You know a great place to
be? In my head. There lie all my memories. Wow.
My memories are amazing! And
also in my head are all my ideas and fantasies.
Oh the things that could be memories, if only I had the guts. My brain has such grand ideas, almost
reckless. But my heart is always saying
“No way, that might hurt. What if you’re the only brain that thinks it’s a good
idea?”
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Charlie Hebdo....What's the Score?
"What's your take on Charlie Hebdo, Rosemary?"
It was a fair game and it ended in a tie.
The artists and writers at CH were by no means heroes. They were bullies, may they rest in peace. They were very sophisticated, I will give you that...but they were bullies nonetheless. Their insistence on picking on certain groups was not motivated by some idea that by doing so the world would be a better place. They chose their targets by identifying where they would touch on the most nerves. Get the biggest reaction. The biggest adrenaline rush. If there were no extremist Muslim groups and no death threats, etc. the taunting would have ceased long ago. The fun would have ended and they'd have been shopping their portfolios and manuscripts around a long time ago, in fact, most of them made their real bread and butter through other publications anyway.
Afterall...it's fashionable to hate the Middle East, and just as delicious to worship French artists and liberals. It was trendy to idealize the Hebdo victims. But let's not forget that they were fighting bankruptcy for years. The French, who aren't as easily romanticized by all things French (for obvious reasons), were not supporting this magazine before the attack. They were largely ignoring it and it was dying a slow death.
"But they stood up for their rights, I'd rather die standing up than live kneeling down." Fine. Then make cartoons about things like human trafficking and texting while driving, things that really do damage peoples lives irreparably. Push the limits. Call out big time criminals by name and their mindless devotees by their shame. Don't worry...they will probably want to kill you too, if that's what twists your skirt.
"So are you condoning violence and cold-blooded murder?" Of course not; no hitting...that's always been my rule. So the blood-thirsty bullies finally hit the mean-hearted bullies back. What did you think was going to happen? It's a tie now. All's fair play in my book when it's bully vs. bully.
Poking at someone's sore spot until they explode, does not make you a hero. It takes no strength to do that. Showing kindness, respecting differences and uniting people, on the other hand, is heroic, SO INCREDIBLY heroic that it takes super-human powers to pull it off most of the time.
It was a fair game and it ended in a tie.
The artists and writers at CH were by no means heroes. They were bullies, may they rest in peace. They were very sophisticated, I will give you that...but they were bullies nonetheless. Their insistence on picking on certain groups was not motivated by some idea that by doing so the world would be a better place. They chose their targets by identifying where they would touch on the most nerves. Get the biggest reaction. The biggest adrenaline rush. If there were no extremist Muslim groups and no death threats, etc. the taunting would have ceased long ago. The fun would have ended and they'd have been shopping their portfolios and manuscripts around a long time ago, in fact, most of them made their real bread and butter through other publications anyway.
Afterall...it's fashionable to hate the Middle East, and just as delicious to worship French artists and liberals. It was trendy to idealize the Hebdo victims. But let's not forget that they were fighting bankruptcy for years. The French, who aren't as easily romanticized by all things French (for obvious reasons), were not supporting this magazine before the attack. They were largely ignoring it and it was dying a slow death.
"But they stood up for their rights, I'd rather die standing up than live kneeling down." Fine. Then make cartoons about things like human trafficking and texting while driving, things that really do damage peoples lives irreparably. Push the limits. Call out big time criminals by name and their mindless devotees by their shame. Don't worry...they will probably want to kill you too, if that's what twists your skirt.
"So are you condoning violence and cold-blooded murder?" Of course not; no hitting...that's always been my rule. So the blood-thirsty bullies finally hit the mean-hearted bullies back. What did you think was going to happen? It's a tie now. All's fair play in my book when it's bully vs. bully.
Poking at someone's sore spot until they explode, does not make you a hero. It takes no strength to do that. Showing kindness, respecting differences and uniting people, on the other hand, is heroic, SO INCREDIBLY heroic that it takes super-human powers to pull it off most of the time.
