Lessons from Lyrics #7

Photo by c@rljones

Weight of Lies by The Avett Brothers

10 Tweets Worth Sharing

So many tweets roll across my phone each day. Here are a few that I particularly liked.


In My Face

My husband takes lots of photos of me, especially double exposures of my face. Above is a double exposure that he took of me in a flea market. I was annoyed (as usual) that I had to pose and hold up a black shirt behind my head...in the middle of a store. Of course, I love the result. 

The second one is another film photo that he took of me just moments after we said our vows. He loves it and so do I.


Paranoia Kitchen

Sharp Microwave Logo 
photo by digitpedia 

 I see why codes and regulations are so much more stringent in California. Those people are paranoid about everything. My husband, a native, is no exception. Last night, I was told that steaming broccoli in the microwave would kill the nutrients. I was also told not to use the new bowls in the microwave because "you can only microwave dishes that say 'microwave safe' on the bottom" and that the bowl was "clay and may have lead in it".

I dropped what I was doing and turned to Google to rescue me from "paranoia kitchen". Within minutes I found that he was wrong on both counts. 

Claim #1 - Microwaves Kill Nutrients 

Claim #2 - Dishes that don't say "microwave safe" on the bottom aren't microwave safe

I found this WikiHow on testing dishes for use in the microwave. Following the instructions, I found that the unlabeled bowls that were accused of containing lead passed the test.

Broccolli photo by DavidErickson
After the research and testing, I was able to resume my meal and thoroughly enjoy my micorwave steamed broccoli. Yum.


Someone is looking up to you

 photo by Capt Kodak
I don't know what kind of mother I'll be but I'm going to try my best and hope that there will be some fun along the way.

I’d Rather be the Father

by Faith Shearin

Right from the start, it's easier to be the father: no morning
nausea, no stretch marks. You can wait outside the

delivery room and keep your clothes on. Notice how
closely the word mother resembles smother, notice

how she is either too strict or too lenient: wrong for giving up
everything or not enough. Psychology books blame her

for whatever is the matter with all of us while the father
slips into the next room for a beer. I wanted to be

the rational one, the one who told a joke at dinner.
If I were her father we would throw a ball across

the lawn while the grill fills with smoke. But who
wants to be the mother? Who wants to tell her what

to wear and deliver her to the beauty shop and explain
bras and tampons? Who wants to show her what

a woman still is? I am supposed to teach her how to
wash the dishes and do the laundry only I don't want

her to grow up and be like me. I'd rather be the father
who tells her she is loved; I'd rather take her fishing

and teach her to skip stones across the lake of history;
I'd rather show her how far she can spit.

"I'd Rather be the Father" by Faith Shearin, from Moving the Piano
© Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2011.  Posted on Writer's Almanac.