Gelato pic

Find a Happy Place!

Early this morning, as I was covered with a delightful lather of Italian soap in a steaming hot shower, I reached for my razor and IT WAS NOT THERE!  Where oh where could it be, I pondered.  After spending all of two seconds scrutinizing the shower (check behind the shampoo and then the conditioner) I was struck by an outrageous thought... "No.  Not possible", I said aloud to no-one in particular.  Thinking perhaps the razor was underneath the shampoo, I reinitiated my search with a different flair but to no avail.  Rinsing off what might just have been the best lather to adorn my middle age body in years, I hesitantly stepped out of the shower and braced myself for what was most assuredly going to depress me...

There it was.  My razor. On the side of the bathtub where it so does NOT belong.  Tilting my head to one side, I quickly ran through the only three possible reasons it was there: 1.) Henk had decided to forgo his electric shaving device and purvey my very old, very French razor or 2.) Wuzzy had decided to rid himself of 50 lbs of fur before the hot summer months (I quickly realized this was not possible because he only has claws, not hands). And lastly, the thought which I was attempting to mentally block began bouncing around my head: My 12 year old daughter had decided to start shaving.

OMG!  Trying to find a happy place in my mind, I jumped back into the shower and lathered up again.  Then I just stood there reliving the past few weeks...

The Monday after Easter, my sweet little daughter came home from school with a large stuffed bunny.  As it was kind of hard to hide, I immediately felt inquisitory.  "Was there a contest at school and you won?"  No, Mom.  "Did everyone get a stuffed bunny as an Easter present from the Principal?" Really, Mom?  No.  "Oh.  Where did you get the bunny?"  Emile responded with exactly what I knew she was going to say: My boyfriend gave it to me. 

My smile faded as I realized Emile had not told me she had a boyfriend.  "What boyfriend?"  Mine, she stoically responded.  OK, time for a sit down talk. 

What is your boyfriend's name?  -  Ryan

Oh, that's a nice name.  Reminds me of Lindsey's husband. - Yes, Mom.

Silence.

Well, is he in your grade? - Yes.

That's good, because age differences can be tricky!  (Snort, giggle - Me) - Whatever.

Ok, what kind of guy is Ryan? - Dunno, Mom.

What!?? What does that mean?  You said he was your boyfriend! - Mom, puleez.

Silence.

Is Ryan in Band? - Not sure.

Does he play sports? - Mom!

What does he want to be when he grows up? - (No words, just eye daggers.)

Am I bothering you, Sweetie?  I just want to know a little about your boyfriend. - Freak.

Wow.  Well, does he... - Mom? Can you just go away, I need to text Ryan.

Oh, OK.   -

Silence. Leave the room.

So that was fun.

The following week I received a text from Ryan: Hello Mrs. Tilleman, this is Ryan, Emile's boyfriend.  I was wondering if I could take Emile to the movies this weekend. Thank U.  Ryan

End of text.  I waited what I thought was a good amount of time (25 minutes) before texting him back.

Hello Ryan. This is Emile's Mom. What movie? What time? Where?  We will need a note from your doctor, psychiatrist, dentist and 5 references (double spaced, typed) plus a blood and urine sample for disease and drug testing. And most importantly Emile's father and I must meet you and your parents before you take Emile anywhere.  Capiche?

After exchanging a few texts, it was decided that Ryan and his parents would come by to meet us on Thursday after school.  Of all times, I was called out for some STATs that afternoon at a hospital 30 miles away and didn't return until nearly 8:00 pm.  Lucky for me, everyone was still holding court.

I must say that Ryan is a lovely young man:  a good look in his twinkling eye, easy with a laugh and rather forthcoming with hearty handshakes.

Regarding their proposed "date", we parents decided that the "Hunger Games" movie was probably a bit too much for the kids and gave them the choice of a Dr. Seuss movie or nothing.  Hats off to Ryan for not even flinching!

Many handshakes later, the Ryan clan left and I retired to my bedroom to look through Emile's Babybook.

