Kelsey Timmerman's Blog, page 59

From Sweet Christian porn stars to iPhone Girl: A year in blogging

Click here to view the embedded video.

(The theme song of this blog for 2010)

Blogging never ceases to surprise me. It seems like the most fleeting of thoughts slapped down end up being the biggest hits.

Here are the greatest hits (some in actual hits and some that I just like) from 2010

Christian Porn Stars Wanted – the most visited post of the year. Sorry grandma.

Travelers Give a Shit – One of the most visited and probably my favorite. I'll be building on this theme in 2011.

A Popular post written by a boob for boobs…did I mention boobs yet? – In which I rant against keyword driven content in media and blogs.

He-Man vs. Dora The Explorer – rumination on today's cartoons.

Big Butter Jesus is Toast – Jesus statue goes up in flames near Dayton, Ohio.

The Mathare slums – I give you a tour of one of the world's poorest places.

Free Money! – The comments of a post have never annoyed me and broke my heart more than the ones this post yielded. Half of India turned out to ask for $10. But so did other folks who are suffering the tough times that so many are. Lesson: I need to do much more than give $10 per week. Another theme I'll build on in 2011.

Blue Moose Nuts – This post got me in trouble with some of my relation. Oops!

McPhee to writers: Your going to get there – It's always exciting when an author of the book you mention leaves a comment on your site. Thanks Norman Sims!

iPhone Girl – Proof that we care about the people who make our stuff when we actually think about it.

Zombie's stop health care reform – Health insurance pisses me off. I pay $307 per month for it and have a $6,000 deductible.

Faith in the poor – About my overnight stay in the slums which led to this piece in Relevant Magazine, one of my favorite pieces of the year.

A big thanks to all of you for reading. This is my 6th year of blogging and it just keeps getting better. I've got big plans in 2011. Namely I want to be more useful to you and discover how we can better change the world together.

Merry Christmas from the Timmmermans

Merry Christmas from Annie, Harper, and Kelsey (not pictured fetie #2)

We hope your Christmas was as fun as a new tricycle!

Rudolph Lyrics Smackdown

"We'll take fill in the Christmas (Blank) for $300, Jamie."

Our family Christmas was divided. The Timmermans on one couch, the Wilts on another, and the Hutchcrafts sat on the floor except my uncle Reed who always seems to be in a rocking chair. My cousin Jamie had made a Christmas-themed Jeopardy on her laptop, and we were battling it out.

The Question…

They never let poor Rudolph (Rudolph) join in any reindeer games, (like ___________).

We (the Timmermans) knew the answer. We've been singing it "football," since we listened to Rudolph on our record player as kids. So when the Wilts answered "Monopoly" (each family shared their answer to every question) we felt sorry for them. But when the Hutchcrafts answered "Monopoly" we knew something was up. Sure enough, "Monopoly" was the answer.

Monopoly! Reindeer can't play Monopoly. They don't even have opposable thumbs! They laughed at our answer of "football." I was too flustered to make logical arguments at the time, so I'll offer exhibit A here:

Click here to view the embedded video.

We went through the rest of the song. The Wilts and Hutchcrafts agree that the add-in lyrics are:

…call him names (like Pinocchio)

…you'll go down in history like (Columbus)

We sing it as:

…call him names (like fudge face)

…you'll go down in history like (George Washington)

Allow me to argue for our lyrics:

Pinocchio had a very long nose, Rudolph didn't. Pinocchio was a lying SOB, Rudolph is a lovable misfit just trying to find his place in the world.

And Columbus was a crappy navigator. Seriously, you're trying to find China and you find North America?! Not even close, buddy. If Columbus was in charge of guiding Santa's sleigh, there would be a lot of really pissed off kids.  Washington was a leader who guided his troops across the Delaware on Christmas day.

So, what do you think the add-in lyrics should be?  Please make logical arguments in favor of your lyrics.

Do you sing  "fudge face, football, George Washington," or "Pinocchio, Monopoly, Columbus," or perhaps something else?  Let's get to the bottom of this.

