Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Stuck and Unfinished

I was not well liked in high school. In fact, I was taunted, teased, and tormented.

Let's look at the reasons why:

1. I am biracial, which equates to: long curly hair, light skin, straight nose (ok-in other words: as close to a pretty white girl while still being black without officially being white).

2. Boys liked me-a lot.

3. I was very smart and was in Honors English class throughout high school (only "nerds" should do well in school, according to my tormentors).

4. I was a cheerleader.

5. One of the best looking boys in school was my boyfriend.

Now, you may look at this list and wonder, How could this poor child be tormented? She sounds, well-perfect. Maybe that was the problem.

Girls are mean-very mean. And I was not the quiet, meek type. I am a peaceful sort, but I don't hide in shadows. Ok-so the cutest boy in school liked me...guess what I did? Dated him! So, other boys thought I was cute...what did I do? Flirt! So, I was in honors English class...what did I do? Wrote essays and stories that my teachers asked me to read aloud to my class, much to my embarrassment.

While girls followed behind me, whispering that they would "kick" my "ass, bitch" after school, I would hold my head up high, then run home sobbing to my mom. "Why are they so mean?" I would wail into my mom's blouse. "It's hard to understand, honey," she would begin. "But, well, they're just jealous." I was stunned...jealous of what?

1. My mother was white and my father was black: confused the hell out of me.
2. I hated my hair: why wouldn't it do what I wanted?
3. My sister died when I was 15: their sisters were alive.
4. I hadn't heard from my father in years: I had a perfect example of a deadbeat dad.
5. I was told I would "never get into college" because I would never be able to write a suitable entrance essay: as said to me by one of my honors English teachers, who was a racist.
6. I was a cheerleader: but had panic attacks during pep rallys.
7. I dated one of the most popular boys in school: who broke up with me to date a freshmen who was a drop-dead gorgeous girl.

What was there to be jealous of?

"They don't know all of those things," my mom said. "All they see is the outside. All they see is the face, the accomplishments. They don't know you."

It was not until I was in college that it all made sense to me. I was surronded by all kinds of women, beautiful and not so beautiful; educated women who admitted to their own struggles and shortcomings, and we laughed at the hilarity of life and its misconceptions.

And the mean girls? Where did they end up? I see them sometimes, looking stuck and unfinished-glaring at me from across a crowded restaurant. This is my tribute to them-na, na, na, na, na, na...

This post was inspired by my friend.

Posted by Jaimie :: 6:31 PM :: 41 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Tuesday, November 29, 2005

This Has Got To Be A Joke

I tried belly dancing one time, and I will never do it again.

A friend convinced me that we should give it a try. "How hard could it be?" she questioned. "And what a great tummy exercise." "Yay!" I said. "I'm so excited!"

As soon as we entered the dance studio, I noticed how hot it was. Air conditioning didn't seem to exist in belly dancing classes. The class was filled with close to 30 women, yanking their shirts up to their breasts and tucking them into their bras, eyeing their tummys in the mirror. We all stood in front of the mirror, waiting for our torturer (also known as teacher).

In she walked. I heard her before I saw her. She had long blonde hair and jingled all of the way to the front of the room. I do believe that she said hello, and the next thing I knew, she was putting my body through immense pain.

I'm not a virgin to exercise-I've been dancing my whole life, but belly dancing was something from another planet. Our arms were up for an hour, with no rest. She kept telling me to roll my belly, which I found impossible, so instead I was rolling my back (bad idea). "Oh my God, save me!" I howled to the heavens. "This sucks," my friend said.

We suffered through an hour of abuse, until God decided to hear my prayers. "See you next week!" the torturer barked. My friend and I limped, hunched over to her car. "Well, at least we worked our stomach muscles," I said. "Sure, whatever. Let's go eat Mexican food," my friend answered.

We binged on guacamole, tortilla chips, cheese enchiladas, and rice and beans. We split a Margarita pitcher as well.

The next week my friend called me. "Should we go?" she asked. "Are you kidding?" I answered. "That class is a joke. I'm never setting foot in there again." "Me either," she said. "I was just checking." And belive me, we never did.

Posted by Jaimie :: 5:23 PM :: 14 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Sunday, November 27, 2005

Nutcases-Gotta Love 'Em

There's something about me that attracts the nutcases. I have met many...but none quite like the one I encountered when I went to the dentist's office last week.

I parked my car outside of the dentist office, which is one of many businesses in a strip mall. As I was getting out of my car, a young woman was walking out of the beauty supply store located next to the dentist office. She was laughing hysterically, saying "Ha! Ha! Ha!" quite loudly. I walked into the dentist office and she followed me in.

I sat down and she sat next to me and instantly started ranting:

crazy woman: Did you just pass me outside?

me: Yes.

crazy woman: Did you hear what just happened inside that fucking store?

me: No. I just saw you walking out and laughing.

crazy woman: Yeah, well the guy behind the counter just called me a 'fucking tramp bitch' because I wouldn't buy anything.

me: Really?

crazy woman: Yeah, and I told him to 'Fuck off you fucking Korean.' I hate Koreans. I said, 'Fuck you-that's why you work behind a fucking counter, fucker.' Fuck him. Then his mom and dad came out and looked like they were about to shoot me or some shit. Man, fuck them! Then he said, 'Get the fuck out of my store bitch', and I said 'Fuck you. That's why I make all this money. (pulls out a wad of 20's) 'I got a real job motherfucker.' That's what I told him.

I looked away. Nutcase.

There were several reasons why this situation was completely inappropriate:

1. I'm in the dentist's office, for God's sake.

2. There's a beautiful, young Korean woman standing at the check-in counter.

3. My dentist is Korean.

4. I have no clue who this woman is, but she's talking to me like I care to hear her rant.

The receptionist asked her to stop cursing in the office. "We cater to children too, ma'am. Please stop."

She walked out and started ranting to a man on the sidewalk who just happened to be passing by with headphones on, to tell him the story. He actually stood there and listened.

The Korean woman came and sat down next to me. "What a nutcase!" she said. "Did you hear what she was saying?" I asked. "Yeah, something about Koreans. Did you know our dentist is Korean?" I nodded my head, and we began talking about how we both have had panic attacks in dental chairs.

5 minutes later Nutcase came back into the waiting room. "This bitch better hurry up!" she said, pacing the waiting room. "What bitch?" I asked. "My friend. She's in there getting her tooth fixed, or some shit." Again, nutcase.

Fortunately, I was called to take my x-rays. I looked back at Nutcase and she was nervously chewing her nails and her eyes were bugged out.

Nutcases are kinda hilarious, if you know how to deal with them properly.

Posted by Jaimie :: 8:46 PM :: 15 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Saturday, November 26, 2005

It Could All Be So Simple

If I told you that today that I am 5'3", 124 lbs, and yet still stare critically at my reflection every day, make you hate me?

My obsession with my body actually started accidently by others' observations:

"You're too skinny!"
"She must have an eating disorder!"
"Did you eat today, honey? Maybe that's why you have a headache."
"You know, guys like a girl with a little meat on her..."