Friday, January 9, 2015
When You're That Tired
"We're at the hardware store now. We're buying a paint brush." she says softly and reassuringly.
"Oh...ok." I reply as I make a conscious effort to process this information correctly.
"Do I have pants on?" I ask.
"Yes, you do." She kindly replies.
"Ok...then let's do this." I commit.
This is one of many conversations that I have had recently...with myself. You see, when you are that tired, as in sleep deprived for 10 consecutive days kind of tired, things become a little foggy and were it not for mental self-examinations such as the one above, there is no telling what awkward situations you may find yourself in. Like the time after the birth of my third child in which I found myself at a grocery store check-out stand, blouse completely unbuttoned down to the navel. I had left the house, driven the car, crossed the parking lot, traipsed through the isles and stood in line...all with my blouse unbuttoned. Fortunately, we lived in the city at the time and I'm sure that not only had they seen worse, but on a regular basis as well.
"Oh...ok." I reply as I make a conscious effort to process this information correctly.
"Do I have pants on?" I ask.
"Yes, you do." She kindly replies.
"Ok...then let's do this." I commit.
This is one of many conversations that I have had recently...with myself. You see, when you are that tired, as in sleep deprived for 10 consecutive days kind of tired, things become a little foggy and were it not for mental self-examinations such as the one above, there is no telling what awkward situations you may find yourself in. Like the time after the birth of my third child in which I found myself at a grocery store check-out stand, blouse completely unbuttoned down to the navel. I had left the house, driven the car, crossed the parking lot, traipsed through the isles and stood in line...all with my blouse unbuttoned. Fortunately, we lived in the city at the time and I'm sure that not only had they seen worse, but on a regular basis as well.
From a Fitting Room in Target
Part I
Only a few days remained before the big day; our first wedding! Our oldest daughter would soon become a Mrs. Exhausted from all the preparations and running around, I leaned against the outside of the dressing room door and waited while my youngest daughter, who was 14, tried on a new bra inside.
"Mom, it's all twisted...help me."
She unlocked the door and I stepped in. What I saw was certainly twisted, but it wasn't the bra strap that had caught my attention. It was her back. From the depths of my soul, a gasp began to rise up, but my guardian angel promptly clapped her hand over my mouth and stopped me from making a huge mistake. You see, if your mom hasn't seen your nakedness for a few years and then the first time that she does see it she gasps, or even worse, cries...that's some bad body image juju for sure.
So I pushed back the tears and redirected my focus to the errant strap.
Two days later we were sitting in a doctor's office. Diagnosis? Scoliosis, 44 degree curve. Recommendation? Surgery.
Only a few days remained before the big day; our first wedding! Our oldest daughter would soon become a Mrs. Exhausted from all the preparations and running around, I leaned against the outside of the dressing room door and waited while my youngest daughter, who was 14, tried on a new bra inside.
"Mom, it's all twisted...help me."
She unlocked the door and I stepped in. What I saw was certainly twisted, but it wasn't the bra strap that had caught my attention. It was her back. From the depths of my soul, a gasp began to rise up, but my guardian angel promptly clapped her hand over my mouth and stopped me from making a huge mistake. You see, if your mom hasn't seen your nakedness for a few years and then the first time that she does see it she gasps, or even worse, cries...that's some bad body image juju for sure.
So I pushed back the tears and redirected my focus to the errant strap.
Two days later we were sitting in a doctor's office. Diagnosis? Scoliosis, 44 degree curve. Recommendation? Surgery.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Best Cover Letter I Have Ever Written (didn't get the job, but I did get the interview)
Brigham Young University
Registrar’s Office
Provo UT 84602
Dear
Barry, Jearlene, and all the other RegiSTARS at BYU,
I hope you can help me.