In Relevant: One Day in the Slum

You won't here me talk or write about my faith very often. In the January/February issue of Relevant Magazine which just hit the stands, I made an exception. I'm really proud of this piece. It wasn't easy to write. Before you can be honest with the reader, you've got to be honest with yourself. I spent a lot of time staring inward with this one. I hope you like it.

Open publication – Free publishing – More ra ra riot

Of Faith and Farts (not necessarily in that order)

I had nothing to do with this. I swear. (Photo from Flickr Creative Commons by k.ivoutin)

Today I had two pieces come out. One on farts and one on faith.

Farts on a Plane

Okay, that's not what I actually titled it but that's what I call it when I talk to myself, has been entertaining audiences across the country since this spring. I should say mostly entertaining audiences. It really depends on the audience. Basically it's an 800-word true-life fart joke. I once read it in a church. I'm not sure that was the greatest idea. Laughing at farts in a church just seems wrong. Still, if it grabs the audience early, it kills. But if it doesn't, oh boy, it's not very fun working through the second half. So far it has about an 80% kill rate.

I cross-posted it on the Huffington Post along with my blog. Folks complain about the HuffPo not paying anything. They use me; I use them. Seems like a fair deal.

One Day in the Slum

I have two writing rules. Rule #1: Avoid writing about politics and religion. Rule #2: Avoid writing about politics and religion. I break that rule. I'll post the link to the story tomorrow. Look for it in the morning. I can't wait for you to read it.

I smuggled Anti-flatulence Underwear Past TSA

I take out my laptop and set it in a bin. I slip my shoes off and smile at the TSA agent as if I have nothing to hide. As if I'm just another normal passenger. As if I'm not wearing anti-flatulence underwear.

My brow grows moist as I fight the urge to adjust my Gas Eaters while at the same time not letting my eye wander to the full-body scanner. No doubt a man wearing unisex, airtight underwear with a quarter-inch pad of activated carbon sewn in the butt would throw up a few flags. The "Underwear Bomber" really ruined it for the rest of us.

I try to walk normal. It's not easy. I feel like I'm sitting on a bicycle seat. In fact, that's one of the excuses I've decided to give if my underwear are called into question, "They're just bike shorts."

But that wouldn't explain the placement of the padding.

I could go with the bike-short excuse or just tell the truth.

I've brought the packaging along as proof. There's a drawing of the Gas Eaters with arrows pointing to the airtight fabric, the filter, and the "porous pocket material for escaping gas."

Unfortunately, the Gas-Eater diagram looks like it was designed by a high school student and printed out on the latest $99 printer. At best it looks like a gag gift that you would buy at Spencer's Gifts for that hard-to-buy-for uncle who lives in his sweatpants and claims to be able to fart the alphabet. At worst, it looks like I'm a terrorist harboring explosives in my drawers.

If I got caught, who knows what unspeakable pat-downs the TSA agents would perform on me.

I'm waved through the metal detector. I put my laptop in my bag, slip back into my shoes, and waddle off to my gate.

I'm relieved. But no one can tell.

—

Before I slipped out the door to catch my flight, I slipped on a pair of Gas Eaters. They go over your regular underwear because the material isn't all that comfortable. Their air-tightness makes them a bit hot. In fact, they are kind of like those vinyl sweat jackets that wrestlers wear to make weight except they are underwear and they eat farts.

I don't care if you are a 95-pound beauty queen, a prim and proper grandma, or a guy wearing a "Farting is just another way to say I love you" T-shirt, at some point in time you've been on a plane and felt the urge to off-gas a bit.

You considered those sitting around you: Will they know it's me? Can I blame it on the guy in the fart T-shirt?

You considered your health: I am feeling really bloated from that airport burrito.

According to gastroenterologist Dr. Michael Levitt there are dangerous side effects from holding in farts, including headaches, dizziness, and becoming bloated.

We all face the decision: let it out or hold it in?

The decision is made easier if you are wearing Gas Eaters.

Fifteen minutes after takeoff, I feel the urge. There is a seat between me and the casually dressed businessman in my row. In front of me is a baby, behind me a toddler. Any of the three could share the blame if the Gas Eaters don't work. Reluctantly, I test them.