While in high school, I heard comments like this frequently. It wasn't my fault I only weighed 110 pounds-obesity didn't run in my family. I used to eat butter for lunch while dining off campus with my friends, mostly because my mom didn't allow it at home. "How can you eat like that?" my friends would ask. "It's good," I would answer, chewing on the lump of animal fat.

In college, I still remained at 110 pounds, despite how I ate. It wasn't until age 24 that I actually started gaining weight, much to everyone's unsolicited joy.

"Look at those legs! You're finally getting some meat on ya, huh?"
"You look sooo much better!"
"Glad you decided to eat something!"
"Guys love a girl with a nice ass!"

Now, at 29 and a weight that ranges between 120-124 pounds, I spend most of the time staring disapprovingly at my body. I finally decided to bring it up to my therapist:

me: I'm very unhappy with the way that I look.

Dr. H: What's wrong with the way that you look?

me: I feel fat. I've gained weight.

Dr. H: (looking very unconcerned) How much do you weigh?

me: 121 pounds, today.

Dr. H: What's the most you've ever weighed?

me: 155 pounds, but I was pregnant.

Dr. H: That doesn't count, Jaimie.

me: Ok-124 pounds.

Dr. H: That is by no means "overweight."

me: I know. I know it's not rational, but when I look in the mirror, I see fat.

Dr. H: Well, you have a classic case of what is called "dysphoric body image." You see something that isn't there.

me: I thought so. James always tells me I look good, and he doesn't see what I'm talking about, but I just think he's being nice. I don't believe him. I just think I'm fat.

Dr. H: This is about control, Jaimie (and so on the therapeutic rant continues...)

Don't think I have an eating disorder. I eat, and I don't throw up. I find women like Nicole Richie and Lindsay Lohan absolutely frightening. The problem is, when people tell me that I look "great", I think they're lying to me. My therapist actually told me that I looked 18 years old, and I started laughing. How could this be? I asked. "Well, your size, and the stylish, hip way that you dress." Therapy has its rewards.

If people hadn't made those "skinny" remarks, and after gaining a little weight, the "glad you have meat on you" remarks were not said, maybe then I wouldn't have this small (ok-big) issue before me.

It could all be so simple...I wish I could laugh at those remarks now and find them hilarious, but instead I stare at my thighs, longing for a little more space between them.

Posted by Jaimie :: 9:31 PM :: 21 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Friday, November 25, 2005

Good Cop

Cops are not well liked in Los Angeles. Let's look at the reasons why:

1. Cops are known to use racial profiling to arrest people.
2. Cops are known to be "trigger happy".
3. Cops are known to be stressed out and mean.
4. Cops appear to have to meet a daily ticket quota.
5. Cops have been reported to take part in domestic violence in their own homes.

Well, I am here to say that cops aren't all that bad!

About a year ago, I made a right turn at a red light. There were no oncoming cars, so I turned. Big deal. Or so I thought.

Within seconds a cop car was behind me with flashing, red, loud lights. I didn't pull over right away, but kept driving. I didn't know that the flashing, red, loud lights were directed at me. I finally realized that I was in trouble when the cop got on that embarrassing microphone thing and bellowed, "Pull over! Now!"

I instantly pulled over and placed my hands in my lap. Because of #2 on my list, I didn't want the cop to shoot me in the head because my hands were out of sight. He walked over to my window, after checking out the Cadi's license plate. While he was checking out the car, I checked out my reflection. Because of #1 on my list, I had to quickly decide if I looked white, black or Latina. Being bi-racial has its benefits.

me: Hi, Officer. Did I do something wrong?

cop: Yes, you did. You made a right turn when there were signs posted that said "No right turn on red."

me: Really? I didn't see any signs.

cop: There were three signs. How did you not see any of them?

me: I don't know. This is my first time taking this route from work.

cop: Where do you work?

me: In (name withheld). I'm a Kindergarten teacher.

cop: Wow. A teacher. I like teachers. Please show me your license and registration.

I really had no idea where my registration was, but I assumed that it was in the glove compartment, like it always is on those cop shows on t.v. Whew. There it was. I handed it to him and smiled.

He walked over to his police car and called in on that walkie talkie thingie. A minute later he walked over to my car.

cop: Ok. I'll let you go without a ticket, but next time, read the signs.

me: Thanks! Thank you so much!

cop: Sure. I like teachers.

Because of #4 on my list, I was sure that I would receive a ticket and stand before a judge, crying. But no, this cop surprised me, and unlike #3 on my list, he wasn't stressed out or mean.

He may have gone home and beat the hell out of his wife (#5 on my list), but he was nice to me. Good Cop, good. You deserve a biscuit.

Posted by Jaimie :: 5:23 PM :: 11 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Thursday, November 24, 2005

How I Know

The Top Ten Reasons I Know My Man Loves Me:

  1. 1. He moved to LA from Chicago, just to be with me.

2. He'll see any movie that I suggest, and usually likes it.

3. He let his female coworkers drag him on a shopping trip, and while he was there, he bought me a top that I actually like.

4. He deals very well with my panic attacks.

5. He listened to my story about how my tampon was in crooked and didn't flinch.

6. He went to the drug store and bought me a pregnancy test by himself, even though he had to ask the clerk, "Uh, would the pregnancy tests be with the tampons and pads?"

7. He makes me pancakes at night.

8. He does "airplane" with my daughter, even when he's tired.

9. He can freestyle a poem about me off of the top of his head.

10. He's very gentle, but I know he would beat down any man with his bare hands who disrespected me.

ok-and #11: He'll dance naked for me on demand.

How do you know when someone loves you?

Posted by Jaimie :: 7:15 PM :: 11 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Wednesday, November 23, 2005

You Used To Have A Face

Dear Fat Turkey on the Farm,

This is to let you know that I decided to become a vegetarian this summer, after taking a weekend health class at UCLA and discovering that the way you digest in my stomach is by rotting there.

It didn't happen suddenly. I found myself slowly weaning myself away from you. I would look at raw meat and imagine where you came from, and wonder what you were doing right before your head was cut off. I would chew you without desire, swallowing the piece hard and feeling a lump in my stomach. I began to find it hard to eat anything with a face and a mommy.

At my UCLA class there was a pretty young woman who I talked to the last day of the seminar. We ate lunch together and both picked up the "veggie lunch in a bag." "Oh, you're a vegetarian too?" she asked. "Yeah, I think so..." I said. She gave me a funny look and said, "Here, let me talk to you."

She then began telling me about all the healthy things she and her boyfriend ate regularly, and I had to admit it all sounded wonderful. Well, let me explain: I do eat healthy. I had no choice. I was trained as a child.

In my childhood home, there was absolutely no: butter, soda, Kool-Aid, cereal with sugar, or Cheetos, and that's just to name a few. Occasionally my mom would buy me a Snickers Candy Bar, but I wouldn't eat it right away. I would put it in the freezer to eat the next day, but it was always missing the next morning. "Have you seen my Snickers?" I would ask my mom, peering into the freezer. "Oh yeah," my mom would say absently. "I'll get you another one."

Once I was living on my own, I stacked my fridge with soda and butter. Potato chips of all varieties were in the pantry, and I ate french fries at least twice a week. After a while, the desire to eat naughty lost its appeal and I found myself eating healthy again, despite my attempt to be dangerous with food.

