When Life Give Us Lemons...

 Last summer Youngest found out that on his father's side they make a traditional Italian limoncello. He was given a nip bottle at a family reunion and loved it.  About a month later, I found out that he had called his uncle to see if he knew how to make it. He didn't. So, I did some research, and in what will likely be known as epic Mom fail number 8,971, mentioned to him that if he wanted to learn how, we could probably do it together. 

The idea has floated out there since Christmas with not much to it.  But as he secured everything in the garage, he noted he had a handle of Titos and asked if we could make it this weekend. So, I picked up all of the necessary supplies, extra big mason jars, a zester, and an exceptionally absurd number of lemons. I also picked up mandarins so we could make a batch of orange-cello as well. 

The true test to our effort won't be known for 4 months or so, as it must steep for a long time in the vodka for the best flavor. The best limoncello is made with Everclear or other grain alcohol that proofs over 100%, but we figured the Titos would be a slightly less shock to everyone's system this fall if it turns out worthy of being gifted. I also had some vanilla beans and a small amount of Titos left so I am making some vanilla extract as well. We shall see.

I tried to talk to him while we were zesting lemons, but my days of feeling like I've made headway have come and gone.  The last "break in" in the garage has left us all on edge. I installed another camera and check the locks routinely now. We're locking the cars, and I check the cameras when the light sensors come on. Youngest ripped his door off the track thinking someone was in his room.  We are all on edge even though, since we're now locked down like a fortress, it's highly unlikely it will happen again.

I have talked until I am blue in the face. I have tried every angle.  And although I know he sees that he needs to let go of all of these people, he just can't. His circle has gotten smaller and smaller and yet he can't walk away. I've offered school, therapy, a life coach, and nothing. Tonight, as I listened to his big business plans, I finally broke. While I love his enthusiasm and gusto for what he wants to do, he has no drive or plan to get any of it done. While he talks a great plan, he's not passionate about it, not committed.  When he wanted to read, he buckled in and didn't quit until he was the #1 reader in his entire school.  When he wanted to wrestle, he went every day to training, worked out, ate well, studied other wrestlers, and committed to training 4-6 days a week for 4 years until he reached a level he was happy with. 

But this dream of owning a smoke shop, it's easily derailed. He talks of one direction, then changes completely to another. He talks web design, then when it doesn't materialize, forgets it all together. I know how to get a business started, what it takes, how to run it, and he won't discuss it with me. It all just becomes another idea up in a puff of smoke. A dream without passion, or a drive behind it, is nothing but a pipe dream. I worry that in making the limoncello I am buying a ticket to this derailed train he's on.  I straddle the line of opportunity to talk to him and the condemnation of his actions often. 

I may regret teaching him in the months to come, but at least I'll have a nice liqueur to enjoy while I lament about it. 

Does This Hat Make Me Look Crazy?

 I'm not a sound sleeper most days.  Particularly around 3 AM, aging bladder and all. So, when I heard something outside at 4AM, and noticed the security light kick on, I put on my investigative hat and shuffled out of bed to investigate. 

I saw nothing out the back, went to the front window noticing the security lights were on as well, and nothing.  I glanced out the side window, seeing a red car turn just up the road in the neighbor's driveway, and leave. I assumed it was Youngest returning home in the wee hours, not wanting to wake us, and went back to bed.

For about 10 minutes. Then I checked the security cameras. Someone had been in our garage. It was not Youngest.  The outside cameras revealed nothing, meaning he parked up the road, circled the front, came up the side yard to the back, then down along the side of the garage to slide in under the camera.  Little sh!t.  We'd upgraded the cameras since the last break in (there's been 3, all specifically targeted), even posting signs that we had cameras. And while we don't get a clear picture of his face, we know who he is, right down to his smug little delinquent swagger as he took a swig of Tito's from Youngest's shelf and put it back before he left with a pocket full of Youngest's stash. 