On Saturday, the kids had their "date", complete with tacos at a restaurant after the movie.  Yes, I had planned a nice dinner for when Emile returned but it appears she would prefer other company than boring ol' Mom and Dad.  Although I ate Emile's portion just to stave off my depression, it didn't work. And then I bloated.

I have been told to monitor Emile's Facebook account (Thanks, Cynthia!) to make sure there are no predators mingling in her "Friends".  And so I did.  Just before writing this. Like 5 minutes ago. Guess what?  Emile describes Saturday night as "the best night ever". 

What about all those times when we played Uno?  Weren't those fun nights? 

How about that night in Florence, after we climbed so high above the Arno and ate gelato?  And that dinner in Paris, after the Eiffel Tower? Or Indonesian food at Betty and Cees's?  Remember Pizza and movies with Nana, Grampa, Lindsey, the other Ryan and us? Pajamas and Napoleon Dynamite Night was fun, wasn't it?  Or watching Gladiator with Sagey before we went to Rome? etc...

And then Emile borrowed my razor the next day.

Turning off the water, I realized I am in denial and what a happy place that is!  Glad I found it and I will live the next few months in perfect and oblivious glee.

Me Stupid

I did something very stupid and I feel compelled to share it with you, my dear readers, lest you have the same mishap. Fair warning: this is pretty gross but the worst part is not what you might think.

I chopped off most of the top digit of my left thumb. Ok, I said it. As my dear friend Corinne would say, "Stupid, stupid, stupid me!" When I consider the thousands of hours I have spent working with kitchen knives, I am ashamed...

Sjaantje Emile had a friend coming over so we decided to make fresh pizzas for dinner. Dough finished, I set it on the chopping block and ridiculously grabbed my 10" chef's knife to cut it into 4 pieces. (With dough, you must make a quick cut in order to sever the gluten strands but clearly the 10" was an overkill.) The first chop was good, quick, clean. The next caught me glancing away at precisely the wrong moment and down goes knife, off goes thumb. Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

Thank God Sjaantje was there - at first she simply rolled her eyes and said, "Stupid, stupid, stupid Mom!" but nevertheless rose to the occasion and, I think, kept me from going into shock. Calmly, she retrieved the First Aid kit from under the sink, removed my shoes (so I wouldn't bleed on them) and then told me that breathing that fast probably wasn't a good idea. (I was hyperventilating.) Hearing Henk come in the door, Sjaantje went to tell him the news..."Hey Dad! Mom just cut off her thumb - look, there it is on the cutting board. Ew. There's blood on our pizza dough!"

After stemming the blood flow and evaluating whether this was a job for him or the local hospital, Henk decided it was such a clean chop (I am good with knives, you know) that he could take care of it. He cleaned the remainder of my thumb as best he could, sterilized the severed piece and just before wrapping the booboo gently put the top of the thumb back where it rightly belonged.

That night I dreamt Henk had put the top on backwards and I was forever stuck with a thumb that looked like a pig's nose.

The next morning we needed to change the bandage and also evaluate the situation. The wound was clean; the top epilthelializing nicely to the bottom half; no more bleeding. However, we realized that my knight in shining armor needs new glasses.

Indeed, he had reattached it backwards and there was my thumbnail in the spot where my thumbprint should be. "Is this some sort of a sick joke, Henk?", I flabbergastedly asked.

You can surmise that I had to rip that piece off again (PAIN!) which led to another stemming the blood session. The piece was put on the table but somehow had disappeared when Henk next needed it. That was about the time we noticed Wuzzy sitting there all polite like he does when he wants ANOTHER treat.

I warned you this was a gross story!

The irony is this happened just one day after Henk and I wrote our proposal for a private dining club chez Tilleman, planned 4 adult cooking classes for the spring and detailed a proposal for a children's cooking camp.  All cooking lessons begin with a knife skills class.

The thumb is healing nicely, no worries about any infections. It's going to look pretty funky but I am not concerned about that. Besides, there's always a silver lining: I will forever get a 10% discount on any manicure in the future.