Since going "veggie" I have had many dreams about sausages (usually they are chasing me). The other night my daughter asked me for a piece of ham. I got it out for her and had the strongest desire to take a bite out of it, but I didn't.

The funny part is that I really don't like vegetables. I hate broccolli! (What are those things?They are like eating trees.) I also hate brussel sprouts. (They are like small balls of vomit). But, despite it all, I do love my body and my health, and the thought of rotting meat in my stomach just doesn't appeal to me anymore.

I don't know how long this vegetarian diet will last, but I know that I have no desire now to eat anything that used to get up and walk.

I hope that you can forgive me for all of the pigs, chickens, cows, and turkeys that I have eaten in my lifetime.


P.S. Fish don't count.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Posted by Jaimie :: 1:39 PM :: 10 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Kids Say The Darndest Things

After teaching Kindergarten for 7 years, I have heard it all. Kids are very honest, and will tell you anything, once they have your trust. Here are some of the things I've heard over the years:

1. When I grow up, I want to be a dog.

2. My dad breaks beer bottles over my grandmother's head.

3. My mom has a lot of boyfriends.

4. The police come to my house a lot. I think it's because my dad is real mean.

5. What's that funny picture on your back? (pointing to my tattoo)

6. Where do babies come from?

7. I want to be a prince so that other people can clean my toilet when I pee on it.

8. So-and-So said a bad word. He/She said "(fill in the blank)."

9. Do you have a boyfriend Ms. L?

10. You look fat today.

Ah, yes, the joy of children. They are hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 6:47 PM :: 15 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Monday, November 21, 2005

"Sex" Wishes

Recently, my friend told me that I am the perfect example of "Carrie".

No, not that "Carrie" silly! This "Carrie"...

I thought about what she said, and realized that she may be right. Here's why:

1. I've learned many lessons about love and relationships from my friends, and like to write about it.

2. I like to use my friends, my past relationships, my current relationship, and other people's downfalls and mistakes for entertainment and creative purposes.

3. I live in a big city which is obsessed with sex and being sexy.

4. I dress with so much style, it's sick.

5. I've had men in my life whom I found it hard to say "no" to, and men that I found difficult to turn down because I felt sorry for them.

All of this got me thinking...

"Sex and the City" provided every woman a character to identify with...and also a woman they wish they were. I wish I had the guts to be Samantha Jones.

Here's why:

1. The girl is hot.

2. She has random sex with just about anything that moves, and doesn't feel an ounce of guilt about it.

3.She tells her friends honestly about what she thinks about them, and they still love her.

4. She has a costume for every occasion, but never wears anything that doesn't look good on her.

5. She rarely wears a bra, but yet still manages to somehow get away with it.

6. She tried to have sex with a priest, and I actually kind of wanted to see it happen (while praying for God to forgive me).

7. She wears really sexy bras and panties.

So, who do you wish to be? Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, or Charlotte? Be's okay to be naughty, and it's also okay to want to be the good girl (Yawn...).

Posted by Jaimie :: 5:55 PM :: 20 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Sunday, November 20, 2005

My Pimp, My Friend

One night I went to a dance club in LA. After a while it grew hot inside of the club, and I stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air.

I saw a young, good-looking man leaning against a rail, smoking a cigarette. He saw me too, and we both held our gazes for a while, before I looked away. He walked over to me and introduced himself. I did the same, and we began talking.

We talked for an hour outside on the patio of the club. Within that first hour I found out a lot of information about my new friend-he was born in LA, but lived in a new city; his mother was Puerto Rican, he had no brothers and sisters-and he was a pimp.

As soon as he told me, I said, "Wow. Gotta go." "No, don't leave," he said. "I'm enjoying our conversation." "Yeah, but, well, you're a pimp. I'm a college graduate. I'm not interested," I answered honestly. "Look, I'm not looking for a girlfriend or an employee. I just like the conversation," he said. I looked into his eyes, and for some reason I instantly trusted him.

My new friend left LA the next morning, but not without getting my phone number. He called me as soon as he reached his city, just to say hello. "Hey," I said. "Where do you think this is going? I mean, I would never date you." "Let's just be friends," he said. And this is what we were.

He would often call me while driving in his car. "What kind of car do you drive?" I asked. I was pretty sure it must have been a huge Cadillac. "A Cadillac," he answered, confirming my guess. I started laughing. "So it that protocol or something? All pimps drive Cadillacs?" I asked. "Yeah, something like that," he answered, laughing. Another time we talked on the phone, making small talk, when I suddenly heard a woman's voice. "Is that one of them?" I asked. "Yeah, hold on," he said. I heard him talking gently to a woman, who was laughing hysterically. "She sounds happy," I said when he got back on the phone. "Jaimie, I'm not a mean guy," he said. "I'm a pimp, but don't believe everything you see on t.v."

For my birthday, he sent me a card, which I thought was nice enough. But when I opened the card, a one hundred dollar bill fell out. I called him to thank him, then suddenly realized something. "Wait...what does this money mean? Am I your officially your 'bitch' now or something?" I asked. He giggled and said, "No. Happy Birthday." I spent the money on new dishes for my kitchen.

One late night I received a collect phone call. He sounded like he was inside of a tunnel, and there was a rustling noise in the background. "Where are you?" I asked. "In the pen," he answered. "What are you calling me for?" I asked, defensively. "I'm not bailing you out, if that's what you want. Whatever you did, I have no money for you." "Jaimie, no, I don't want your money. I need you to call my cousin, and tell her to get money out of my account and pay a bondsmen to get me out of here. I've been trying to call, but there's no answer. I can't keep using the phone in here." "Oh, okay," I said. I got the information from him and called his cousin.

After he was released, he called me once more, just to see how I was doing. I never asked him what jail was like, or what he was charged with. We talked about LA, his city, and life in general. This was the last time I talked to him. I don't know what happened to him, but I feel like he's probably still surviving-able to see the beauty and hilarity in his life. My pimp, my friend. Life is so strange.

Posted by Jaimie :: 9:57 AM :: 26 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Friday, November 18, 2005

Joshua and the Bead

Remember Joshua? He was trouble himself. I had to watch Joshua constantly. When I wasn't looking, he would poke other kids, daydream, get into trouble, or do his work incorrectly. When I would test Joshua on the alphabet, he would act as if he did not know one letter of the alphabet. His father told me that he was just "fakin' you out." My, my.

One "Share Day" Joshua brought a picture of his family to share with the class. "This is my mama, and my daddy, and my brothers," he said, pointing to each person in the picture. One of the boys raised his hand and asked Joshua, "Why yo' daddy look like a girl?" In the photograph, Joshua's father had a nice relaxed perm in his hair, which was curled on the ends. "My daddy ain't no girl!" Joshua howled. "It's okay, Joshua," I said, attempting to calm him down. "It's just that some kids have never seen a grown man with long hair before." Joshua scowled at the other boy, who bravely scowled back.

One day, during free time, Joshua chose to go to the jewelry making center in the classroom, where there were various colored beads and strings. While I was attending to another student, one of the girls came up to me. "Ms. L.? Joshua hurt his nose." "What do you mean?" I asked, standing up. "I don't know. He just says his nose hurts," she responded.