Consider this. On average homo sapiens flatulate a half-liter of gas per day, dispersed over ten individual periods of relief. Each fart is about half-a-cup in volume. As a pressure decreases, say like when a plane ascends, gas expands. A flight to Hawaii can take half-a-day. A 747 seats around 400 passengers. This means that on a flight to Hawaii there are about 119 2-liter bottles worth of farts floating around.

Unless they are held in, which mine was not.

A few moments pass. I wait to see what happens. Okay, maybe see isn't quite the right sense. Regardless, none of my senses picked up anything new.

The Gas Eaters worked!

It's a sort of freedom. No longer do I have to weigh the biological effects of "holding it in" with the undesirable social effects of "letting it out."

In 2006 a woman on a flight from Washington D.C. to Ft. Worth, Texas farted and forced the plane to land. Well, it wasn't exactly the fart, it was the match she lit to hide the fart that forced the landing. She has been banned from flying with American Airlines for a long time. And all because she farted and tried to hide it. If she would have been wearing a pair of Gas Eaters she wouldn't have delayed the travel plans of her 99 fellow passengers.

In his essay, "Fart Proudly" Benjamin Franklin (yes, that Benjamin Franklin) wrote, "Were it not for the odiously offensive smell accompanying such escapes, polite people would probably be under no more restraint in discharging such wind in company, than they are in spitting or in blowing their noses."

More than 200 hundred years later, thanks to Gas Eaters, we can fart proudly, even on a plane…if we get by TSA.

Death to Pine Trees…er…Merry Christmas

Once a year I use a saw.

Actually, usually I watch someone else use a saw, but this year we saved $40 by going to a Christmas tree farm where we had to do the sawing ourselves. Our kill is now displayed in our living room.

More photos from the kill

VICTORIA'S SECRET: A Christmas Story

(Photo by Smath via Flickr Creative Commons)

[I wrote the piece below a few years ago about shopping for my then-girlfriend/now-wife, Annie, at Victoria's Secret. I've vowed to post it every Christmas so other fellas know what to expect if they venture into the plush palace of pink. I haven't stepped foot in the store since.]

For most of my life I've pretended that Victoria didn't exist and that her secret meant nothing to me.

Countless times I passed her store, without so much as a sideways glance. Even if I wasn't shopping with my my girlfriend (now wife) Annie, I vowed not to scan her windows. Why? Because, I wasn't a perve.

It's surprising how developed ones peripheral vision can become. Through mine I saw a pink palace of plush carpet. Everything seemed as soft as a cloud – the lace, the fabric, the cleavage. Inside, leggy, buxom young ladies spoke with accents as they advised hot young co-eds on the wonders of the Wonder Bra. And, oh, the changing rooms. What delicate little rooms of privacy they must be.

With a little imagination my peripheral vision was at least 20/20. Damn near X-ray.

It's the Wednesday afternoon before Christmas. It happens fast, like a decision to itch your elbow. One moment I'm feigning interest in the candle store across the hall and now I'm walking towards her. Face to face with Victoria.

I'm going in.

Table after table stacked with underwear. Walls lined with bras. If I had died at the age of 13, this is where I would have gone. And, in turn, if I would have gone here at the age of 13, I would have died. My chest is tight and rises and falls with a shudder, each breath shorter than the last. I need help. I need to get in and get out as quickly as possible.

I find her folding underwear. She's wearing an earpiece to get updates on urgent stock issues regarding nighties. She has dark hair, dark eyes, and an air of holiday retail disgust. She's a little heavy, and not very leggy or buxom. I picture her in her underwear. I picture the guy who just walked in with the Yankees cap turned backwards in his underwear. In an underwater store it's hard not to picture everybody in their underwear.

"I need help," I say.

"What can I do for you?" She stops folding.

"I want to buy my girlfriend the most comfortable underwear you have," I say. To be honest, I feel a little stupid saying underwear in public to a complete stranger. I ponder using undergarment or skivvies or anything that sounds more prudish.

"Here are some of our more comfortable bras." She says as she motions to the wall of bras. Cupped and hanging perfectly as if being modeled by some invisible babes.

I nod.

