Saturday, December 31, 2005

Trust Life

Trust life, and it will teach you, in joy and sorrow, all you need to know.

-James Baldwin

Here's to a fabulous New Year!

Posted by Jaimie :: 9:56 AM :: 11 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Friday, December 30, 2005

Sullen Girl

A friend once told me "You are melancholic."

melancholy: a feeling of thoughtful sadness

That sounds depressing.

I prefer the term "introverted."

introvert: a person who tends to shrink from social contacts and becomes preoccupied with their own thoughts

I've always been this way. I've always been lost in my own mind and my own thoughts. At parties, I'm the quiet observer, the one having private, low conversations with strangers. I've never been the "life of the party" or the one to start a topic from across the dinner table.

Many people have asked me, "What are you thinking about?"

"How can you tell I'm thinking anything?" I ask.

"You look deep in thought," they answer.

I suppose I always am; I am always thinking about-well, everything. I am not aware of others around me, but at the same time, I think about people all of the time.

But it’s calm under the waves, in the blue of my oblivion. Under the waves in the blue of my oblivion. Is that why they call me a sullen girl?

Sullen girl.

Are you an Introvert or an Extrovert?

Thanks to Fiona Apple for the last paragraph of this post.

Posted by Jaimie :: 8:55 AM :: 14 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Sol Mates

I met my best friend AlmaSol (which translates to Soul of the Sun) at Gymboree, a ridiculously expensive playground for children. I would take my daughter there alone while my ex-husband sat in front of the television, not moving.

When I first met AlmaSol she said, "You're daughter's cute. What's her name?" "Stella," I answered. Her daughter was adorable too, and I asked, "What's your daughter's name?" "Bella," she answered. We were instantly friends.

"Are you married?" she asked, when we went to lunch one day after the play date. "Yes," I said. "Are you?" "Yeah," she answered, "But I want a divorce."


We shared our horror stories, comparing whose husband was worse. Finally, AlmaSol divorced her Lucifer, and soon after, I divorced my Satan. We were single moms, together.

Babysitters were called, nights out were held, play dates existed, phone calls were made regularly, new homes were found, along with new loves who loved us right. Through it all, she remains my inspiration, my light, my friend.

Who Is Your Best Friend?

Posted by Jaimie :: 6:25 PM :: 14 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Tuesday, December 27, 2005

I Changed My Mind

How many men have I chased? Countless.

How many men have broken my heart? Embarrassingly many.

How many men have I made cry?

Do you really want to know?

Ok-I'll tell you about one.

There was a young man in high school who liked me. He liked me a lot. I didn't realize it. I didn't know that he called me every night and talked to me until midnight on the phone because he liked me. I just thought we were friends. I didn't know that when we got off of the phone and he said, "I love you," he really meant it.

He was like a brother to me, not a boyfriend. He was attractive, but I wasn't attracted to him. He was nice, but too nice for me. And when he told me that his best friend would be perfect for me, I really didn't think anything of his love for me.

And after his best friend and I got together, and actually loved each other, he cried. "I don't understand," I said to him over the phone. "You said he and I were perfect together! You wanted me to be with him!"

"I changed my mind," he said. "You should have been with me."

Whose Heart Have You Broken?

Posted by Jaimie :: 8:05 AM :: 20 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Saturday, December 24, 2005

Would You Like A Box For That?

Dear Box Makers,

Once, at a D'Angelo concert at The Wiltern Theater in Los Angeles, I wore a black leather top, black skirt, black heels, and long, feathered earrings. I also had dark black eyeliner on. When I approached the bar, one of the bartenders whispered to the other bartender on duty, "Mexican Goth."

Mexican Goth?

me: Hi. I would like a glass of red wine please.

bartender: Sure. (pours wine)

me: I heard what you said.

bartender: (clears throat) Excuse me?

me: I heard what you said-"Mexican Goth."

bartender: Oh I was just-

me: Just what? Labeling me?

bartender: Well, no. I mean, well, you are Mexican, right?

me: No.

bartender: Oookkaayyy...well, are you into Goth music?

me: No.

bartender: (red in the face) Sorry.

me: (says nothing, takes wine, walks away).

