In many parts of the world, people walk miles just to access it. Here in the U.S., we may take it for granted because for most of us, it comes from the tap with the flick of a wrist. Some of us buy it bottled. Some of us like it with a slice of lemon or lime. Some prefer iced. Others, straight up. It is the base for our coffee, tea and even wine.
It was going to be a busy day. I had a to-do list longer than a Minnesota winter or a Texas summer — take your pick. Of course the kitchen was a mess. The best mornings always start out that way. Dishes were piled in the sink because after dinner the night before we'd discovered the dishwasher was already full and in need of a wash cycle. Oops. I was midway through unloading the dishwasher when the crisis du jour hit.
My family goes through a few — OK, more than a few — aluminum cans. And even though we've always recycled and attempted to condense the cans the barehanded way, surplus metal was impacting our recycle bin in an overflowing manner. When the excess wouldn't fit into the bin, the bags started piling up in the garage. I knew we were at a crossroads.
It's my job to come up with words each week. It's become almost a habit, but I've wondered what I'll do when the words don't come, as I suspect will happen at some point. So far, though, I've been able to find something to say. Or maybe nothing to say, but the words have been there nonetheless. Over the last few days, I've pondered words and how our lives are filled with a plethora of them — on the news, at the dinner table, work and home, online, through texts, on the phone, social media, billboards, message boards and hashtags.
The Winter Olympics are waning. Competition officially ends Feb. 25. Sigh. It's been a good (sleigh) ride. If you're like me, the Winter Games provide opportunities to develop an interest in and become an expert on sports not typically televised during prime time. Let's start with curling, which as far as I can decipher has nothing to do with anything curly, especially hair. It involves large round granite disks called stones that slide across the ice toward a target.
Football is a big deal at my house. I live with a bunch of guys who love the game. My daughter married a guy who loves the game. It only makes sense I'd be pulled into the gridiron mix. As such, I've contemplated certain intricacies about the game. Not the rules or playing strategies or scoring methods, but the really important stuff. For instance: Why is it called football? The ball doesn't look anything like a foot. Maybe a large, rounded pointy toe — if your creativity allows you such a transmutation, but certainly not a whole foot.
I grew up in the era of classic, they-don't-make-them-like-that-anymore television shows. Of course, this is my opinion. But who can argue with the iconic status of "The Brady Bunch," "Little House on the Prairie," "The Carol Burnett Show," "The Love Boat" and "Fantasy Island?" (The last two so much different than what shows with those titles might be today!) It was a television era of "Happy Days." Literally.
There is too much guilt in the world. Still, I have a propensity to make myself more of it. Lately, I've been feeling guilty about holidays. Days that are supposed to be celebrations filled with joy and fun fill me with dread and anxiety. I bet I'm not alone. Holidays often catch me off guard. I'm busy living my simple and ho-ho hum life when — bang! It's a national holiday, the kids are off school and I was supposed to bake a cake.
The other day I found myself in a quandary. I was in need of cupcakes, but the pantry was without a box of cake mix. I didn't want to go to the store so was left with but one option — to bake from scratch. I'm not a baker. Mostly because I lack a penchant for measuring and exact oven temperatures. But when your kid needs cupcakes, you deliver cupcakes — in this case, from scratch. I didn't think much of it. Until a few days later when I related the experience to a few friends. They all had the same reaction — disbelief and shock.