name tag with a reputation

dear rory,

reputations fascinate me.

and names are connected with reputations.

take chuck norris for example. he's known as a tough, cool, roundhouse-kick-you-off-the-face-of-the-earth kind of guy. merely mention his name and jokes quickly begin. you are bound to hear someone saying something like, “chuck norris doesn’t have to buy a turkey for the holidays. a turkey merely shows up at his house, climbs in his oven, and commits suicide” or “when the president pushes the big red button, chuck norris’s cell phone rings”.

and what do you think of when you hear the name john calvin? how about henry the eighth? queen esther? joan of arc? nero? obama? taylor swift? your best friend? your neighbor?

how do people get reputations? does it happen overnight?

“hi, i am a robber, but tomorrow the world will know me as being honest.” “hey, my name is abusive, but my lawyer is currently having it changed to loving-kindness.”

or do we get our reputations by the little choices we make and the seemingly insignificant things we do?

does it mean cleaning the toilet when no one is watching? does it mean bringing a meal to someone less fortunate? does it mean weeping with those who weep and laughing with those who laugh? does it mean vacuuming your sibling’s room for them even though the mess of fluff on their floor was due to them blowing up your favorite stuffed animal during a science experiment?

sometimes i wish i had a name tag that said, “Hi, my name is _______” and that i could see what people put in the blank for me.

what will people say of me in the future? what do they say of me now?

what kind of jokes will be thrown out after someone mentions my name?

personally, I hope they don’t involve suicidal turkeys.

your wondering friend,

muffin

sunday morning crumbs

dear muffin,

I don't know how it happens.

We leave church feeling upbeat, chatting about the convicting sermon & how good so-and-so looked in that color. We pull into the driveway, parade into the house, and scatter. And before ten minutes have passed, irritation sets in, patience snaps, and our nice day sways on the verge of collapse.

It's simple, really. She's upset because we stayed late at church instead of helping her prepare for dinner guests. We're annoyed because she never even told us she was leaving. He's disappointed because we don't have time to talk with him. I'm upset because there's a mound of dishes to be washed, and I can't find someone to blame. She's irritated because I didn't clean the water pitcher, even though it isn't my turn. The floor hasn't been swept, the cake came out looking funny, and someone is gonna pay for this.

I take a vicious swipe at the collander I'm washing & contemplate the injustice of life.

Wait.

...Is it just me, or is this starting to sound slightly ridiculous?!

But you don't understand. I have a LOT of dirty dishes to wash, and the dishwasher is already full. and he twisted the top of his travel mug so tightly that I can't get it open (most likely did it intentionally. just to make my life difficult). and every step I take leaves crumbs stuck to my barefeet. I mean, come on; how much can you expect a girl to take??

okay.

maaaybe you're right, and I'm being a little ridiculous. maybe a lot ridiculous. So why am I feeling like a storm cloud?

I can think of a few answers. Option 1: everyone in this house is in league to make today as miserable as possible, because they take great delight in destroying domestic peace. Option 2: No one appreciates me, even though I'm always slaving around the house & being an angel. Option 3: well...it's just a theory, you see, but maybe...I'm less like an angel & more like a... *deep breath*...selfishhumanbeingwhoneedstogrowup. THERE.

[I don't think I like option 3.]

Well. The jury's out on this one, so I'll leave you to decide.

As for me...

I have to go sweep the floor.

thoughtfully,

rory

postcard from a storm

dear muffin,

I love words. Words with meaning. Words with stories. Words that are poetry in and of themselves.

epic, adjective

heroic; majestic; impressively great.

1589, from L. epicus,  from Gk. epikos,  from epos:  "word, story, poem." 

These days, the word 'epic' gets thrown around to mean just about anything: the movie we saw over the weekend, our glorious tumble down six flights of stairs, a half-price milkshake. But when you really consider the meaning of this word, it has power. I love it.

Last night's lightning storm was truly epic, in an awe-inspiring, terrible, beautiful sort of way. I stood outside with my sister and three other friends, silent as the sky pelted us with invisible rain. And as we stared up into the blackness, waiting, we were rewarded with an incredible show of lightning. Branches of brilliance carving up the sky, connecting the clouds and bringing the horizon into sharp contrast. Truly, we have an awesome Creator.

Have I ever mentioned that I love storms?! =]

always,

rory

a muffin's musings on dogs

dearest rory,

as i was sprawled across my futon a few weeks ago, groaning about the hours of laborious activity i had endured that day, complaining about my grandma's lasagna (we call it "find the noodle lasagna"), and wishing i could take a nap rather than mow the yard, i had a startling realization:

i wished i was a dog.

all eat. all sleep. all play. or so it seemed to me.

unfortunately, all they eat is a horrid, nasty substance called dog food (usually smelling something like a combination of stinky feet, toadstools, and spoiled liver) . and quite often they are forced to sleep on the cold, hard floor or in a cage. not to mention, they are given indestructible rubber balls or freakish looking stuffed rabbits with button eyes to play with. *shudders*

but that was besides the point. "they still have it pretty good," i told myself. "why? because dogs don't mind those things. you don't hear them complaining. you don't see them registering complaints on mydogfoodstinks.com or grumbling as they curl up in a ball at their master's warty feet."

but do they want to complain?

i silently asked myself that question as i got up and poured myself a cup of iced green tea. sipping its sweetness. wondering about what goes on inside a dog's silky-soft, little head.

i guess no one really HAS to complain, do they?

we can't all BE dogs like i wish we could be, but we could all be a little more LIKE dogs, couldn't we?

we could accept our situation in life, happily eat what is set in front of us, be grateful for a roof over our heads as we sleep, and when we get the opportunity to play, to be thankful for it.

tongues flailing. tails wagging. ears bouncing. eyes shining.

it wouldn't be easy. complaining can be fun. and once one starts, it's hard to stop.

but as i set my tea down, pulled my grass-stained tennis shoes on, and prepared to face the world of overgrown grass, i determined that i would try not to complain anymore. i would try to be like a dog.

i like dogs.

your friend,
muffin

p.s. i wish i was european.

once upon a time....

there was rory. and there was muffin. 

rory was a little green dinosaur who liked country music, tilt-a-whirls, & cookie dough ice cream. yellow balloons & hey there delilah made her happy, and she always secretly wished she was good at using chopsticks.

muffin was... well, you guessed it... a muffin. chocolate chip to be exact. and she greatly enjoyed astrophysics, knitting afghans, and practicing her mad ballet skills. or so she pretended. what actually gave her perfect contentment was a cup of coffee and a good book.

one day, while chilaxing in a field of dandelions and looking at the clouds, rory decided to write a letter. it went like this:

dear muffin.
I like you more than country music, tilt-a-whirls, cookie dough ice cream, yellow balloons & hey there delilah. just thought you should know.
ever your dino,
rory.

so they got frappuccinos, stayed up until 5 in the morning, and started a blog.

and a friendship began.