Don't label us. Take us out of your neat little box. Life means much more to us than black, white, Mexican, Asian, Middle Eastern, African, Latino, European, poor, rich, middle class, smart, stupid, Republican, Democrat, alien (illegal or extraterrestrial), Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu and Jew.

Take us out of your box, and amazing things may occur. We might actually like you.


The Box Breakers

What Kind of Box Do People Put You In?

Posted by Jaimie :: 9:57 AM :: 18 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Baby I Got Your Money

Today I asked James if he loved me. "I love you more than anything in the world," he said.

"More than football?" I asked.

Momentary silence.

"More than football?" I asked again, my voice rising. "You better say 'yes', or there'll be a foot up your ass."

"Yeah, more than football," he said, laughing.

Wow, that's deep.

How much do I love James?

I would stand by his side forever. Even if he got taken away in handcuffs because he stole millions of dollars from his company, I'd be there, holding the money in Swiss Bank Accounts for him when he got out.

That's love.

What would you do for someone you love?

Posted by Jaimie :: 2:23 PM :: 17 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Tuesday, December 20, 2005

The Corporate Bitch

This is not me. I do not work in the corporate world, because believe me, if I did, I would be the biggest bitch in the world.

Corporations are usually run by men. I am a teacher- a female dominated profession. Although I have a principal and assistant principal to answer to (along with that damn idiot from Austria named Arnold), I am the leader of my classroom. My students look up to me, respect me, think I'm "so cute" and they "like my shoes" and bring me flowers and apples every day.

Excuse me while I daydream a little bit...excuse me while I imagine a day in Corporate America...

1. I would have to wake up, take a shower, and put on pantyhose and high heeled pumps. Ouch.

2. I would have to drive all the way to downtown LA. Traffic. Yuck.

3. I would have to take an elevator up to the 255th floor, even though I have claustrophobia and fear of heights. Scary.

4. I would have to deal with some slimy, married prick eying me up and down and asking me for out for "a glass of wine after work. Come on, no one will know." Sexual Harrassment.

5. I would then have to go to bed, and wake up the next morning and do all of it again, with only 2 weeks of vacation. Burnout.

Go ahead, laugh. Your boss won't hear you (but he may ask you out tonight).

Do you work in Corporate America?

This post is for creative purposes only and is in no way indicative of what Corporate America is really like.

Posted by Jaimie :: 1:02 PM :: 15 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Monday, December 19, 2005

Men Love A Butterfly's Ass

I was a big fan of Mariah Carey. I used to sing "Vision of Love" alone in my room when I was 14, pretending that I was singing to a large audience who had come all the way from some small God-forsaken town just to see me. Her voice moved me, sent chills through my skin, made me realize the power of music.

Then, like a butterfly, she metamorphosized into this:

I'm not innocent. I'm not a virgin. I'm not a prude. But this is ridiculous.

She must have realized that men love ass. There's no other explanation for her metamorphosis. A metamorphosis from a slow caterpillar who was just finding herself, to a showy butterfly moving quickly through the sky.

Unfortunately, butterflys have a short life span.

So what do you think of sex selling?

Posted by Jaimie :: 12:17 PM :: 27 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Friday, December 16, 2005

The Game

Alright, I admit it-I'm a woman, and I play games. We all do. It's fun.

One time a friend asked me, "Do you ever act as if you are not as smart as you really are to get a guy to like you?" "Uh, no," I answered. "Why, do you?" "Of course," she said giggling. "It makes them feel better."

I don't act stupid, but I do enjoy using my looks to get what I want. I especially love to ask men for free stuff. Once, I purposely chose a pair of panties off of the rack without a price tag. I purposely chose a young, teenage male cashier to ring up my purchase. "Uh, ma'am, there's no price on these, uh, panties," he mumbled. And I purposely told him, while placing my breasts on the counter and purposely leaning towards him, "Oh, really? Well, honey, why don't you just give them to me for free and I won't tell." He looked down, and then stuffed them in a bag and handed the bag to me, without looking me in the eye. Sucker.