I called Joshua over, who looked quite frightened. "What's wrong with your nose?" I asked him suspiciously. "Nothing..." he said, obviously lying. Joshua looked scared. "You better tell me right now what you did to your nose or I'm calling your father!" I threatened. Joshua was deathly afraid of his father, who was an ex-gang member, so this threat always worked.

"I stuck a bead up my nose!" Joshua cried. "And I can't get it out!!!" he wailed. "What? Oh my God!" I said. "Okay, I'm taking you to the nurse. Wait, no first, I want you to breath really hard through your nose. Breathe out through your nose."

Joshua breathed hard, in through his nose. "Ow!" he screamed. "No Joshua! Oh my God! I said breathe out! Breathe out!" Finally, Joshua got the idea. He took a huge breath out through his nose and a bright blue bead came flying out of his nose, landing on the floor.

"Don't you ever do that again!" I commanded. "Okay Ms. L," Joshua said. For a slight moment, a look of remorse actually passed over Joshua's face, but it was soon replaced with a mischievous look. "Remember," I warned. "I'll call your father in a second." Joshua looked down and said, "Yes, Ms.L"

Kids are so hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 6:12 AM :: 18 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Wednesday, November 16, 2005

You Need to Be Beat-Up

This man had the audacity to make a comment on my blog, asking me to email him so that he could put me on the VIP list for the Conga Room (Jennifer Lopez's club) in LA. Check out his profile.

After reading the latest post on this purely ignorant man's blog I gathered:

1. He obviously did not read one word of my blog. If he would have, he would have discovered that I am an intelligent, independent woman and would never use his ignorant ass to get inside of a club.

2. He obviously is a woman hater.

3. He may have a penis, but he's not a real man.

4. He has no faith in God.

5. His mama didn't raise him right.

6. He's ghetto as hell.

7. In his opinion, all women are bitches that need to be "pimped." Asshole-you're the bitch who needs to pimped.

Jaimie, the Kindergarten Teacher (and feminist), is a little upset right now.

Posted by Jaimie :: 6:20 PM :: 10 Peeked Into My Diary:

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I Got Some News

I often let my students orally share anything that is on their mind. They are able to come to the front of the room and talk to the class. One morning, about 5 years ago, our morning share routine went like this:

Student #1: My birthday is today.

me: Your birthday is not today. Your birthday is in March. It is December right now. Thanks for sharing.

Student #2: My dog died.

me: I'm sorry to hear that. It's sad when someone we love dies.

Student #3: I like your shoes.

me: Thanks. I like your shoes too.

Student #4: Is it recess yet?

me: No. Sit down.

Miguel raised his hand. "Yes, Miguel? Would you like to share?" I asked him. "Yes," Miguel answered. "I have something to tell the class." "Okay, come on up."

Miguel walked up carefully to the front of the classroom and stood before everyone.

Miguel: I want to tell everyone that Santa Claus is not real.


me: Uh, Miguel. Who told you that?

Miguel: My brother.

me: Ok, well Miguel, there are a lot of kids in this class who still believe in Santa, but thank you for your sharing.

Miguel: (louder) Santa isn't real!

me: Go sit down Miguel.

I looked at my students. Their mouths were wide open and their eyes were glazed over. Up until that moment, I still kinda believed in Santa Claus. Thanks, Miguel. You are hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 7:40 AM :: 15 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Monday, November 14, 2005


1998 was the first first year I started teaching Kindergarten. Considering that it was my first year, and I had never taught before, my class was really good. They were smart, and very well behaved-except for Jessica.

Every morning the class would say in unison, "Good Morning, Ms. L." Jessica would just sit there and glare at me. When I would tell Jessica to do something, she would simply say "No." She would often ask me, "Ms. L, do you think I'm pretty?" "Yes, Jessica, you're pretty," I would answer. "That's what everyone tells me," she would say, and skip off.

There was a boy named Joshua in my class who had a crush on Jessica. He would bother Jessica quite a bit. One day, while playing outside, he came running up to me, out of breath. "Ooh, Ms. L. Jessica said a bad word. She told me to 'fuck off.'" "What?!" I asked, astonished.

I marched over to Jessica, who sat quietly swinging alone. "Jessica!" I demanded. "Did you say a bad word to Joshua?" "Yeah," she answered. "He was bothering me, so I told him to fuck off."

I would often catch Jessica sticking her middle finger at Joshua during class time. "Put your finger down, Jessica," I would say. "Do you know what you're doing?" "Yes," she would answer. "I'm telling him to fuck off."

Last week, Jessica, who is now in 7th grade came by my classroom to visit me. She is almost as tall as I am, and quite beautiful.

Jessica: Hi, Ms. L (grinning)

me: Oh, my gosh! Jessica. How are you?

Jessica: Good. And you?

me: I'm doing really well. Here, let me see if I can find our class picture (I rummage through my file drawer but can't find it). Can't find it. Anyway, how's middle school?

Jessica: It's whatever.

me: What are you learning there?

Jessica. Whatever. The same old stuff.

me: And your friends? Do you have the same friends?

Jessica: They're whatever.

me: Do you remember Joshua?

Jessica: Yeah.

me: Do you remember telling him to f-off?

Jessica: (laughs) Yeah, I do.

me: You were something else, even at age 5.

Jessica: (giving me a hug) You were one of my favorite teachers.

me: I liked you too.

Jessica walked off, and all of a sudden, I felt like the most important person in the world. Life is so fulfilling, and hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 8:04 AM :: 13 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Sunday, November 13, 2005

You Made Me Sick

Dear Mean Korean Man Who Manages the Korean Market on the corner of 6th and Western,

You don't know me, but about 4 years ago, I vomited in your store in the dairy aisle. You were always very rude to me, waving me away if I ever asked you a question about where a product may be located. Actually, you were quite an asshole.

I used to live in Korea Town, near downtown Los Angeles. I would walk to your market often to buy my groceries. I did not shop in your store because it offered low prices or quality products, but rather because it was the only market within a mile of my art-deco apartment. Actually, your prices were quite high and your produce was usually rotten-but that's for another time.

I would walk through your market, paying about 20% more for products that I could buy at another grocery store for much less. I would often pass your meat and fish department. Most of the meat was in a meat case, safely behind glass, but for some reason you chose to display loose fish heads, tails, and guts in huge bins on ice. Koreans would stop by the bins, pick up fish guts, and place them in a plastic bag to use for soup and other dishes. I would keep on walking.

It was on one particular day that I did not keep on walking. I went through the produce department and was lucky to find some fruit without bruises and mold. I walked towards the meat and fish department, as I usually do. But this time, I had a different reaction.

I stood in front of the fish guts, and for some reason I couldn't look away. The smell of dead fish was so strong, it almost put me in a trance. Suddenly, the fish heads merged into one big smelly, blank-eyed blur. The fish guts in the other bin began to look like a bloody, disjointed mess. I tried to look away, but it was no use. The vomit was already in my throat.

I walked quickly down to the dairy aisle and threw up right there, all over the milk. Nobody saw me. You did not even know it was me.

