I have scars on my right hand. One is a scar on my wrist from an operation when I was 10 or 11 years old. The other two are cooking scars. Yes, cooking scars. I burned my hand a couple of weeks ago when I pulled out a rack from the oven and tried to put it back in. The other one was from banging my hand on the microwave door over a month ago. Freak accident. Sometimes people talk about the scars we get from life events. I get real scars from kitchen accidents.
iOS 8 released. I tried to update my iPad but it had a minor freak-out. (Maybe it thought I was going to trade it for a fancy new iPhone 6 Plus.) I went to an Apple Store on my way to the ballpark for my last Astros game at home this year. As I waited for my iPad to reboot, I looked up and saw glass, rain, and lights. For a moment I stopped hearing the Maroon 5 concert playing in the store and I stopped worrying about where my life was headed. For a moment all I wanted to do was stare at that ceiling.
There’s a pizza chain in Houston that I have fallen in love with: Pink’s Pizza. I believe finding a good pizza place is part of making a new place your home. I particularly love their pizza because their slices reminds me of New York pizza: thin and cheesy and large. When our server brought our slices over, I showed E how to fold her pizza so she could eat it. However, she chose to keep it flat and take a bite. The New Yorker in me had a minor freak out. FOLD, PLEASE.
I left for New York mid-afternoon. New York is where I come to restore my creative and emotional tank. This time around, I’m hoping to do more thinking about my postcard book and send some postcards too. I came prepared with postcard stamps. Also, my knitting needles and yarn. I’m ready to party.