Another tremor…

On the Carole King scale of measuring earthquakes it was about like this…

I hope the quakes stop because I’m not sure if I can find any more awful renditions of “I Feel the Earth Move” on YouTube.

The Earth moving under my feet

Annie and I, along with many others across the Midwest, experienced our first earthquake this morning. We were asleep when our bed started to shake.

“Was that an earthquake?” Annie turned to me and asked.

“Nah”

We both went back to sleep.

If you are wondering what an earthquake is like in Indiana. It’s kind of like this:

As opposed to one in California, which, I imagine, is more like this:

Three thousand words: My wife the Ninja

Yesterday we were playing with Annie’s nephew when she busted out the kick-ass-kung-fu-guy-gets-knocked-down-and-then-hops-back-up-to-kick-your-butt move. I’m not sure if she has ever impressed me more. Just another reason why I (can’t) don’t beat her.

A Thousand Words…My Brother’s Wedding in SLC Utah

…At First Sight

The Brothers Timmerman

Dad can’t spell Y-M-C-A

The Village People with Class

Where do I come from?

Darke County, Ohio.

That’s right, I didn’t say a city or a town. There are only 50,000 people in the entire county and a fair amount of them live in the country. They don’t live on streets; they live on rural routes or hyphenated roads between tiny burgs (Hillgrove - Woodington Rd).

Your typical Darke Countian likes guns, is against abortion, and votes Republican.

The Washington Post featured Darke County, in a story today titled: In Rural Ohio, It’s No Country for Democrats.

Some highlights:

- Greenville is the seat of Darke County, which typically ranks first in the state in corn and soybean production.

When I write about playing in flat-fields of corn and beans as a kid, I know what I’m talking about.

- For county Democratic Party Chairman James Surber, it is a place to contemplate the most puzzling human behavior. “I have always said that the three most baffling questions you could ponder forever are: What’s the meaning and purpose of life? Why is Bruce Willis a star? And why do farmers vote Republican?”

I never knew there was another Democrat in the county besides me and my mom. (Yep, Dad’s a Republican.)

- And the way you pull wedgies out is simple — you say it’s a lie.

Okay, that quote is a little out of context. You probably could tell it was because everybody knows the way you pull a wedgie out is to have a good friend stand behind hind you so nobody can see when you reach down your drawers and pick it out. You could lie until your nose was ten-foot long and that’s going to do nada for that wedgie. You gotta pick it out. What does the Washington Post know? Someone should give them a wedgie.

- “I’m a Christian lady and I kind of like that Huckabee, Huckletree, however you pronounce it. And I think McCain is too old. And I like that fella who is running against Hillary, and he was my choice until I heard what he said the other day.” She wouldn’t say what he said. “And I didn’t want a woman. That’s a man’s job being president. I don’t think God put a woman here to run the country. Well, her husband was in there already. They don’t need that much more money, do they?”

God Bless (Help) Darke County.

(I first saw the story on John Scalzi’s Whatever)

A new category: Cat’s and their writers

The cat, Oreo, that let’s me occupy her house has now decided the chair – which was the only thing in the entire home which was solely mine – is pretty cozy. We’re sharing for now. But I foresee a future where I will write on the floor and she will supervise from above.

Oreo already dictates when I can and cannot work. Although, she did send me a Valentine this year, which makes her less of an evil dictator. It read:

(Outside) Today I though about clawing you to pieces and feasting on the remains. But I didn’t.

(Inside) If that’s not love, what is?

I’ve made a static page here that will feature cat’s and their writers. Whether you are a writer or not, if you’re owned by a cat in your office send a photo and I’ll add it.

Obama’s T-Shirts: Made in USA

I can look out the window of my day job’s office in Greenville, Ohio, and see the company (Tiger Eye Design) that’s printing and shipping T-shirts, buttons, key chains, and other swag to Obama-backers everywhere. All the products are made in the USA by union workers.

