photo credit: gleek.net
Yesterday I wrote this post and after Tim read it, he said, “I think you should go one by one through the statements you made and write a post about each one.” It seems a little narcissistic to write about what I like and don’t like, but isn’t that what blogging is? I am probably not going to write about each statement, either, because some of the things I wrote are boring. Well, most of them are. But I’ll start with the first non-boring statement I made, which is:
I don’t like brussel sprouts, or Pop-tarts, or my teeth, or my face.
Is it brussel sprouts? Or Brussels? Like the city? Well, whichever way…bottom line, they are evil. I’m not anti-vegetable. I typically like most vegetables. My mama raised me right. Brussel(s) sprouts, however, are a result of the Fall. But maybe I just haven’t found a way to prepare them that makes them taste acceptable, and not like feet. Anyone have any recipes for making brussel(s) sprouts taste less like feet and more like food? Please share.
Pop-tarts are also evil, but for a different reason than brussel(s) sprouts are evil. See, brussel(s) sprouts are evil because they taste like the floor of the shower at your local YMCA (which is to say, fungus, and feet), but Pop-tarts are evil because they are little pieces of cardboard with some pink-colored high fructose corn syrup in the middle masquerading as breakfast “food.” I always wanted Pop-tarts (is it Pop-tarts, with a hyphen, or Pop Tarts?) in elementary school but my mom, being intelligent and free-thinking, didn’t cave to the peer pressure I was surrounded with and wouldn’t buy ’em. So I don’t think I actually had a Pop Tart (Pop-tart?) until college. And when I did, let’s just say I was less than impressed. I instantly got a sugar headache and regretted ingesting it. I don’t even think I finished one, much less the little foil package of two. I sort of nibbled around the edges because I really didn’t like the taste of the middle stuff. Even when toasted, Pop-tarts just suck. I am not a fan. I will never buy them, ever. Way to go, Mom, for not buying them for us. Groossssss.
I don’t like my teeth because the front top two teeth are huge and make me feel like I resemble a furry woodland creature when I smile. And I have a HUGE smile which isn’t improved upon by my overbite.
Just give me a tree and I’ll build you a dam, alright?
I don’t like my face because I am a female who is rather insecure and hyper-critical of her outward appearance. This is not unusual or interesting or unique. Actually, when I look in the mirror, I usually think I look decent, even pretty. But I learned from our wedding photographer that the reason photographs of ourselves appear different than we appear in mirrors is because in the mirror we are basically locking eyes with ourselves, which skews our perception a little. So, now I’m like…why do I even look in the mirror at all? IT SITS ON A THRONE OF LIES. I look like my dad, and I love my dad, but he’s a man, and well, I am not, and so I’d rather look like my mom because my mom is at least female, you know? Plus my mom is an exceptionally pretty female. So yeah. I sort of got the short end of the stick there. I have giant eyeballs that make random doctors question whether my thyroid is functioning properly because having giant googly eyes is apparently a sign of Graves’ Disease or something. I have to tell them, again, sigh, nope, it’s just how Mason eyes look. If you’ve seen my dad, or my brother, or my sister, you’d know what I mean. We’ve all got ’em.
But I read something by John Piper once (have I mentioned that I owe a lot to JP?) that said that everyone’s faces reflect the glory of God in different ways. I try to remind myself of that…and that God doesn’t make mistakes so he wasn’t done knitting me together in my mom’s womb and stepped back and was like Hmm, Alissa has huge beaver teeth and a misshapen face. Oh, crap. That wasn’t what I meant to do! Not that I had teeth in my mom’s womb…but you know what I mean, right? Is anyone still reading this? Hello…hello…*crickets*
And Tim, for reasons still completely beyond my comprehension, thinks I am pretty. So I guess that’s enough, right? I mean, it’s pretty cool that God created a guy who finds giant teeth, man eyebrows and giant goiter eyeballs appealing, and ordained that he would sit behind me in 11th grade English class and somehow fall in love with me.