"Does she wear these?" She points. Then she motions to her own chest. "They cup higher. Or these that are a little lower?"

"Whatever is the most comfortable." I emphasize comfort too inform her that I'm not like those other guys that come in looking for a little nylon and spandex to sculpt their ladies and leave their secret treasures secret, but just barely so. The perverts.

"What size is she?"

I stare at her searching. I've snuck a peak or two at Annie's bras lying on the bathroom floor. Most are faded and worn to the point where the tags are unreadable. But just yesterday I saw one of her newer ones, no less than five years old. Every guy wants to know his ladies digits.

"What color?"

"White." White is not sexy. It's everyday. Red or black would be selfish – like I was dressing her up for me. This isn't about me. She buys her underwear in packs of 5 at Wal-Mart. I want to treat her to something special that she wouldn't buy for herself.

"How much is it?" I say.

"$45."

I act like I'm not doing any conversions. That $45 dollars does not equal hours' worth of work. That $45 couldn't buy me enough underwear to last three years or enough pizza to last a week. $45 Dollars!

"Okay." I say.

She hands me the bra.

I'm holding a bra. I've never held a bra in the privacy of my own home and now here I am at the mall holding one.

"How about panties to match?"

"Sure." Panties! Panties! Aren't panties underwear. I wish she would call them underwear.

"What kind does she wear?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess something like those." I point with the hand not holding the bra. The bra-holding hand isn't going anywhere. It is frozen.

"Well unless your girlfriend is an 85-year-old grandma she doesn't wear those," she says.

"Here, she probably wears something like this – the string bikini bottoms."

Pardon me for not knowing my undergarments, but for a moment I think that string bikini equals thong. I am on the verge of hanging myself with the bra. And then she holds up non-thong underwear. Thank God.

"Yeah, something like that would work," I say, hoping she will hand them to me so I can run for the counter.

She doesn't. "Now, seamed or seamless?"

"I guess seamless. They sound more comfortable. Besides," I point to the table of seamed bottoms, "those look like the ones she gets in Wal-Mart by the bundle. Really, is there any difference…?" I continue on down this path completely and unintentionally devaluing this woman's position as an undergarment salesperson before I finally realize that I should just shut it.

"This table is all seamless," she says.

She starts to look through the neatly folded piles of panties, when she is interrupted, "Excuse me. I'm about a size 6. What would that be?" The woman is in her 40's and appears to be calm as can be, as if she spent everyday searching out the perfect pair of underwear while 27-year-old me looks on.

I picture her in her underwear. I can't help myself. I'm completely not attracted to this lady. Actually, she's pissing me off. Who does she think she is trying to steal my sales rep (whatever her name is – I won't read the name tag for fear that she thinks I'm trying to check out her chest)?

They continue on to talk about sizes and cuts.

I don't hear them. I've got bigger problems. The realization has set in: I have to touch panties. The search for a medium begins. Ever so gently I pick through the stack.

Minutes or days go by, when the sales rep says, "You may want to consider these boy cut panties."

Miss Size Six says, "I always wanted to try a pair of those."

"Are they comfortable?" I ask.

"Yep, just like the bikinis. You can barely tell they are there. The main difference is that a little bit of butt cheek hangs out the bottom."

She motions with her hand to where they hit her butt cheek. I picture her in boy cut panties. I picture Miss Size Six in boy cut panties. Hell, I picture me in boy cut panties.

"The boys," she nods at me, "really like that."

"Well which ones are more comfortable?" I ask.

"They're the same. It all depends if you want to buy them for you or her."

The torture! Deep down I hope that the pink of my surroundings disguises the flush in my face.

"I'll just go with those." I point to the bikinis.

"What color?"

I hem-haw around as if it doesn't really matter to me. Color doesn't really matter to us guys who just want to treat their ladies to overpriced seamless undergarments. Why would we care? Only pervs care.

"Here's a white pair to match the top."

Now I'm holding panties and a bra. I leave the two women talking about butt-cheek-hanging-outage and how much is sexy and how much is just too much.

If I wanted, I could crush up both garments and shove them into my pocket. They would take up next to no room, yet the check out girl feels the need to put them in a stiff pink bag with "Victoria's Secret" written in big, sexy cursive. As quick as I can, I stuff the bag into another bag.

