I had someone email me today asking about where our clothes come from. Here’s the short answer: 97% come from outside of the U.S., mostly from China.
And here’s that answer visually, courtesy of worldmapper:
The map is accompanied with this interesting tid bit:
Of all earnings from international trade, 7% is earned from clothing exports.
This morning the smell of dew and skunk triggered the memory of a stinky encounter I had one morning jogging before high school.
I recounted the experience in a column that has run in Endurance Magazine and the Dayton City Paper. Here it is…
Skunks Stink
An early morning trail run gone wrong
By Kelsey Timmerman
I didn’t have a chance. Evolution was against me as I faced one of nature’s most terrifying animals.
Tens of millions of years had sharpened its glistening teeth and long claws into serrated flesh-tearers, but it’s not a frontal attack that inspires the terror. Nature perfectly placed two glands around the anus capable of packing a punch that would be far more remembered than any bite or scratch. A racer stripe of white runs down the animal’s coat of jet black fur, nature’s yield sign to any interested predators.
I was face to face with a skunk.
It was years ago on an early morning trail run before high school that I encountered skunkus stinkus. I caught a brief glimpse of black and white in the weeds alongside the trail. My heart jumped to my throat and I let out a shriek of surprise. I swear the skunk screamed too.
Nature had not only prepared the skunk for this moment, but also man. In defense, I went into a standing fetal position first perfected by an unlucky caveman about to be chomped on by a T-Rex. Cowering a fraction too long, I gave the surprised creature ample time to turn and aim its horrible little butt glands.
I kept running, thinking to myself, I wonder if that skunk sprayed me. I reached the end of the trail and still no smell. Turning into my driveway, Still no smell, but I wonder why Sammy (my dog) is not coming near me. I walked into the house, up the stairs to where my mom was getting ready for work, “Do I smell like skunk?”
She covered her face and muffled, “OH MY GOD,” fighting not to gag.
In cartoons, odors are often depicted as clouds in the shape of a finger beckoning characters to fresh apple pie. This was kind of like that, but far less pleasing. I sensed a presence coming up the stairs and I turned to face it. It was then that the odor balled up a fistful of stank and decked me across the face.
Mom quickly shooed me out of the house, and proceeded to call everyone we knew. That’s the thing about extreme skunk stink, once the nausea stops the laughing begins.
I arrived to school late with dried tomato juice in my ear. It was the only day I attended high school wearing cologne.
Rendezvous with Pepe
Skunks are nocturnal animals, putting early morning and evening joggers at the highest risk of smelly encounters.
If you encounter a skunk, don’t panic, be cool. In a calm fashion run away from the furry little devil as fast as you can. When you think you are beyond a skunk’s firing range, run some more, some skunks can shoot their malicious mix up to 15 feet.
If you receive a direct spray, people literally will be able to smell you a mile away. This will hinder your social life. Soon you will experience “olfactory fatigue” a phenomena where you can no longer smell the skunk spray. Whatever you do, do not bathe in tomato juice. This is an old wives’ tale. By doing so, you will accomplish nothing: You will smell like tomatoes to yourself, you will smell like skunk and tomatoes to others, and worse yet, you will look like an idiot walking around with dried tomato juice in your ears.
Trust me. I know.
To rid yourself of Pepe’s perfume, mix and bathe with:
- 1 Quart of 3% hydrogen peroxide
- ¼ of baking soda
- 1 teaspoon of liquid soap
It’s important to remember that skunks aren’t all bad. Some people raise them as pets, put necklaces on them, pose them next to American flags, and put them in skunk shows (I’m not kidding! Check out www.skunks.org). One researcher from the University of New Mexico believes so strongly that skunks are given a bad rap that he formed “The Dragoo Institue for the Betterment of Skunks and Skunk Reputation.”
Whether you are a member of Dr. Dragoo’s skunk pep squad, an owner of a pet skunk, or an innocent runner coming face to face with the critter, there’s no doubt about it…skunks stink.
I’m writing my acknowledgments for the book.
Annie wants me to thank Oreo – the cat that owns me. But what if you think I owe you a “shout-out” and you turn to the acknowledgements expecting to read how you’ve inspired me only to find that I’ve thanked the cat and not you?
I’m proceeding with caution.
While I don’t want to leave anyone out, I also don’t want to thank everyone in my entire life that has helped me. Droning on name after name, thank-you after thank-you, could seem pathetic. It might be the only time I’ll ever have a chance to thank my childhood baby sitter in print, but I feel like I should act like it’s not. Like this is the first of many such opportunities. Let’s hope it is.
I’m trying to stick to the people that purely played a roll in the story of my book – inspired it, informed it, gave life to it, participated in it, believed in it, or put up with me in the research and writing of it.
Who knows, you might make the list? The readers of WAIW? have been many of the above. There’s one way to ensure that you’ll make the cut – bribe me.
(Note: I’m kidding. Please don’t send me money.)