The Husband was meeting my BIL to photograph the sunrise downtown just 15 minutes later. Had their paths crossed, I suspect he'd have beaten him with a shovel. Instead of the police, Youngest is threating to expose this kid to his parents, after which I suspect, the kid will wish he had met our gardening arsenal instead. 

Since I could not get a hold of Youngest, I met the Hubs and my BIL for breakfast, finally letting the Hubs in on what had happened.  Now only 7AM, my blood boiling, I switched out for my landscaper hat, started digging out the dirt behind the garage, sifting out the rocks and roots, and filling in the gaps along the new stone wall. Youngest returned around 8 from his friend's house, exclaiming he needed a new phone because he'd looked everywhere and his was missing. 

Off goes the landscaper hat, and on goes my miner's cap with the spotlight, I head over with him to the friend's apartment to look, knowing it had to be there. Both boys sat idlily by for 15 minutes as I stripped the cushions from the couch, telling me over and over how hard they looked.

I emerge with the phone inside of 3 minutes, because nothings really lost until Mom can't find it, right? Both boys sat stunned as I tell youngest to put the couch back together. We return home, And I go back to sifting dirt and placing capstone, while Youngest reviews the video and tries to confirm the suspect via the neighbors cameras. Youngest remained calm on the surface, but the boiling inside has started. We discuss what needs to happen, a safe needs to be purchased, the garage door needs to be locked, he agrees. He goes to two stores, gets frustrated and goes home. He didn't bother to go where I told him to, as I had already research and priced out lock boxes a few months before after the first break in. 

Meanwhile, Hubs and I pick up his new glasses.  I play optometrist and help him adjust the earpieces.

I return home, offer to chauffeur Youngest and help him buy a safe.  He's boiling under the surface. I find other projects.

I pop on my town maintenance hard hat and make a new street sign for the neighborhood. I am in and out of the garage, not paying much attention to Youngest.  On my last trip into the garage to get a crowbar to remove the old illegible sign from the tree, Youngest boils over, threw the knife he was whittling with, accidently catching it with two fingers. I walk away to finish my project, meet up with the Hubs whose been out walking the dog, and follow a trail of blood from the garage to the bathroom.

Oldest is in there trying to get him cleaned up. Youngest is almost passing out. I put on my EMT uniform, because while he tries, I wear that hat better than Oldest.  He ended up with 2 stitches in two fingers, four total. We return home, he heads back to the garage, and I decide putting away the tools can wait. Space is what he needs, and I'm not putting on the headgear for yet another boxing match with him.

Into the craft room, with small pile of clothes that need fixing. Not sure that a seamstress wears a hat, but my tired graying ponytail atop my head will have to do.  I fix compression shorts that will likely split again.  I alter the prom dress that needs a final fitting next weekend. I fix the pocket seam that Hubs managed to bust that's inside another seam. How does that even happen? I can hear Youngest leave as I finish up down stairs.

I put on my CEO hat as I clean up the kitchen, fold laundry, go through the mail, organize the tasks for the week, and clean up the tools. That's me in the locksmith cap also as I figure out which key goes to the garage so I can make copies tomorrow between appointments. 

I don my housekeeping uniform as I strip beds and start a whole new batch of laundry.

The chef's hat, thankfully, will stay in the drawer, as the Husband fended for himself.

It's six thirty PM. and I'm already ready for my nightcap, not the alcohol one, but the old-fashioned, snuggle down into bed and forget the world kind. But, sadly, that won't happen until around 11 or so as there's still more hats to wear.

And the truth is, I am not special.  The game of hats is one most functioning adults play, just not maybe to today's extreme. People wear many hats, multiple times a day, it's the only way we can meet the demands of a society that always wants and needs more. We just pick it up and wear it, no matter how crazy it makes us look. We'll even wear hats that are so heavy we can hardly hold our heads up, no matter how ridiculous or ugly it is. And rarely do we ever question it.

Why?

Why do we do this?

I don't even look good in hats.