When I was a teenager, I used to love to suck on Blow Pops, especially around guys who I knew liked me. I would suck really hard on them, so hard that you could see the shape of the lollipop in my mouth. "Do you do that?" they would ask eagerly. "Do what?" I would ask innocently. "You know, girl. That. Go down on a dude." "Ew, no, that's so gross," I would say and walk off, swinging my hips with each step. Keep wishing.

What's your favorite game to play?

Posted by Jaimie :: 2:15 PM :: 24 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Thursday, December 15, 2005

White Boys Don't Lie

When I was in college, I lived in a coed dorm. It wasn't as exciting as I thought it would be. I envisioned women running through the hall in their bras and panties, and horny 18 year old boys chasing them. In reality, most of us kept to ourselves, studying like crazy.

My roommate was this really happy chick named Christie. She had long blonde hair that cascaded down her back, and she liked to go jogging at 2:oo in the morning. She had a huge crush on our neighbor, who like her, had blonde hair and was definitely the "surfer type." His name was Joel.

Joel had no interest in Christie, but he was very interested in letting me use his laptop computer. Because I was broke, I didn't have the luxury of a computer in my dorm room, but Joel did. He would offer his computer, and even provided the paper so that I could print out my essays in his room.

Printing out essays in his proximity soon turned into dining together for dinner in the cafeteria. We would eat together, laughing at how terrible college food was. Eating together turned into sitting on the bed in either one of our dorm rooms watching "The Simpsons." Watching "The Simpsons" turned into him inviting me to a "frat party."

"Sorry," I replied. "I don't do those."

Joel: Why not?

me: The last thing I want to do is be around a bunch of drunk, horny white boys. I mean, you're cool, but the rest of them... (stuck my tongue out)

Joel: I'll take care of you. Come on, you'll have fun.

Well, Joel did take care of me, in a sense. During the party he consistently kept running back to me, checking to see how I was doing. Each time he came to me, he was drunker and drunker. When we reached the dorm, we rode up the elevator and walked down the hall in silence.

me: (turning key in lock) Well, I had a great time. Thanks.

Joel: Jaimie?

me: Yes?

Joel: Don't go yet. Come inside me room...

We went to his room, and then layed on his bed, without touching one another. Finally, he spoke.

Joel: I love you. I've loved you since the first time I saw you.

me: What? You're just drunk. You're kidding right?

Joel: No.

me: This could never work-you're so, well white. I mean, none of your friends are even brunettes. Everyone's so damn blonde. We would never work. (sits up)

Joel: (pulls my hand) Please, give me a chance.

And so I did-I gave him a chance. Joel and I left Los Angeles the next semester and traveled to Germany, France, Spain, the Netherlands and Belgium. We never talked about the future; we knew we would never be married and raise little blonde, dark tan children. What we did know was that life was too short to miss out on someone cool, just because their hair and skin was a shade lighter or darker than our own.

Have you ever dated someone of a different race?

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:07 PM :: 47 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Wednesday, December 14, 2005


Hair. Our enemy. Our friend. Our fascination.

As a child, my mother had difficulty with my hair. She, being a white woman from Texas with a half black child, seemed confused and anxious about the upkeep of my hair. She would sit me on her lap and rake a pick through my hair. I would scream, and she would mutter "Sorry," and continue working through my hair, taking the teeth of the comb roughly through my curls.

Once I was able to get off of her lap and stand before the mirror myself as a preteen, I discovered that it was not necessary for me to comb my hair at all. It was too difficult anyway, so I opted to take a shower every day, put conditioner in, and rinse it out. By 10th grade I had unknowingly grown dredlocks underneath my curls. Once at a friend's house with a group of girlfriends, one friend discovered it after touching my hair. "Why do you have dredlocks?" she asked, confused. "I do?" I asked, surprised. I reached my hand under the curls and discovered two fat locks. It was time to comb my hair.