I have struggled all my life with
organizational tendencies. In school I was caught scheduling rooms and
executing staff meetings. At home, I
would face the tired disappointment in my parent’s eyes as they produced yet
another budget they had found stashed under my mattress. I was employee of the month four times at the local toy store before they realized I was only seven and I
wasn’t even on the payroll. Then one day
while I was lying on my bed and staring up at my M*A*S*H poster of
Corporal Radar O’Reilly, the thought hit me like a ton of bricks… “What if I’m…
an admin???”
Fortunately, adulthood offered a much
more accepting world in which to be professional, efficient and dependable and
I have been working ever since to find more and more ways in which to make the
lives of the people around me easier by anticipating their needs, embracing
innovation and maintaining a positive attitude.
But after raising 5 children, 1 husband, 2 Bishops, and 3 Executives I
have come to the sobering realization that there’s nowhere left to go in my
endeavor for administrative assistant excellence…except BYU. And what greener field could there be than a
Registrar’s office?
Dare I dream?
Sincerely,
Rosemary Jarman
Saturday, May 24, 2014
A Text Conversation Between Mother and Daughter
Also known as: When you are anxiously waiting for your friends to write you back, their letter will not arrive until you are completely and safely out of town and unable to tear open the envelope the minute it arrives. But your mom, who stayed home, will text- torture you by letting you know that it's finally there.
Mom: You got a letter from Ohio...
Phoebe: I actually sent letters to two different people in Ohio recently. Does it have a name? (either way, I'm secretly dying inside)
Mom: It's from, and I quote: "The Only Person You Know in Ohio" and it is addressed to, and I quote: "Pheebee Harrhead
Phoebe: Wow. That's really ironic. And YEEEEEEEES!
The ONE day I don't religiously check the mail!
Mom: Well, that's the universe for ya!
Phoebe: Ha ha, yup! Thanks : ) could you put that in a safety deposit box for me?
Mom; Well, I've already got armed guards here. Don't you think the safety deposit box would be a bit overdoing it?
Phoebe: Ha ha! Hmmm...I guess. Are any of the guards cute? Maybe they could help me get over missing Michael.
Mom: I can't tell through their ninja masks, but they do have nice butts.
Phoebe: Done
Mom: Atta girl
Mom: You got a letter from Ohio...
Phoebe: I actually sent letters to two different people in Ohio recently. Does it have a name? (either way, I'm secretly dying inside)
Mom: It's from, and I quote: "The Only Person You Know in Ohio" and it is addressed to, and I quote: "Pheebee Harrhead
Phoebe: Wow. That's really ironic. And YEEEEEEEES!
The ONE day I don't religiously check the mail!
Mom: Well, that's the universe for ya!
Phoebe: Ha ha, yup! Thanks : ) could you put that in a safety deposit box for me?
Mom; Well, I've already got armed guards here. Don't you think the safety deposit box would be a bit overdoing it?
Phoebe: Ha ha! Hmmm...I guess. Are any of the guards cute? Maybe they could help me get over missing Michael.
Mom: I can't tell through their ninja masks, but they do have nice butts.
Phoebe: Done
Mom: Atta girl
Friday, April 11, 2014
Departure
When I was five I would sometimes wake up before everyone else, so I would do what any kid that age would do in such a situation; I'd turn on the TV and fold the laundry while watching Mr. Rogers. Yes...you read that right...I was folding laundry at age 5.
When I was eight I found out that the lady across the street whom I regularly babysat for was out-of-town at a funeral. Her husband was home with the kids. This elicited immediate sympathy and spurred me into action. So I did what any eight year old would do. I made and brought them dinner, all by myself. That's right...I said 8. (Macaroni and Cheese Rookie-Style...recipe to follow)
From a very young age, if I've been anything, I've been domestic. There is no doubt that this is my calling in life. It's what makes me happy. By the time I was 30, I had been blessed with a husband, five kids and a lifestyle that allowed me to be all kinds of domestic, all day long. But two years ago, that all changed.