The company was featured in Time Magazine and also on the local news:

Victoria’s Secret: a non-pervs quest to buy his girlfriend underwear

I wrote this piece last year and read it for Annie before I gave her the gift I bought. It’s about the lengths we’ll go to buy a gift for loved ones. It’s about not being a perv. It’s about shopping for the most comfortable and non-sexy bra and panties in the World at Victoria’s Secret.

Merry Christmas,

Kelsey

VICTORIA’S SECRET
by Kelsey Timmerman

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 look. Even if I wasn’t shopping with my mom or my girlfriend 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 while and now I’m walking towards her. Face to face with Victoria.

I’m going in.

Table after table of 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-check-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.

The Christmas Inventory has begun

Last night I received my first gift of clothing – a Columbia sweatshirt made in Sri Lanka. (Thanks, Randy and Sheila.) I’ve added it to the “The First Annual Where Are YOU Wearing Christmas Inventory Contest of Destiny” post.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to make it to my mom’s family’s Christmas in Illinois this past weekend. We got about 8 inches of snow that came along with 40 mph winds. Mom’s family has a tradition of gifts that require explanations and/or are accompanied by belly-aching “please-stop-or-I-might-pass-out” laughter, and the occasional inappropriate comment that puts the X in X-mas. We have a blast. And it’s just not the same giving or receiving gifts when were not all crammed in my Grandma’s basement trying to crack lude jokes without grandma or the younger, more sensitive cousins catching on.

For instance, I bought a plastic gold chalice bejeweled with the word “PIMP” for a cousin who is in his first year of college. The value of this gift is not in its utilitarian function, but in its opening and the eruption of laughter that follows. Now, the UPS man will leave it at his dorm. My cousin will take it back to his room and open it alone, or perhaps in the company of his roommate, and think that I’m even weirder than he thought I was.

I have a notion to take the chalice back to the store. But what could I say? It’s embarrassing enough spending twenty bucks on a gold chalice bejeweled with the word “PIMP”, but it would be even more so returning it. “Err…I thought those were real jewels.” Or “It was gift for my cousin. He already had a gold chalice bejeweled with the word PIMP.”

The guilt of nothing

Ever have one of those days where you out-lazy the family pet? I had one Saturday.

Annie was Christmas shopping with her family for the day and it was just me and Oreo.

OREO: “Are you just going to sit there all day?”

ME: “What have you done today Ms. Perrrductive.”

OREO: “I cleaned my belly. Took a nap. Ate. Stared at the ceiling for no apparent reason because I like to make you think I see ghosts. And stuck my butt in your face. All-in-all, I’ve been pretty busy. What have you done?”

ME: “I’ve lead the Fighting Illini in NCAA Basketball 2005 to a 10-0 record.”

OREO: “That’s pathetic. I saw what you did. You made a guy that could jump higher, run faster, and shoot better than any one player in the history of basketball. The worst part is that you named him after yourself in a sad attempt to live the basketball glory that was never your own.”

ME: “Ouch!”

OREO: “Have you done anything else?”

ME: “I watched four football games. Ate two waffles and one taco. Watched a dude paraglide over Mt. Everest on the Discovery Channel, brushed my teeth, and pushed you out of my face when you did that demeaning butt presentation thing that you do.”

OREO: “You’ve done nothing all day. Now, go get me some food. And while your at it how about some more water? Don’t forget the ice – crushed not cubed.”

It’s amazing how much can be done in a single day. I’ve had big days in which I swam with sharks and sea lions, climbed the mast of a pirate ship, stood on the peaks of mountains, and gotten married. Others have flown over Mt. Everest, founded nations, discovered continents, and orbited the earth, all in a single day.

But there is also a lot of nothing that can be done in a single day. Saturday I may have broken the record. By the days end I had a headache, bloodshot eyes, a rotten belly, a cobwebby head, and one cat with a major superiority complex.

I’m still trying to recover. Sometimes “nothing” can be a lot of work.