Street cred...

Yesterday, bittersweet. One of my very favorite loveables of all time got terminated.

Set free, at least from our juvenile system.

I asked about his "last meal" and he said he wanted fried ice-cream.

Or mud cake with gummy worms.

I made the cake in the morning and before lunch ran out to get him a card and a little something.

This kid is one who worries me in lots of ways. Just this week he jumped out of a moving car and butted into a domestic issue going on in the parking lot.

The loveable, 5 feet 2 inches of pure bad-ass-ness went after a big grown man who had his finger wagging and his loud voice yelling in a woman's face.

"You don't just run up on things like that" I warn.

 "You don't know what that guy could have had in his pocket" another staff member says.

"And that guy doesn't know what I might have in mine" he replies.

I hug him at least three times before he leaves for court.

"I hope to never, ever see you again here" I say as he walks out the door.

"I'll visit as a free man, okay?" he responds.

Later, we make enchiladas in class.

It's Ground Hog's Week Month Year Day here at Day Treatment.

Today we have a few onlookers, they are new to our department.

They are commenting amongst themselves about the subjects being discussed.

I tell them that they should be around when we make pounded chicken breasts where the talk ALWAYS turns to how "I want them to beat their meat" (arrghhh..flippin idiots).

This day the loveables are hard at work wrapping/rolling tortillas.

Meat filled, bean filled, cheese only.

While they wrap they exchange small talk.

They are saying things they don't think we (the adults) understand.

So when one of them starts talking marijuana slang I wag my finger at them.

"She knows what we are talking about" another says with a smirk.

"No she don't" another one says.

"Do you think I came down with yesterday's rain?" I ask them.

"I want to grow marijuana" one of the loveables says "legally, like for sale."

"I'm going to name my store Wacky Tobacky" he continues.

"Wow" says the chef under his breath so only those very close to him hear "now that's original".

"Why is it exactly that each generation thinks they discovered, developed, masterminded EVERYTHING...????" I answer just as quietly.

As the job grows monotonous they start rolling the tortillas like they're rolling a joint.

They think they're very slick and that none of the staff is noticing what they're doing.

Finally, I have enough.

"Hey" I say as one of them finished smugly (joint) rolling his tortilla and laid it into the pan " you forgot to lick it".

And I demonstrate.

"Obviously...I am not as dumb as I look" I add.

Street cred(ibility) carries an incredible amount of weight when dealing with this know-it-all, been-there, no-body's as cool as me thug crowd.

                          * I'm not going to be posting for a week or so... I'm off to Hawaii ;-)

EDITED TO ADD....(if only in my dreams)

        Please do come back. 

xoxoxoxoxoxo

 

The squeaky wheel gets the grease...

or possibly a Stalking Charge?

You ever really want something?

Really, really want something?

And think that with a little hard work, your wish could be granted?

I want to build the loveables a new kitchen.

And I need help.

And the help I've decided I need is Oprah Winfrey's good friend Nate Berkus...(you know the very nice, clean cut guy that is always surprising people on her show with makeovers of their small spaces???)

I need Nate Berkus' help.

And I want it so damn bad, I can taste it.

Now, how to get Nate Berkus to decide to pick us as a pet project?

That my friends just may be the million dollar question.

How do we con him into choosing us out of all the people that ask for his help???

I asked a gifted young woman photographer I work with to take a couple of pictures our pathetically dreary little kitchen.

Old cinderblock walls painted a dreadful pale yellow. Cupboards that are chipped and many missing doors. Poor inefficient plumbing that has caused sink drain water to backup onto the floor and loosen the homely tiles that cover it.

That damn kitchen is ugly.

Butt ugly.

But oooooh, if those walls could talk.

They would tell such tales.

Stories of laughter, and learning,

and an almost daily realization that we are all not as bad as we sometimes may seem.

The little kitchen doesn't reflect what really goes on in there.

In my mind's eye I see brightly colored walls, and pretty cupboards.

I see inspirational art work, whispering messages of hope.

I see a counter big enough for us all to gather round.

And a floor that looks like we've mopped it after we have in fact mopped it.

A couple of friends of mine located Oprah's address.

And soon I will have picture proof of our need.

I will have one of the artistic loveables decorate an envelope...one that screams " PICK ME TO READ" from the pile.

I plan to start the letter...

Dear Oprah and Nate,

They say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one....

Wadda ya think?

PS...if anyone reading this post is Oprah or Nate's cousin, lifelong pal, old classmate, FB friend, next door neighbor...could you please pass along the link to this little blog?

...Merci xoxo