one's belly button through plastic surgery. I'd never considered umbilical reshaping as one of life's necessities—or even one of life's luxuries—but I suppose if one were considering a career as a swim suit model it might be helpful.

Or my relative could always consult a plastic surgeon to rebuild his missing navel. I doubt that he will, though. Through the miracles of modern medicine, with a little help from his family, he already has a prosthetic umbilicus. On the front of his hospital gown, someone has pinned a bright yellow button.