I wiped the remaining vomit off of my mouth with a kleenex and quickly walked down the dairy aisle. I stood in line and purchased my products. I heard a voice over the loudspeaker speaking in Korean, and I imagine that they must have said "Clean up in dairy!" because I saw a man rushing past me with a mop.

After purchasing my food I walked over to your little counter, where you always sat, reading a magazine. I spoke to you, but you never looked up.

me: Sir?

Mean Korean Man: What?

me: Have a nice day.

Mean Korena Man: Humph. (waves me away with his hand)

Life is gross, and hilarious.



Posted by Jaimie :: 7:43 AM :: 14 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Thursday, November 10, 2005

License to Drive

About two years ago, some friends and I decided to take a co-worker out for a bachelorette party. My friend thought it would be a good idea to get a limo for the night, so none of us would have to worry about driving.

We all met at my friend's house. The limo was supposed to be a surprise for the bachelorette, but this surprise was soon ruined by my friend's pacing. "What's wrong?" I whispered to her. "The limo!" she hissed. "The limo is late."

An hour later the limo showed up at her house. My friend came stomping out of the door, ready to complain. The man who greeted us was not what we expected...

The limo driver stepped one dirty tennis shoe out of the car, and the train wreck who would be our driver emerged from the car. He had a Kangol on top of his unkempt hair, a flannel, and a pair of cargo shorts. "Hey," he said. "Damn, ya'll look good tonight." We all looked him up and down and started walking towards the limo.

"My boss just called me and told me I had to work tonight," he began. "I was sitting in my garage, playing dominoes, when I got the call. Sorry." He jumped back in the front seat. "Um, aren't you going to open the door for us?" one of us asked. "Oh, yeah, sorry." He opened the door and we all stepped inside. "You married?" he asked me as I climbed in the car. eeww.

"So where ya'll going tonight?" he asked through the partition window, eyeing us in the rearview mirror. "Go to the Standard Hotel on Sunset Boulevard." my friend said. My friend pushed the automatic window partition all the way up so we wouldn't have to talk to him again.

Once we reached the Standard, Mr. Limo Driver decided to take off. "So, how long ya'll gonna be?" he asked, his eyes darting away. "Are you leaving?" I asked. "I'll be back in 30," he answered. As we walked away my friend said under her breath, "What a loser."

30 minutes later we were waiting outside for our limo. "Where is this asshole?" my friend wondered. He showed up 10 minutes later, quite happy and with renewed energy. We got back into the limo. "What do you think he just did?" I asked. "Probably took a few happy hits off of some illegal drugs," the bachelorette answered, laughing.

Next, we pulled up to a dance club. "So, how long ya'll gonna be?" Mr. Limo Driver asked again. "I don't know!" my friend whined. "What difference does it make? Are you leaving again?" she asked. "Well, yeah," he answered. "Hey, just call my company when ya'll get through gettin' yo' groove on. They'll page me and I'll scoop ya'll back up." We all looked at each other and shrugged. Of course he would come back, right?

1 hour later, we had finished "gettin' our groove on". My friend ran across the street to a liquor store and called the limo company. "Okay," she said, running back to us. "They're paging him right now."

5 minutes later: Where the hell is he? (me)
10 minutes later: He should be here by now... (friend #1)
15 minutes later: Do you think he got lost? (friend #2)
20 minutes later: I'm about to kill this *%@^!!!! (friend #3)

25 minutes later Mr. Limo Driver showed up. This time he was super mellow and relaxed. "Heeeeey," he drew out. "How was the club?" Signs of relaxed, mellow hits off of an illegal drug.

"Where the hell were you?" my friend began raising her voice. "We've been waiting out here in the cold for 25 minutes! I'm paying good money for you to drive us where we want to go, pick us up from wherever we are, and to not complain about it and disappear!"

"Damn, sorry girl. Where do you want to go now? I'll take you anywhere you want to go." "Take us to Crazy Girls. Do you know where that is?" she said. "Crazy Girls? That's the best strip club in LA!" he answered, excitedly.

We all got back into the limo. "Let's ditch this guy," my friend said. "What do you mean?" we asked. "Well, let's have him drop us off at 1 block from Crazy Girls. We'll take off running and he won't know where we went. We'll call my boyfriend to come pick us up."

Once we got close to Crazy Girls, my friend knocked on the partition. "Hi," she said as he lowered the window. "You can let us out here." "This isn't Crazy Girls," he said, looking confused. "Let us out," she said calmly.

He pulled to a corner, and we all jumped out of the limo. The four of us ran down the street and turned a corner, running into the darkness.

An hour later we were sitting in a pizza restaurant, laughing about the night. Suddenly, my friend's cell phone rang. It was Mr. Limo Driver.

friend: Hello?

Limo Driver: Where are you?

friend: What do you mean where am I? I owe you no information. You were a terrible limo driver. You suck.

Limo Driver: No, don't say that. I liked you guys. What did I do wrong?

friend: Are you kidding me? You were late, you made us wait, and I suspect that you were using drugs while on your shift.

Limo Driver: So does this mean that I don't get paid?

friend: Yes.

Limo Driver: That sucks, man.

friend: Take care of yourself.

Limo Driver: Man, that sucks.


Life is hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 1:47 PM :: 8 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Chinese People Hate Me

One day my friend and I decided to go to Chinatown, near downtown L.A. We walked past the meat markets that held dead chickens hanging in the window. "That's soooo gross," my friend said.

I have a tattoo on my back with Chinese characters on it that reads "true woman". "Let's ask someone if my tattoo really says 'true woman' or if the tattoo artist tricked me and put 'fucking slut' instead," I suggested. We walked into a store and I showed a young Chinese man my tattoo. "It say, something like...true woman," he confirmed. Whew.

We entered another store with trinkets, fans, and Chinese jewelry. We walked through the store, picking up various bracelets and trying them on. The owner of the store glared at us. "You buy?" she asked. "No," my friend answered. "Me try."

We got to the end of the store, where a makeshift Buddhist temple had been erected. "Ooh, look at that," she said walking towards it. I followed her. She reached her hand out and began picking up things from the table. "I don't think you're supposed to touch that," I warned. "It's okay to touch...You're supposed to rub Buddha's belly." As she reached her hand towards Buddha's stomach she knocked over several things on the table. They went crashing to the ground. We both looked at each other and started backing out of the store.

"What you do?" the woman yelled. "Get out! Get out my store!" The rest was in Chinese, but I do imagine that she used a variety of Chinese curse words.

We ran out of the store, feeling Buddha's wrath sweep over us. Life is hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:01 PM :: 6 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


My dislike of sports began when I was 7. My favorite television show was "Three's Company." I would watch it every night, much to my mother's dismay. "Why do you watch that crap?" she would complain. "Because it's funny?" I would ask.

Every Spring, baseball would come on television, interrupting my nightly dose of "Three's Company." I would tune to the channel, and find some baseball player on my screen. "Mommy!" I would whine. "Something's wrong with the t.v.!!" "There's nothing wrong with the t.v.," she would answer. "It's baseball season."

In middle school I was on drill team. It was fun. We would dance and compete, although we never won one competition. "You're pretty good," my coach told me. "You should be a cheerleader when you go to high school."