One phone call, twelve months and four moving trucks later, I found myself surrendering my cherished title of Homemaker for that of Administrative Assistant instead. Working mother. Desk drone. Adrenaline and duty (and shopping for the most darling professional wardrobe) helped with the transition, but still...I will never forget the first time I ate lunch...at my desk...alone. What?
Let me say that again. I ate lunch. At my desk. Alone. But it's what we working people do, frequently, as I've come to discover. And let me just say...it never feels right (and I hope it never does). I'm not sure what lessons I'm supposed to be learning from this experience because frankly I spend most of my time in survival mode, but here's what I can tell you so far:
1. When you hear of a working mom who comes home at the end of an eight hour work day and makes dinner for her family, that doesn't just fall under the "expected" category or even the "admirable" category...it's freakin' awesome! Maybe you're intimidated by the woman on your street whose homemade pie wins a blue ribbon at the state fair every year or whose preschool age triplets have already performed a violin concerto with the symphony. Forget about it. These women have nothing on the gal who brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. Bravo, lady! Bravo!
2. If you think my comments in #1 are fighting words and you wanna have a throw-down between working moms and stay-at-home moms now, do us all a favor and don't. C'mon...that's a dead horse and we all know it. We are sisters, we are awesome, and we need to rock-it in whatever station in life we find ourselves in. Let's not be stupid; it makes our awesomeness look frumpy.
3. It's really nice out here in the work-a-day world. People are nice. They put forth an effort to make time at the office as pleasant, attractive, and civil as can be. With that being said; how big of a leap is it for the breadwinner at your house to go from that atmosphere to the one waiting for them at home?
I hope however far the distance, that it's at least gradual. That it's free of sweat pants and smeared mascara. That they're given a little time to transition from the 9-5 grind to whomever you need them to be at home. Think Scuba diving decompression chamber, maybe? I know, I can't believe I'm saying this either but now that I have been both the one who is come home to and the one who comes home and I have both playbooks in my possession...I have to say: soften it up girls. You both need those first 15 minutes of his arrival home to be tender and sweet.
4. See comment #2 if comment #3 makes you mad.
Macaroni and Cheese - Rookie Style
Dump box of noodles into pot of water. Fish the wet cheese packet back out of water. Turn on heat and bring water to boil. Get distracted and leave the pot until most of the water has boiled out. Dump contents of cheese packet into soggy noodle/cloudy water mixture. Stir and serve.
When I was eight I found out that the lady across the street whom I regularly babysat for was out-of-town at a funeral. Her husband was home with the kids. This elicited immediate sympathy and spurred me into action. So I did what any eight year old would do. I made and brought them dinner, all by myself. That's right...I said 8. (Macaroni and Cheese Rookie-Style...recipe to follow)
From a very young age, if I've been anything, I've been domestic. There is no doubt that this is my calling in life. It's what makes me happy. By the time I was 30, I had been blessed with a husband, five kids and a lifestyle that allowed me to be all kinds of domestic, all day long. But two years ago, that all changed.
One phone call, twelve months and four moving trucks later, I found myself surrendering my cherished title of Homemaker for that of Administrative Assistant instead. Working mother. Desk drone. Adrenaline and duty (and shopping for the most darling professional wardrobe) helped with the transition, but still...I will never forget the first time I ate lunch...at my desk...alone. What?
Let me say that again. I ate lunch. At my desk. Alone. But it's what we working people do, frequently, as I've come to discover. And let me just say...it never feels right (and I hope it never does). I'm not sure what lessons I'm supposed to be learning from this experience because frankly I spend most of my time in survival mode, but here's what I can tell you so far:
1. When you hear of a working mom who comes home at the end of an eight hour work day and makes dinner for her family, that doesn't just fall under the "expected" category or even the "admirable" category...it's freakin' awesome! Maybe you're intimidated by the woman on your street whose homemade pie wins a blue ribbon at the state fair every year or whose preschool age triplets have already performed a violin concerto with the symphony. Forget about it. These women have nothing on the gal who brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. Bravo, lady! Bravo!