My friends and I cut the dredlocks out, which thankfully was unnoticed to any observer since they were growing under my hair. One of my friends, who was also biracial, gave me some suggestions for taking care of my hair, and its been taken care of ever since.

Black women's fascination with hair began so long ago, it is hard to find its roots. We can assume that it began with the rape of black women by their white masters. Suddenly there was a new race of humans walking the fields of the South, and immediately were just ever so slightly given a step up on the discrimination ladder. We now had a new race, with a curl that was slightly looser than their mother's and lips slightly thinner. They were now silently told that life would be easier for them, and harder for their mothers. What a strange burden to carry.

Hair. It can tell many stories. It holds within its roots the history of our lives.

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:23 PM :: 14 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Borrowing From My Daughter

I knew my marriage was over. What I couldn't figure out was how I could financially afford the loss.

After the first 6 months of my 2 year marriage I used to drive to work silently adding and deducting salary and expenses in my head. I couldn't seem to ever come up with enough money to survive without his income.

I would check apartment listings, and seemed to find it so difficult to find an apartment in a safe area that I could afford. I even searched for roommates who would be willing to live with a young woman and her 1 1/2 year old daughter.

After two years, without a second thought, I told my husband to leave. I had no plan, and $50 in my checking account.

2 weeks after he left, while dropping off our daughter after a visit, my husband noticed my Cadillac was leaking fluid in the garage. He must have been able to read my face, because the first words I said was "How can I afford this?" "I'm not giving you shit," he said. "This is what you wanted. This is what you deserve."

I borrowed money from my mother and a friend. This was the only time I asked anyone for money. Or, at least the only time I asked an adult for money.

One day I took my 2 1/2 year old daughter into her room and took down her piggy bank. "Honey," I said slowly. "Mommy's going to have to open your piggy bank and use the money inside."

Stella: No! That's my money! I love my money!

me: I know, I know. But Mommy needs it. I'm sorry!

Stella: No! (pulling piggy bank from my hands)

me: Stella, I need to use it to buy food. You want food don't you?

Stella: (between sniffles and clutching piggy bank) Yes.

me: And milk? You like milk?

Stella: I love milk. I love milk a lot.

me: Ok, well, we need to open your piggy bank so that we can buy-well, milk.

Stella: Ok. I love milk. (gives me piggy bank)

We opened her piggy bank together and poured out the $30 in pennies, dimes, and nickles. We went to the store and bought milk and the other things we needed. I promised her I would pay her back, and I did.

Somehow, we made it. While married it seemed inconceivable that I could afford to live without my abusive husband. The true nature of my situation is that where there is strong will, there is survival.

Life is about more than believing "I can't."

Instead, believe "I will."

This post is dedicated to my star, Ms. Stella Leigh.

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:53 PM :: 21 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Monday, December 12, 2005

The Princess and The Neanderthal

Many of you know James. You know that he is my boyfriend. You think How sweet, a cute little blogging couple. Please. We drive each other crazy.

Here's Why:

1. I am a bit, well how should I say this-ok, I'll just come right out with it-A HIGH MAINTENANCE PRINCESS. James is low, low, low bottom of the barrel maintenance.

2. I am very clean (in fact, I think I might be slightly obsessive compulsive with my cleanliness). James is a walking messy tornado.

3. I like things done my way. James will do things any old way he pleases and doesn't seem to notice the way I've been doing it for 29 years.

4. James has been a bachelor his whole adult life. He has no concept of changing a toilet paper roll, not leaving dirty socks in the living room, or throwing old food away.

When I first met James he told me that all of his female friends called him a Neanderthal. "What? You're such a nice guy!" I said. "You'll figure it out soon enough," he told me.

After I felt comfortable enough with James I opened up and was honest with him. "I have panic attacks," I told him. "Do you know what that means?" "I think so," he said, "But explain it to me anyway." He listened intently, and I knew then that he was someone who cared and would never leave my side.