In 10th grade I tried out for cheerleading and made it. I would stand on the sidelines of a muddy football field, cheering for our junior varsity football team. Hardly anyone came to the games, especially since they began at 4:00. The highlight of that year of cheerleading was when one of the football players ran into one of our cheerleaders and knocked the air out of her.

In 11th grade, I was a Varsity cheerleader. I was chosen as co-captain my senior year. Cheerleading was the highlight of my high school career-there was just one problem-I detested sports and didn't understand them at all.

"Explain football to me one more time," I would beg my team members. Football just didn't make sense to me. During the games, I would stand on my ladder and gossip with the other cheerleaders, completely ignoring the game in front of me. "Jaimie!" my coach would snap. "Stop talking and pay attention to the game!"

I was the crowd leader while cheering. I would have to get on the microphone and lead the audience through cheers. "Jaimie," my captain would hiss at me. "1st and 10. Do the cheer!" What is 1st and 10?

I also had a difficult time deciphering if we were on offense or defense. I would have to squint my eyes at the players on the sidelines and on the bench to determine if it was our chance to score a touchdown. I understood that the big guys were usually playing defense, and the guys with the better bodies were playing offense.

Basketball was a little easier, and at least I got to sit down while cheering. The guys would run up and down the court, over and over, and over again. I kept finding excuses to go outside of the gym and talk to my friends outside. "Jaimie!" my coach would snap when she found me outside. "Get back inside! Halftime!" I would run back inside, and with my team, do the 2 minute dance that we had choreographed.

Now, I live with a man who loves sports. Every Sunday, the television is on. "Are you going to get up and do anything today?" I ask. "Yeah, sure..." he answers, his voice trailing off and his head turning slowly back to the television screen.

This is life. It is hilarious.

Posted by Jaimie :: 2:48 PM :: 8 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.

Where's My Little Baby?

I interviewed my 3 year old daughter today.

me: What do you think of Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Stella: What is that?

me: Never mind. Do you have a boyfriend?

Stella: Yeah. My boyfriend was here yesterday. He left at night. He went home late. My boyfriend and I are going to live together when we get married.

me: Where are you going to live?

Stella: In a big palace. You can be the evil queen and live with us. My boyfriend got a little owie right here (points to eye). I mean, his brother got an owie. Why are you pointing that thing at me (points to tape recorder)?

me: What's your favorite food?

Stella: Spaghetti.

me: You hate spaghetti.

Stella: I mean noodles. I don't like noodles. I mean quesadilla. My sister's an actor (Stella doesn't have a sister). She's going to be on t.v. today, at night time. Tonight. Today. She's the best girl in my life. Put that thing down (points to tape recorder).

me: What's your favorite toy?

Stella: Umm..huh-my dishes. I like to make cake.

me: Who's your best friend?

Stella: Kassidy, Sierra, Sarah, and Rebecca. They're the best. We're friends a lot.

me: Are they nice to you?

Stella: Yeah. Rebecca says "na, na, na, na, na, na". When she pushed me...she pushed me too! She got on time out. I telled on her. Ms. Roni (Stella's teacher) always says "Use your words." Sierra wants to marry my boyfriend. She stole my boyfriend. That's mean, huh?

Lessons Learned from a 3 Year Old:

1. Keep your windows unlocked so that your boyfriend can sneak out without your parents knowing.
2. All moms are potential evil queens.
3. It's ok to be indecisive about food.
4. It's ok to have imaginary family members.
5. It's ok to like to be in the kitchen, baking cakes.
6. Girls can not be trusted.
7. Arnold Schwarzenegger is an inanimate object.

Thanks Stella, and thanks to Glo for the idea.

Posted by Jaimie :: 10:34 AM :: 7 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Monday, November 07, 2005

The Gaye Man in My Life

I met Luke at UCLA. He had tried to commit suicide twice, so his mom thought it might be a good idea for him to spend time behind locked doors with sharp sedative needles.

Before Luke was released from his one month stay at UCLA, he wrote his phone number and address on the large chalk board located in the group therapy room. "Ooh!" one of the girls exclaimed. "He's so hot. I'm definitely calling him when I get out of here." All the girls sat in front of the chalk board and wrote his phone number down.

Two weeks after I was back home I called Luke.

me: Hi, Luke?

Luke: Who is this?

me: Jaimie.

Luke: What the hell do you want?

me: I was just calling to say see how you're doing...

Luke: I'm perfect. How did you get my number?

me: Uh, you wrote it down on the chalk board in the group therapy room.

Luke: Oh, yeah. Hey, weren't you in there for stalking your boyfriend or something?

me: I didn't stalk my boyfriend!! He just-

Luke:, you wanna come over sometime?

I was at Luke's house the next weekend. I don't even think he said 10 words to me. We spent most of the time in his room, staring at the walls. After two hours I said, "Well, it's been fun, but I gotta go." "I'll walk you out," he answered.

Downstairs his mom was waiting, beaming huge smiles at me. "Hi, Jaimie. I'm Luke's mom," she said, reaching her hand out to me. "We're so happy you're here. Luke hasn't had a girlfriend in so long."

"She's not my girlfriend." Luke said abruptly. I wanted to crawl away, but instead I turned red.

"Annywayyy..." Luke's mom dragged out, giving him an evil look, "There's a party next week, and we would love for you to come. We'll pick you up at 8!" Luke made stabbing motions towards his mom's head behind her back. I answered, "Sure, I'd love to come."

Luke and his mom were at my house a week later to pick me up. Luke rolled his eyes at me. "You can at least say hi," Luke's mom said, poking him in the side. "Hi," he grumbled.

Once we reached the party Luke disappeared. I sat alone in a chair, outside, watching people dance on the patio. Every now and then Luke would pop his head outside the door to sneak a peek at me to make sure I hadn't left. Finally, he came and sat down next to me.

We sat silently for about five minutes. Suddenly, the dj changed the tempo of the music. Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" began playing. "Do you like this song?" Luke asked. "Yeah," I said, looking longingly at the dance floor. "I guess I'll dance with you then," he said.

Luke and I danced together to Mr. Gaye. He held me close, but didn't say a word. We danced through the entire song, moving together to the music. I happened to look to the side of the patio and saw Luke's mom practically jumping up and down with excitement.

Once the song ended, Luke dropped my hands. "It's time for us to go now," he said. "Ok," I answered.

Luke, his mom, and I rode home in silence. When we reached my house, I opened the car door. I said thank you to his mom and told Luke goodbye. I was halfway up my walkway when I heard him call me name.

"Hey Jaimie!"
"I had fun." I waved goodbye at him, and he waved back.

I never saw Luke again. But he began my romance with a Gaye man. Marvin Gaye, that is.

Posted by Jaimie :: 9:23 PM :: 9 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.

Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear Turn Around

My mom came over the other day and said, "Look at what I found while I was cleaning out my files." She handed me a yellowed paper with dark type. I peered at it closely. It was a poem that I had written in ninth grade English class.

My first thought when I read the title of the poem was: why was I writing about a teddy bear in 9th grade? I mean, I was 14 years old, and I was in high school. As I read further through the poem, I realized that it was not so much about a teddy bear, as it was about my life.