2. If you think my comments in #1 are fighting words and you wanna have a throw-down between working moms and stay-at-home moms now, do us all a favor and don't. C'mon...that's a dead horse and we all know it. We are sisters, we are awesome, and we need to rock-it in whatever station in life we find ourselves in. Let's not be stupid; it makes our awesomeness look frumpy.
3. It's really nice out here in the work-a-day world. People are nice. They put forth an effort to make time at the office as pleasant, attractive, and civil as can be. With that being said; how big of a leap is it for the breadwinner at your house to go from that atmosphere to the one waiting for them at home?
I hope however far the distance, that it's at least gradual. That it's free of sweat pants and smeared mascara. That they're given a little time to transition from the 9-5 grind to whomever you need them to be at home. Think Scuba diving decompression chamber, maybe? I know, I can't believe I'm saying this either but now that I have been both the one who is come home to and the one who comes home and I have both playbooks in my possession...I have to say: soften it up girls. You both need those first 15 minutes of his arrival home to be tender and sweet.
4. See comment #2 if comment #3 makes you mad.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Saturday Night Fever
Several months ago, I started to think that it was time for a party. At first I imagined it would be something like a house-warming party and that we would have it as soon as we were finished with all the remodeling we were doing at our house. But that idea was hatched at the beginning of the project, back when we had a more romantic idea of what it would be like once everything was complete. Back when it was man vs. house and we were the obvious victors-to-be. But since it ended up being less victor-like and more let's-call-it-a-truce-like, the celebrating element just wasn't there.
But the party bug was. It emerged again, several months later during that week in January where my oncologist sent me through a round of tests, including a nuclear bone scan, because she thought my cancer had metastasized to my bones. This time my party was more like a going away party because I'm pretty sure metastatic cancer in your bones has bon voyage written all over it. Negative. My symptoms were merely a case of Costochondritis.
Well, the terrible diagnosis went away, but the desire to hang out with all my favorite people didn't. I thought...why should I wait for an excuse to celebrate my wonderful life with all the people who had made it so? The party was on and this time, it was a birthday party!
The Facebook invites went out to 200 friends (give or take), and the hard copy invitations went out to 70 of those same people, the 70 whom I thought were most likely to come. But after they went out, and I mean right after, I experienced the weirdest mix of remorse and dread that I have ever felt. It turned into anxiety and it haunted me for days. I was miserable. Turns out there's a thing called "hospitality induced anxiety" and I had it bad. At one point, five or six hours before the party began, I actually thought "if I got in my car right now and started driving...how far away could I get before anyone noticed I was missing?" If the answer had been "so far that you would drive right into the ocean", I would have been ok with that.
Why wouldn't the idea of having this party go away? Why had actually throwing this party become tantamount to drowning in the ocean? Hosting had never bothered me before. I have come up with a couple of theories, but it really doesn't matter anymore because in the end, the party came, the people came (over 50) and it was so much fun! They even gave me presents...a thing which I hadn't even considered before. But...yay presents! And yay friends and family. Saturday night was great, thanks to you!
But the party bug was. It emerged again, several months later during that week in January where my oncologist sent me through a round of tests, including a nuclear bone scan, because she thought my cancer had metastasized to my bones. This time my party was more like a going away party because I'm pretty sure metastatic cancer in your bones has bon voyage written all over it. Negative. My symptoms were merely a case of Costochondritis.
Well, the terrible diagnosis went away, but the desire to hang out with all my favorite people didn't. I thought...why should I wait for an excuse to celebrate my wonderful life with all the people who had made it so? The party was on and this time, it was a birthday party!
The Facebook invites went out to 200 friends (give or take), and the hard copy invitations went out to 70 of those same people, the 70 whom I thought were most likely to come. But after they went out, and I mean right after, I experienced the weirdest mix of remorse and dread that I have ever felt. It turned into anxiety and it haunted me for days. I was miserable. Turns out there's a thing called "hospitality induced anxiety" and I had it bad. At one point, five or six hours before the party began, I actually thought "if I got in my car right now and started driving...how far away could I get before anyone noticed I was missing?" If the answer had been "so far that you would drive right into the ocean", I would have been ok with that.