Yes, James is a Neanderthal, but he's such a wonderful, giving, caring Caveman. He understands me, he soothes me, he balances my anxiety with his calmness and optimism.

Now if I could just get him to use a napkin...

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:43 PM :: 27 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Saturday, December 10, 2005

The Temple of My Familiar

I am a Christian. I have always been a Christian.

I've forgotten. Actually, I've forgotten quite often. I have forgotten what my mother has taught me, and what years in church have taught me.

I got distracted. Distracted by the teenage years, the boyfriends, the marriage, the child. And then I remembered-I remembered my personal temple. I remembered my Father and my best friend. I remembered what He did for me.

My mother is a Christian, but when I was old enough to understand she said, "You can believe whatever you want. You can follow your own faith, your own path. But Jesus was and is real."

Every Christmas my mother would let me arrange the manger scene that sat on our coffee table. After I would set up Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, the animals, and the wise men, I would look proudly at it and skip away. My mother always rearranged the figurines properly, but I didn't care. Jesus' birthplace was my very own doll house.

In high school I went to Church Camp. We would sing, play games, and kiss. We kissed a lot at Church Camp. There was a spot in the woods called "Inspiration Point" and this is where we would meet. I felt ashamed and wondered if He was mad at me, while my lips touched another's.

My faith is unexplainable. How do you explain to a non-believer that a woman became pregnant with the Son of God without having sex , raised the Son of God, the Son died for my sins, was resurrected, and will return and bring me to a Kingdom of Heaven? The truth is: I don't understand myself. I can't explain such occurrences.

I only have The Temple of My Familiar. And He knows my heart.

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:42 PM :: 21 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Thursday, December 08, 2005

Closer To My Dreams

There's a story to this song. Yes-that song. The one playing right now. The one moving you. You're listening to her lyrics, and relating. I did the same once upon a time.

2 days after I made my ex-husband leave my home I emailed an ex-boyfriend/good friend and told him he was gone. He told me to meet him for lunch the next day.

We met and discussed the horror of my marriage. The lies. The abuse. The mistakes.

2 days after, that he gave me a CD. "Who is this?" I asked, looking at the face on the CD. "Her name is Goapele," he said. "Listen to her CD. She's good."

I took the CD home and listened to it everyday. Actually, I listened to one particular song every day. This song-the one playing.

"Closer" is about growing closer to a dream. Leaving the fears behind and moving on. Going higher and higher, feeling it in your sleep. Sometimes it feels like I'm stuck forever. But I'm going higher. Closer to my dream.

She saved me. Goapele saved me at a time when I felt so scared of the unknown. Scared of life without someone who was killing my spirit anyway. Her voice made me realize that it is possible to go higher than where we are today.

Music can move you. Music can make you feel stronger than you did yesterday. Music is amazingly wonderful.

Posted by Jaimie :: 6:26 PM :: 24 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Wednesday, December 07, 2005


You wouldn't know it now, because I am such an upstanding American citizen, but I used to shoplift.

My best friend in high school started the trend. "Come on, Jaimie," she would taunt. "It's just lipstick." She was right, it was just lipstick, and would anyone really notice? No one seemed to, so one tube of lipstick turned into 3-straight into my pocket.

After we grew tired of "Wet N' Wild", we moved onto clothes. Our favorite store to steal from was "Rampage"-the staple clothing store for fashion-conscious teenagers. Somehow I would manage to steal entire outfits-I would walk out of the store with them on my back. Sometimes I would buy a cheap bracelet as a distraction for the salesgirl, and fortunately, never got caught.

My mom soon noticed my new clothes. "Where did that come from?" she would ask, confused. "Oh, I'm just borrowing it from (name withheld). Do you like it?" I would ask, twirling around. "It's nice," she would say, eyeing me over her book.

One of our friends did get caught stealing. She attempted to steal from Urban Outfitters, which was no-man's land as far as we were concerned. She gave us horrid details of her ordeal: she was put into a dark basement office and interrogated and threatened; the police were called, who in turn took her to the police station; her dad was then called, and she was prohibited from ever entering the store again. Shudder. I needed my Urban Outfitters. No more shoplifting for me.