After reading the poem I realized I was actually quite abusive to my teddy bear. I did things to my teddy bear that I would have liked to have been able to do to my dad. At the time the poem was written, it had been a year since I had seen my father. I was pretty pissed off.

My dad decided to do a disappearing act when I was 13. Just like Brian, he was there one minute, and gone the next. He did call me out of the blue when I was 16 to ask if I wanted to go to Disneyland, but I declined. "Dad, I'm 16. I don't want to go to Disneyland. And where the hell have you been for 3 years?" He hung up on me.

I have found that the best therapy is to completely abuse and/or destroy some inanimate object. Pillows and teddy bears work the best. And the best part is, teddy bears always forgive.

To My Bear

This is a poem to my beautiful brown
teddy bear
Whom I have hugged to my chest
When I've cried and when I've
Your big glass brown eyes have looked
at me
With so much concern and understanding.
I have thrown you around my room
when I was angry,
then hugged you tight to apologize.
What is so beautiful about you is
that someone I love very much gave
You to me.
So, when I look at you, I look at him.
I wanted to let you know, teddy bear,
that you make me smile and you make
me cry.
That's why I love holding you.

December 10, 1990

Posted by Jaimie :: 8:46 PM :: 3 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Sunday, November 06, 2005

America's Next Top Mean Girl

Dear Tyra,

Hi. My name is Jaimie. You don't know me, but you gave me a dirty look and rolled your eyes at me about 8 years ago.

I live in LA-a city of celebrities, beautiful people, and hopefuls. Many would consider me beautiful-which is a nice compliment-but not all that I am about. I have spent many a night in a dance club, bar, trendy restaurant, and have also spent my days in the Beverly Center and on Melrose shopping.

My friends are beautiful too, but like me, this is not what they are about. None of my friends are actresses, models, or hopefuls. Despite this, we had many opportunities to attend parties overflowing with celebrities, simply because we had the right look.

It was at one of these parties that you gave me the evil eye. One of my girls told me about a party on the beach in Marina del Rey. Four of us attended this party. As we were walking into the party, you were walking out with your girlfriends. You looked at me the entire time. Actually, you looked me up and down and rolled your eyes. You looked back at me, assuming that I would have shamefully looked away-but no, I kept my gaze on you. We passed one another and my friends and I entered the party.

I rarely watch t.v. I have never seen America's Next Top Model, but I have heard it is a success. I unfortunately did catch one episode of The Tyra Banks Show. My boyfriend and I watched you discuss bras for 1 hour. Every 5 minutes I would hear a loud thud, turn around, and catch my boyfriend banging his head on our coffee table. Yawn.

You do not know me, but you did feel I was worthy of an eye roll. Tyra, I thank you.


Posted by Jaimie :: 10:38 AM :: 8 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.

The Panty Bandit

When I was in college I lived in a co-ed dorm. I never had any problems living amongst a bunch of guys, until about half-way through my freshmen year.

There was one laundry room for every floor of the dorm. One day I placed all of my dirty clothes in the washer. I went back to my room. I never stayed in the laundry room while my clothes were being washed.

After my clothes were washed I put them into the dryer. I left again, and came back when they were done. I loaded all of my clean, dry clothes into my laundry basket and went back to my dorm room. It was here that I would find ALL of my panties were gone.

I did not notice right away that anything was amiss, but it didn't take long before I noticed that I wasn't putting any panties away into my drawers.

My roommate walked in. I must have looked perplexed because she asked:

roommate: What's wrong?

me: Uh, my panties are not here.

roommate: What do you mean your 'panties are not here'?

me: I mean, they're not here. Gone. Missing.

roommate: (laughing)

me: Why are you laughing!!! This isn't funny!!! Now I have to go buy about 50 new pairs of panties!!!

roommate: OOh this is so exciting. You know what this means, don't you?

me: What? That you're coming with me to the mall?

roommate: No, silly. This means there's a panty bandit on the loose!

She got a clever gleam in her eye. She grabbed my hand and said cheerfully, "Come on!"

We walked down the hall to the dorm floor director. He was sitting at the desk in his room looking over a biology book. "Yes?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"There's a panty bandit loose on the floor, and he stole her panties!" my roommate began, pointing to my crotch.

"That's funny," he said and closed his door.

"Forget him, Jaimie. If he won't help us, we'll have to do it ourselves!"

She marched back to our dorm room with me trailing behind her. I began silently calculating in my mind how much it would cost to replace all of my panties when she shouted, "I know what we'll do! We'll make signs...yes, that's what we'll do! We'll make signs and post them all over the dorm. We'll warn all of the girls here that their panties are in danger. That disgusting pig can't get away with this!"

She was excited, which made me become excited. No, I would not let this disgusting pig do this to another girl.

"Well, anyway," she continued. "We'll have to start on this when I get back. I'm going out with Chris tonight."

"What? I thought you were going to help me?" I asked, shocked.

"I'll still help you, silly. Tomorrow." She grabbed her purse and left.

I got up the next morning and remembered that I had no clean panties to put on. I knew that I would be spending the day at the mall. Before getting into the shower, I took the elevator down to the first floor to check my mailbox. I rode the elevator back up to my floor and passed the laundry room, and there they were. ALL OF MY PANTIES WERE SITTING NICELY FOLDED ON THE LAUNDRY TABLE.

I gathered them together and carried them back to my room. There is a lesson to be learned by this strange and hilarious event: Never leave your panties alone.

Posted by Jaimie :: 7:25 AM :: 8 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Saturday, November 05, 2005

Nelly and His Plans to Corrupt Kindergartners

Dear Nelly,

One day, about 2 weeks ago, my kindergarten class went outside to recess. I let them go to the "big park" on Fridays. The kids always get so excited about this, because they get to leave the safe kindergarten playground to get pushed, shoved, and knocked over on the big playground with the first and second graders.

I never take my students to recess. My co-teacher does this for me. As usual, she took them to the big playground. Upon returning, she entered the room as the kids followed her and said, "Listen to Daniela, Ms. L. Listen to what she's singing."

Daniela is a sweet and innocent child, and quite adorable. She also speaks very little English.

Daniela: (singing) It's gettin hot in hair...take off all you clothes...I am get so hat Ima take me clothes off...

Oh my god.

I tried my hardest to keep a straight face. "Daniela," I said. "Please don't sing that song inside the classroom." "Porque?" she asked. "Well..." I struggled to find the right words, while the class waited anxiously to hear what I had to say. "It's about getting naked."

She smiled and skipped back to the rug.

This week, while students were doing independent work at their tables, here goes Daniela again, except this time she is accompanied by her backup singers Camille and Ariana:

Daniela, Camille, and Ariana : (singing) It's gettin hot in hair...take off all you clothes...I am get so hat...Ima take me clothes off...

The singing got louder. I let them sing the verse about five times. It took that long for me to get myself together. "Girls!" I said loudly above their singing. "Please stop singing that song in here. What about 'Old MacDonald'?"

"Ok, Ms. L!" the girls answered. They began singing "Old MacDonald" and the whole class joined in.