I bound out of the store. I don't look back. Once again, I pretend Victoria's Secret doesn't exist.

Kelsey on Kelsey & an offer to all my readers

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(With a few co-authors in North Carolina)

Nope, this isn't me talking about myself. Below the cut you'll find excerpts of a report a girl named Kelsey did on Where Am I Wearing? for her high school Social Studies class.

WAIW has found its way into classrooms in middle schools and graduate-level courses, into book reports and theses, into the hands of students who are studying globalization for the first time and professors who've studied it their entire lives.

It's fun to write something and then have so many people tell you what it meant to them or how they saw it. They bring their own beliefs, world-views, and global perspectives into the discussion. Every reader is indeed my co-author.

AN OFFER YOU CAN'T REFUSE

I owe them all. If I divvied up my advance or royalties, everyone might get enough to buy a really, really cheap cup of coffee. So here's an offer: If you've read Where Am I Wearing? and you are passing through Muncie, Indiana, I'll totally meet you for cup of coffee and we can talk about the next book we'll work on together.

Deal?

Where am I Wearing? Book Review by Kelsey (High School Student)

August 11th, 2010

The title of the Geography book I chose is called Where Am I Wearing?.

…

Kelsey travels to Bangladesh, where he goes undercover as an underwear buyer. This trip is a success and he meets lots of interesting people, such as the factory owners, the workers, the people in the village, and even a formal supermodel! The supermodel was Bibi Russell. Bibi moved back to Bangladesh (her home country) in 1994. Bibi helps Bangladesh EXTREMELY much, she helps the local weavers know what's in style and she gives them access to the global market. [KT Note: I always try to work a supermodel into a story when possible.]

…

Part 3 Cambodia (Levi's Jeans):

When you don't have much, family is everything, The following statement describes the life of the workers that make our Levi's jeans in Cambodia.

…

After visiting Li Xin, and before leaving China, Kelsey goes to the Chinese Wal-Mart. It's like a section of a mall, everything is smaller: the rows, the items (in quantities), and also the amount of cars in the parking lot. However, they do have live alligators and snakes….

…

Kelsey gets married! And where does he go to visit on his honeymoon of course, the factory where his shorts were made! Perry, New York is where his shorts were made, it's sorta on their way to Niagara Falls, his wife, Annie doesn't seem to mind though. He meets the EXACT person who made his shorts, and visited the exact factory where they were made. I consider this an extremely great success!

…

The main point that the author would like to get across to the reader is when it comes to clothing, others make it, and we have it made.

Through our clothes we think about folks around the world.

Kelsey examines his own place in the global economy and spends some time asking workers about where they see themselves.

The goal of the book is to have the readers question their own place in the consumer/producer relationship.

Technology has made it easier for businesses to source from around the world, which makes it easier to break bonds with a factory and move production to another factory. Many brands source from multiple countries and multiple factories.

What kind of consumer/global citizen do you want to be.

…

I liked Where Am I Wearing? very much because it taught me a lot about clothes, how they are made, and about the lives of the people who make them. Also, now whenever I put on a piece of clothing I feel that it is my duty to look at the tag and see where it was made, I also wonder about the lives of the people who made them.

The book was really good in my opinion, the only thing I might have changed is leaving out some of things about the government that went over my head. But, then again this book wasn't written necessarily written for people my age, so it's not the author's fault.

[KT: Well done Kelsey! When I was 14 I was busy playing TECMO bowl, shooting myself with a BB gun, and/or wrecking our go-kart.]

Goodwill Hunting: A professional outfit for $30

Is it possible to get an outfit that you could wear to a job interview at Goodwill for under $30?

Yep!

I work with a group in Muncie called Teamwork for Quality Living that matches up members of the community who are trying to get out of poverty (captains) with other members of the community (allies). Together we break down the barriers that can keep someone living in poverty. One of those barriers might be: "I can't afford nice clothes to get a good job."

Teamwork teamed up with Ball State University's fashion department to bust that myth.

(Note: this is about the only time you'll see me wearing a sports coat.)

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