Why wouldn't the idea of having this party go away? Why had actually throwing this party become tantamount to drowning in the ocean? Hosting had never bothered me before. I have come up with a couple of theories, but it really doesn't matter anymore because in the end, the party came, the people came (over 50) and it was so much fun! They even gave me presents...a thing which I hadn't even considered before. But...yay presents! And yay friends and family. Saturday night was great, thanks to you!
Monday, February 3, 2014
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Completing Christmas
With a newborn, a one year old, AND a two year old...my mother did not have a lot of spare time. This was before microwaves, disposable diapers, Disney DVDs, the Internet or any other kind of electronic babysitter that we enjoy today. Yet she still managed to find time to make us all homemade Christmas stockings that year.
While working on this project one day, her one year old daughter began vying for her attention. She toddled up to mother and tried to pull herself up onto her lap. Mother moved the child aside and continued to sew. Again, the child approached mother, whining and yapping for some attention and again, mother gently turned the child around and urged her to play elsewhere. When the toddler approached the third time, mother simply stuck out her leg and held the infant at bay with her foot while she continued her work. "I'm doing this for you" she heard herself say in exasperation.
Her own words, mixed with her daughters tears, made her realize that something was wrong with this picture. She stopped sewing, pinned the remaining pieces in place and picked up her daughter.
She never finished the stocking. She hung it that year just as it was and every year after that. For me, the little girl in the story, that stocking would hold all the goodies Santa would bring for years to come. For my mother, it would hold a far greater treasure.
What was that treasure? Was it knowing that she had saved me from a life of sadness and tragedy? Would have making me wait another 10 minutes have ruined my psyche beyond repair? No. Mother could have finished the stocking and her baby girl would have been just fine.
But it was not finishing the stocking that makes it so special. By not finishing the stocking, she got to know what it is like for all those who "lose their life for the Lord's sake and find it." She got to know what it is to hold the kingdom of God on her lap. "Suffer the little children to come unto me, for such is the kingdom of God."
If a Christmas stocking ever was or will be about Christ...this one will and is.
It represents one small battlefield...that between the natural woman and the Christ-like woman, and she won that battle.
But even though this stocking was never finished, it could not be more complete. Much as the Lord, the Author and Finisher of our faith, completes us when we choose to put aside our personal ambitions and agendas and choose to love His children instead.
While working on this project one day, her one year old daughter began vying for her attention. She toddled up to mother and tried to pull herself up onto her lap. Mother moved the child aside and continued to sew. Again, the child approached mother, whining and yapping for some attention and again, mother gently turned the child around and urged her to play elsewhere. When the toddler approached the third time, mother simply stuck out her leg and held the infant at bay with her foot while she continued her work. "I'm doing this for you" she heard herself say in exasperation.
Her own words, mixed with her daughters tears, made her realize that something was wrong with this picture. She stopped sewing, pinned the remaining pieces in place and picked up her daughter.
She never finished the stocking. She hung it that year just as it was and every year after that. For me, the little girl in the story, that stocking would hold all the goodies Santa would bring for years to come. For my mother, it would hold a far greater treasure.
What was that treasure? Was it knowing that she had saved me from a life of sadness and tragedy? Would have making me wait another 10 minutes have ruined my psyche beyond repair? No. Mother could have finished the stocking and her baby girl would have been just fine.
If a Christmas stocking ever was or will be about Christ...this one will and is.
It represents one small battlefield...that between the natural woman and the Christ-like woman, and she won that battle.
But even though this stocking was never finished, it could not be more complete. Much as the Lord, the Author and Finisher of our faith, completes us when we choose to put aside our personal ambitions and agendas and choose to love His children instead.
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