Now, as an adult, I would never steal anything. And if I ever found out my daughter was a shoplifter, I would ground her for life. Why did I do something so stupid, something so wrong? What was so thrilling about taking something that didn't belong to me?

Going to jail is not hilarious.

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

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Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Memories of the Way They Were

A girlfriend once told me that the perfect breast size could fit into a wine glass. These were an exact description of the size of my breasts. She and I wore the exact same bra size, except that she decided to display her breasts nightly in a strip club, and I kept mine discreet behind warm sweaters.

I am considered petite, so my breasts fit me well. They were not too big or too small, and I could wear a triangle bikini top with ease. I could even get away without wearing a bra at all, mostly because my breasts seemed to always sit up. Gravity was kind to me.

The life of my breasts changed after I had my daughter. I chose to breastfeed, so for 14 months, my breasts were the size of cantelopes. I found it difficult to wear my regular clothes without looking obscene. I should have been able to keep the cantelopes, because what followed was not pretty.

Beautiful cantelopes drastically changed to limp pancakes. "Where are my breasts?" I wondered, while looking in the mirror. I would constantly push them up with my hands, longing for the perkiness that they once contained. Suddenly a small, polite voice entered my mind. "Maybe you should start wearing padded bras," it whispered. Oh.

After purchasing 3 padded bras, I wore one out to a night of wine tasting. "I like," my friend said, poking my newly padded breast. "New bra?" she asked. "Do you mind?" I asked, brushing her hand away. "And yes, it is new." "I can't live without my padded bra," she began. "Especially when it's cold. I hate the erect nipple look." I nodded my head in agreement while sipping Merlot.

James always says with a smirk, "They look fine to me, doll. Come here and let me take a look." Men are not very covert.

So now, here I am, with my breasts-my new breasts-that I have grown accustomed to. And I still look good in a bikini, kinda.

Posted by Jaimie :: 4:21 PM :: 23 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Monday, December 05, 2005

I Wish I Knew You Then

November 22, 1985

Dear Jimmy,

Hi. You don't know me yet, but I will be your future wife. I know this sounds crazy, since you're only 16, but I just know it's true.

I saw you the other day, standing at the street corner on the Westside of Chicago, freestyling with your friends. I rode by on my red bike with the white basket. I was the little Puerto Rican lookin' chick with the long ponytail. You had on your Adidas sweatsuit and Kangol. I know you saw me-you glanced up at me as I passed.

I know I'm a little young for you, but you don't have to be my boyfriend yet. Before you know it, I'll be 16 too, and you won't feel so funny about dating me. You won't care what your friends think, or worry about sneaking around to see me. I'm sure my mom will love you just as much as I do.

Did I say love? I do love you. Do you love me? Yes, no, maybe? Please tell me how you feel about me. Tomorrow I'll be waiting for you outside of the shop where the lady sells the Boston Baked Beans candy that you like. I'll buy you a pack, if you want.



Posted by Jaimie :: 4:26 PM :: 17 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Sunday, December 04, 2005

My Daughter Likes Hookers

Dear Bratz Girl,

You're a tramp. A hooker. A slut.

Why in the world would parents allow their little girls to play with you? Look at you-you belong on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, or in Inglewood on Prairie and Imperial Highway. You look like a blow-up doll that can be found at the nearest sex shop, not my daughter's bedroom.

Let's look at your various attire:

1. I call this the "I'm on my way to the S & M club in east Hollywood to be whipped and strangled" outfit.

2.This is the "I'm gonna play golf with my rich, married sugar daddy and then let him do whatever he wants with me" outfit. And finally, 3. The "female pimp with an attitude" outfit.

Now, of course, my daughter innocently begs for you to be a part of her toy collection. As long as we are buying her toys, this will never happen.

I agree with one of my favorite comics, Chris Rock: Now that I have a daughter, my main goal in life is to "keep her off the pole" (the stripper pole, that is). No clear heels for this kid o' mine. This will be a challenge, seeing that there are dolls like you tempting my child to be a slut, but we will survive the Bratz temptation.


