If Annie and I mated

Which I guess we did. Could this really be the result? Poor kid.

With thanks to my dog and cat…

My mom wanted me to thank my childhood dog Sammy, a dog that has survived coon dog paralysis and whose tail never stops wagging, in my acknowledgments.

Annie wanted me to thank Oreo, the cat who own me, hogs my chair, and sprawls out across my notes.

I thanked neither.

After reading an article titled “With Thanks to My Cat” in London’s Guardian, I’m glad I chose to reserve my thanks for two-legged creatures. I found the article while Googling for tips on writing acknowledgments. The article features many of the clichés included in acknowledgements in quotes, including “my cat,” “incomparable editor,” “ceaseless attention,” “tireless encouragement,” etc.

I tried to avoid many of them, but at least one “without whom this book would not have been possible” snuck through. Darn gratitude, anyhow.

The article briefly addresses dedications with this frightening mix up:

The publisher of one of CP Snow’s novels scribbled on the proofs when sending them back to the printer the rather exotic name (let us call her Samantha) of the printer who was to deal with them. And she, being absent on holiday, could not prevent “For Samantha” appearing on the dedication page - to the alarm of Snow’s wife, Pamela Hansford Johnson.

If this happened to my book, and it ended up being dedicated to Samantha, Sheila, Tyra, Oprah, or whomever, I’d be in it deep. Annie would beat me. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

Another Timmerman to be published this Fall!

My brother’s doctoral dissertation is going to be published in the Journal of Leukocyte Biology in November. You can read the abstract HERE. Have a taste:

Exercise training or higher levels of physical activity are known to exert anti-inflammatory effects. CD14+CD16+ monocytes are potent producers of inflammatory proteins, and elevated levels of these “inflammatory” monocytes have been implicated in disease development. Little is known about the influence of exercise training on this cell population.

People back home often refer to Kyle as the smart one. An argument that I disagree with by pointing to tales of lost keys, drowned cell phones, and temporary lapses of common sense as evidence that he is not.

Although, when I read stuff like this, I start to agree with them.

If Kyle is the Smart One, I guess that makes me the Dumb One.

DOH!

COMING TO A LIBRARY NEAR YOU….THE BROTHERS TIMMMERMAN!

To jet-ski or not to jet-ski

I’ve never been much of a fan of the jet-ski. I’ve always looked at them as reckless boat parasites that tailed skiers too close in search of wakes to jump.

This weekend when I found myself on a jet-ski having fun, I was a bit surprised. I had been on jet-skis before and they never really did it for me. But I never had been on a jet-ski with my nephew, Jared, 4.

That little guy sat in front of me urging me to go faster and to do more tricks. He made motor sounds. He talked to himself as if he were at the wheel of a race car or spaceship. Who knows?

We had a blast. Check us out…

The sweet stink of memories

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.

Worth more dead or alive?

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)

Social Butterflies

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?

Baby Timmerman at 13 weeks

Our future Touron Prince or Princess. He/she looks like she’s either blowing kisses or smoking. Let’s go with the kisses.

Me, seven years later

In the younger of the two photos I was in Australia on my first ever-extended trip. I was fresh out of college, starting out on an adventure that would eventually lead to a career that seemed unattainable. I was 5 years into a relationship with Annie who was half a world away still in school. I was in the middle of a road trip from Cairns to Melbourne in a Ford station wagon that I bought for a little over $1,000. The camera sat on a file cabinet in the home of the nephew of legendary Aussie adventurer Alby Mangels.

In the older of the two I was sitting behind our house in our landscape before my wife. I was fresh off writing my first book, starting out on an adventure that would surely change me forever – fatherhood. I was 1 year into a marriage to a patient woman who always waited for me to come home. Annie held the camera and was sure to tell me when I was making a “bad face” or “crazy eyes”.

Goodbye to my 21-year old bio photo. Hello 30.

Happy Father’s Day….TO ME!!!!

I’m going to be a dad! Annie is due New Year’s Eve, which begs the question is it better to be born in the old year for tax purposes or in the New Year and maybe make the local news as the first baby of 2009?