For $100 I’ll thank you for your help with the manuscript.
For $500 I’ll mention that your guidance was invaluable and your wisdom vast.
For the bargain price of $1,000 I’ll call you my muse.
For $50,000 I’ll make you a co-author.
Have any other suggestions of ways to be mentioned in the acknowledgements and the price tag that should accompany it?
My life is officially insured now. If something were to happen to me in the near future, please point investigators in Annie’s direction, since she is my sole beneficiary.
I don’t expect that she would harm me, but it’s never really been to her benefit to do so until now. Also, she possesses super-human pregnant lady strength, which, as everyone knows is the best kind of strength because no one can fight back lest they be accused of fighting a pregnant lady.
Thanks.
(Note: This has nothing to do with my most recent death threat)
K’Nex, makers of Lincoln Logs, are in the cross heirs of the National Labor Committee for the poor conditions under which a Sesame Street play set is produced. The play set in questions is Ernie’s Building Set.
From the story in the New York Daily News:
“Every single labor law in China was being violated at this factory,” said Charles Kernaghan, director of the committee.
The report says that 600 workers - including 100 16-year-olds and some children as young as 13 - are forced to work seven days a week, up to 15 hours a day, often going for months without a day off.The workers are allegedly paid 43 cents an hour and sometimes forced to work 23.5 hour shifts.
The Ernie Building Set in question retails for $10.99.
In the interest of full disclosure: Ernie is my favorite Sesame Street character. I never cared much for Bert.
A Senator might be endorsing Where am I Wearing.
It’s not everyday underwear workers in Bangladesh make the news in Ohio, but there are exceptions:
This story in the Hudson Times
Of all of the Anti-sweatshop movements, I think protesting against how the government spends their money is the most effective. Voters should have a say where their money goes. Besides, if anyone should support American business it’s the government.
The main champions of this cause are the passionate folks at Sweatfree Communities.
I’m a huge Garfield fan, so I never would have guessed that I would like the comic strip minus the cat.
Garfield minus Garfield removes Garfield from the comic, making poor Jon Arbuckle look like a schizo.
Hilarious and brilliant all in one.
I’m not really sure about this whole social networking thing.
I realize that statement is so 2005, but I’m a little late onto the scene here. Now you can be my friend on Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter. And I want to be your friend, especially since my newly opened accounts are relatively friendless. Heck, with only 4 friends, I’m a MySpace hermit.
I guess that my issue is, who really cares what I’m doing this very second? Who am I to think you care?
Look at me trying to have my humble pie and eat it too. You’re reading this on my blog, at the domain name I registered, hosted by a travel community that I pitched an idea to. I have another domain name that’s simply my name: kelseytimmerman.com. And that’s nothing compared to the fact that I wrote a 300-page book where I am the central character.
If that’s not the opposite of humble, what is?
If it weren’t for the book, I don’t think I would have joined many of these sites. I saw the YouTube clip below on my agent’s website. In it an author is being drilled by his publicist to join all of the social networking sites. After watching him squirm, I thought I would circumvent any such conversations. So I joined.
I even downloaded Second Life and flew around a virtual reality world with my T-shirt-clad avatar hoping no one would talk to me because I wasn’t sure how to talk back. That’s 30 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.
Doesn’t promotion look like fun?
Now that I have joined everything from MySpace to Twitter, I’m kinda like…meh. But it’s beginning to grow on me. I admit it is kind of cool getting updates on people that I haven’t seen in a long time and to see when someone has moved cities, or is having a birthday. A few of my friends even have changed their relationship status. I thought about posting a note on their wall congratulating or consoling them, but I didn’t. I’m still waiting for someone to change their gender; that would definitely warrant a “wall-to-wall”. I’ve even made some new “friends”.
I feel a little silly belonging to all of these networks, but I’m a firm believer that everyone has a story, so why shouldn’t they have a Facebook or Twitter account.
If you’ve got one…wanna be my friend?
I’ve probably drunk less than half-a-case of Budweiser in my life. I know, I know that’s very un-American of me and very, very un-Midwestern American of me. But Budweiser has brought me great joy, all the same. (And NO, Annie did not fall for me after a night of heavy Bud drinking either.)
I’ve enjoyed Budweiser’s ads, especially the Real Men of Courage ads – brilliant.
And I always enjoy being in a foreign country and seeing Budweiser listed under the imports. Do foreigners actually pay more money to drink American beer than their local flavor, which probably tastes better (and less filling), anyhow? Why? Does it help them capture some of the rugged, do-it-yourself boot-strap-pullin’ up, raw Americanism?
Alas, those days are gone. Now Budweiser is a Belgium beer. Even though it will probably start tastin’ greater and be less filling, I’m sad to see Budweiser go the way of so many other victims of American inflation.
Budweiser…(grabs bottle of Becks)…this ones for you.
hi@kelseytimmerman.com 
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