A Very Concerned (and able to see the humor) Mom

Posted by Jaimie :: 5:30 PM :: 30 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Friday, December 02, 2005

That Was A Decaf, Right?

When I was in college, I worked at a coffee house on Pico Boulevard in Santa Monica. The coffee house was owned by two women who were best friends. One of the women was the neice of the ultra sexy man trap from the movie "Cool Hand Luke." She looked just like her.

So, every day (and sometimes at night), I would serve coffee to an assortment of half sleepy individuals.

I liked this job for several reasons:

1. I had a wide assortment of free, expensive espresso to be drank at my disposal.

2. I met all sorts of strange and rare people.

3. At night, I was able to hear live music and poetry for free if I was working.

4. I was able to give people regular coffee when they ordered decaf.

Oops. Did I write that?

Yes, I admit my innocent mistake. There were many times that kind, old ladies would walk into the cafe in the evening and say, "Hi honey. Can I have a large decaf, please?"

"Sure," I would say with a big smile. And there I would go, mistakenly pouring a very large cup of regular coffee for the poor old souls. I did not do this intentionally-in fact, it was completely innocent.

I wouldn't realize my mistake until they were gone, out the door, unknowingly preparing themselves to bounce off of the walls for 6 hours.

This is my apology to them. People make mistakes. We need to forgive, move on, and live life, one cup of coffee at a time.

This post is dedicated to all of the people in the world who can't live without coffee. Love ya!

Posted by Jaimie :: 9:57 PM :: 10 Peeked Into My Diary:

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9 Lives

I think my cats are going to die this holiday season.

Posted by Jaimie :: 12:48 PM :: 10 Peeked Into My Diary:

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Thursday, December 01, 2005

Light My Fire

As mentioned before, I attract the nutcases like a magnet to a refrigerator. I suppose this attraction started when I was a child, but it became full blown in high school.

There was a boy in high school named Duncan. For some reason, I would silently call him Duncan Hines Cookies in my head, but would never say it out loud because this guy was crazy.

I had several classes with him and I would always catch him glaring at me. His glare would instantly turn into a huge smile. I didn't trust him.

One day, in biology class, he said, "Hey, my mom is white too, just like you. So we're both black and white, like zebras." He then proceeded to get on his hands and knees and paw around like a zebra on the Sahara. "I gotta go," I said, grabbing my backpack.

We were allowed to have lunch off campus at my high school. It was one day of dining out that Duncan's insanity towards me became full blown.

I walked the two blocks to a fast food restaurant with my friend. We reached our destination and stood in line, waiting to order our food. I turned around and Duncan was standing close behind me. I didn't say anything to him, because he was, well crazy.

I think it was the smoke I saw first, or maybe it was the smell of burning hair. Either way, my friend was soon screaming and throwing her bottle of water on my head. "What??!! What is it??!!" I asked terrified. "He set your hair on fire!" my friend screamed. "Who? Duncan?" "Yes," my friend said patting my hair quickly.


I chased after him up Lincoln Boulevard, screaming "Duncan!!! I'm going to kill you!!!" Somehow, he got away.

The next day I saw Duncan at school, sitting quietly in his seat with his hands folded in front of him. I glared at him and sat down, waiting for class to end so that I could corner him. As soon as the bell rang, he disappeared out of the door.

Years later, Duncan knocked on my front door. "Hey, I was just in the neighborhood," he said. "You want to hang out?"

I walked outside with him, and we walked up the alley a few blocks from my house. Duncan told me a lot that day; about his absent father, his mother who didn't understand him, failing school, and his drug addiction.

"Do you forgive me, you know, for that little fire thing?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. "I forgive you." He walked me back to my door, and I said good-bye.

I never saw Duncan again. Maybe he became a fire fighter. Either that, or a zoo keeper, responsible for the zebras.

Posted by Jaimie :: 7:41 PM :: 16 Peeked Into My Diary:

.:Write In My Diary:.


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