Pass the Xanax

Direct correlation:  The more real moving to Oklahoma becomes, the higher my anxiety and general state of mania.

This is no big surprise, just annoying.

I found out the movers will pack everything (I don’t even have to empty out my drawers), get it on a truck and be on the road in just a few hours.  Shane, the boss, kept saying, “You don’t have much.  Shouldn’t take more than an hour to pack.”  The benefits of minimal living.

With that weight off my sizzling brain, I gave my sister the green light to start our apartment search in earnest.  My nephew had already alerted her to a townhouse (I’m so verklempt that he’s involved), that turned out to be everything I want and more for a very reasonable rent price.  Still three bedrooms and two baths seems HUGE, so sissy and her realtor friend will look at a few more places next week for due diligence, but I’m guessing it will be townhouse living for me.

Now, all I have to do is manage my heebie jeebies and prepare for my trip to Taos where I’ll spend a week with my favorite spiritual artist, Orly Avirneri, and a conclave of painty-fingered friends.  Part of doing both tasks has been making a journal for the workshop.  I found these disemboweled book covers at an antique mall a while back, intending them for just this purpose, so it felt good to put a couple to use (and focus my scattered attention).  I’m out of waxed thread, though, so have to wait for that order to come before I can bind the signatures in place.

I can’t sit still long enough to enjoy my magazines, which is my GoTo for mind balm.  So, I’m just doodling in my new journal, which seems to be doing the trick—at least for now.  I’ll have to take my gimpy knee and hit the pool this weekend to burn off some of this excess adrenaline.

In the meantime, pass the Xanax, please.

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