Nelly, I enjoy your catchy pop-fantastic tunes as much as the next kindergartener, but please, I am hearing songs about getting naked in my kindergarten classroom. Isn't there a better way?

Ms. L
Kindergarten Teacher

Posted by Jaimie :: 2:45 PM :: 6 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Friday, November 04, 2005

Crackheads Are Nice People

In 1996 I met a guy at a club in Los Angeles. His name was Marcus. After talking to him the first time on the phone he seemed a little weird, but he asked me out to dinner. I love a FREE DINNER.

We went out to dinner a few nights later, and I noticed he kept mentioning his ex-girlfriend. Yawn. He was boring me to death with his sob story, but he was providing a FREE DINNER.

I continued seeing Marcus for a about a month, and he continued talking about his ex-girlfriend. I didn't quite understand why they broke up, but it seemed like she had dumped him against his wishes.

Marcus lived in South Central. I went to his house one time. He still lived at home with his mom which was a major turn-off, but again, he had taken me out for a FREE DINNER, so I suffered through the obligatory tour of his mama's house. When we reached his room, I was shocked to see at least 8 different photos of some chick on the wall. "Who's this?" I asked, peering closely at the pictures. "Oh, my ex-girlfriend." Psycho.

Now, most girls in their right mind would have left this man alone, but I can't turn down a FREE DINNER. One night Marcus called my house because he was in Santa Monica and wanted to say hi. After stopping by he asked, "Want to ride with me to return some movies?"

5 minutes later we were flying onto an onramp onto the 10 freeway. "Where are we going?" I asked suspiciously. "To take the movies back. In south central." "Oh, okay." I answered. "So, since we're already going to be there," he started, "Do you mind if we stop by my godson's house?"

Now, I'm no idiot. I instantly recalled that he had once told me his ex-girlfriend was related to his godson. "You're not taking me somewhere where your ex is going to be, are you?" "Of course not!" he snapped.

15 minutes later we were in south central. It was dark. We pulled up to a house and suddenly Marcus seemed nervous. "Come on," he said. "Oh, no," I protested. "I'm not going in there!" "Why not?" he answered annoyed. "Why not?" I felt my voice rising. "Because I think your ex-girl is in there and you're trying to set me up or make her jealous or something." "Whatever!" he said and stepped out of the car.

Marcus stayed inside the house for about 10 minutes. While he was in there, I sat in the car fuming. Several people, or shall I say crackheads, peered into the car window, smiled, and waved. God, hi, it's me Jaimie. Please, I promise, if you get me back home safely, I will never date anyone who I meet from a club again.

Finally, Marcus came back to the car and got in. He seemed pissed off and quickly turned the key in the ignition and started to speed off. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. "She was in there, wasn't she? Why don't you just leave her alone? I mean, I can't believe you did this to me! There were crackheads looking into the car!" I don't remember the rest of the conversation, but I do recall using the words asshole, hell, and shit quite a bit.

Suddenly Marcus pulled into a 76 gas station. "Get out." He said. "What?" I answered. "Get out," he said again calmly. I looked at the street sign. Florence and Normandy. Reginald Denny. Shit. "Ok, Marcus, babe, I'm sorry. Sorry I used all of that really foul language. That wasn't very ladylike of me. So, um, just get back on the freeway and take me back to Santa Monica and it's all good."

"You heard me bitch. Get the fuck out of my car."

Seeing that the man was about to lose his mind, I calmly opened the car door and put one leg out. The car started moving. "You're such an asshole!" I got out of the car. Off Marcus sped, back in the direction of the house.

I grew up in Santa Monica. I have no survival skills whatsoever. I walked (quickly) over to the gas station attendant. He was behind a thick pane of gas. "Hi," I said with my best cheerleader smile. "Um, yeah, hi. Can I use your phone please?"


I walked to a payphone near the gas station. There was a crackhead standing right next to it. "You sho' is pretty," he said. "Thanks," I answered. "Do you have 20 cents?"

The crack head handed me a quarter. I called my mom.

mom: Hello

me: Mom, it's me. Don't have time to explain because I'm about to get eaten alive, but um, can you pick me up on the corner of Florence and Normandy?

mom: WHAT??????

me: Just do it!!! That asshole Marcus left me here!

mom: What'd you do to him?

me: Ma, I'm about to get killed here. Can we talk about it in the car?

mom: I'm on my way.

Everyone knows that any destination in Los Angeles can be reached within 20 minutes, but somehow my mom made it to south central in a record 19. She pulled up, and I was never in my life so happy to see a red Honda Prelude.

"You better not ever see that Marcus again!" my mom said. This was a completely ridiculous statement. Like I would?

I didn't hear from Marcus until 3 months later. "Hey," he said casually when I answered the phone. "I just out of jail. Can I come by and see you?"

I am proud to say that Marcus never saw me again, and where he is today, I do not know. I did learn one thing from this situation: Crackheads are nice people.

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:19 PM :: 6 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


Thursday, November 03, 2005

Pervert Journal

This year at my school, for the first time ever, we have a security guard. When I first heard the announcement that our school would have a security guard, my first thought was Why? I work at an elementary school, for God's sake. Granted, it is in Inglewood, but a security guard seemed so unnecessary.

Within a week of being on his new job, the security guard knew my name. "Hello, Ms. L-," he would say under his breath every time he passed me. I immediately got a creepy feeling. Yuck. Then I started noticing the stares from him-stares that were lasting too long and were practically dripping with slime.

Last week he told me (under his breath again), "You look pretty today, Ms. L. You look pretty every day Ms. L." EEEEWWWW!!!! Get away from me, pervert.

Monday our school district's personnel came to hand out our paychecks. The office manager called every classroom to notify us that she was there. Mr. Security Guard decided to come to my classroom to tell me personally. "Uh, your check is here." "I already know that," I answered.

This morning, bright and early, he walked towards me in the hallway. Unfortunately, no one else was around to witness his latest endevour to attempt to make me file a sexual harrassment claim. "Did you rest well last night, Ms. L?" "What?" I asked, just to make sure I heard him correctly. He repeated his idiotic question and smirked. I'm about to stab this man.

After talking to my co-teacher about the pervert on campus, she suggested that I ask another teacher, Ms. F, if she has had similar experiences with him. She figured Ms. F was a good candidate for possible sexual harrassment from this man because she and I look similar. I called her in her classroom.

Ms. F: Hello?
me: Hi. J-?
Ms. F: Yes.
me. Hi. It's Ms. L- How are you?
Ms. F: Fine. And you?
me: Good. I was just wondering you get the feeling that our security guard is a perv?
Ms. F: Oh God, yes. You too?
me: Yes. (I start telling her all the things he's done).
Ms. F: He's so gross. He's creepy. He came in my classroom too.
me: I mean, I don't want to get the man fired. I just want him to stop looking at me and talking to me.
Ms. F: Maybe he needs to get fired. (she laughed)

So I've decided to keep a Pervert Journal. Every time this man says something out of line it will be documented in my Pervert Journal. I will share this Pervert Journal with my school principal when the time is right. You can't be a pervert around me and get away with it!

Posted by Jaimie :: 5:53 PM :: 7 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


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