Camp James, Day 2

Day 2 of Camp James was a hoot!

James had so much fun on the first day of camp he didn't get up until after 6 am. (He usually wakes up in the 4s, so this was kind of a big deal.)  In all fairness, we did keep him up a few hours later than his usual bedtime last night because we watched the documentary "Bill Cunningham New York." If you're not familiar with his work or his life, you should see it. I was happy that all three of us were able to settle on a movie that we all really enjoyed. 

After breakfast, James ripped off the first link off of the Judy chain, and we thought about her long journey and how much fun she must be having on her first day there, which also happens to be her birthday.

Later, we dropped off ER at Marvin Methodist to log some volunteer hours with my absolutely amazing stepsister, Melissa. Melissa runs the mission program at Marvin and if you were to write a list of all of the things she does to impact positivity and change in the world, you'd have a phonebook-sized list. Melissa is a super star.

I snapped this before ER got started. 9am is very early for a teenager, so this smile might not be entirely genuine. James never smiles in pictures, so trust me, he's having fun here.

While ER worked, I needed to knock out some errands, so James came along. He opted to sit in the car while I ran into Walgreen's for toilet paper. James noted that he is CVS loyal, but I think more than anything, the mere thought of shopping for toilet paper is embarrassing to modest gentleman James. 

Afterwards, I needed to wash the car, so we hopped into a place called Soapy Suds. I was hoping for the kind of drive-through car wash where somebody else does all the work while you sit and drink coffee, but by the time I got in line and paid, I realized it was a self-serve variety. You get what you get for $5, Amy.

As we pulled in and the car began wobbling from side to side, James' eyes got very big, and he said,

"It looks like we're being attacked by a hula skirt! Can you imagine if your great-great grandfather saw this?"

This was our view as we wobbled along.

We laughed and laughed as the air dryer blew our car here and there, and laughed even harder when I had to vacuum the inside by myself and nearly strangled to death when the vacuum tried to eat my summer scarf. Who wears a scarf while vacuuming a car? This lady, that's who.

In the afternoon, we cracked open our friend Bernadette Noll's new book, "Look at Us Now." The book is a creative family journal that allows you to fill out pages with your family, so I brought it to Camp James thinking he could fill out pages with his kids.

We flipped through and had James yell "Stop!" to select pages to fill out randomly. We did a few pages, and loved drawing together, the three of us huddled over the pages drawing our favorite foods and finding the right color of pink for shrimp, one of James' favorites. 

James said, "I don't think I've ever done group drawing before!" 

There's a first time for everything, James. We love Bernadette's book!

"The family that colors together..." James said.

Later, while I napped, ER baked a cake for Mimi's birthday, despite the fact Mimi isn't here to enjoy it. ER loves baking cakes, and I love her creative use of simple construction paper to decorate in the absence of fancy stencils. 

Plus, it gave us the perfect opportunity to fill out this fun page in "Look at Us Now:"

We rounded out the day with a trip to one of our Tyler favorites, Don Juan. We picked the original version because James likes it best. We had a terrific dinner, and I bought a t-shirt that says, "Me Gusta Don Juan." I can't wait to wear it. 

I love the decor at Don Juan. It's a happy space. We wish Judy had been there to join us.

We have more big plans on the agenda, so we'll turn in early tonight, and look forward to Day 3 of Camp James tomorrow.

Camp James: Day One

Big excitement this week! 

My mom left this morning for London and Scotland with a busload of chorale singers and their guests. These gifted musicians have been looking forward to this trip for two years, and it was exciting to see them loading up their luggage on the tour bus to take them to DFW for the first leg of their 12-day journey.

I've never put my mom on a bus before. I'm used to her being the one putting me on a bus, telling me to be careful and call her when I arrive safely. Roles reversed, I had to fight back the instinct to tell my mom what I tell my youngest when she hangs out with friends:

"Don't get in white vans. Be cautious, but not fearful. Brush your teeth."

Instead, I asked her to text us when she made it to Dallas and when they land safely in London. I made a corny joke about wanting to hear chorale singers doing a version of "Wheels on the Bus." As we hugged goodbye, I looked at the reverse stair step that is suddenly my life. My 13-year old, who is so tall I have to reach up to hug her, shaking hands with adults she's never met and discussing her high school options. My mom, who I need to reach down to hug, kissing my stepfather goodbye. I thought about the year I spent in Germany as an exchange student, and wondering how in the world 

my parents must have felt putting me on a plane for a year when I was only 18 years old. That felt like it happened last year. Time is weird.

Part of the reason my daughter and I were there to put Mom/Mimi on a bus is because this week, we're spending a few days with my stepfather James. As a family, we agreed that a trip this long would be nicer for James if we were around to keep him company. What's even cooler is that we've divvied up the days so that James gets visits from several of his kids (he has four biological kids and 2 stepchildren, so there are plenty of people to go around despite our crazy schedules).

I've decided to call it Camp James.

A little about James. He's one of the most unique, intelligent, observant, and talented people I'll ever know. A professional artist his entire career, James wakes up every day, has his walk, and finds something unique to draw in his sketch book. As a result of this ritual, James has piles of finished sketch books full of beauty and hilarity and his unique view of the world. How many people do you know who make art every single day of their lives? Knowing someone like this is a treasure that's kind of impossible to explain. For anyone who's had the pleasure of being around James, he's someone you don't forget.

___

When we arrived back at home after dropping off Mom, it was all a little strange not having Mom in the mix. We all got busy doing our own things. James made himself busy cleaning the coffee pot. ER crawled back in bed for a nap (hello, teenager). I ate a jalapeño pig in a blanket from Star Donuts and poked around on my phone checking Facebook. It was very quiet. After a while, James came into the living room with a small slip of paper. 

"I made a grocery list," he announced.

I'm not usually around for Mom and James' regular routine, so I asked if he would like to join me at the grocery store.

He sat thinking for a minute. 

"I think I will go. I think I'd like that."

We left ER napping and headed to the store. On the drive over, James gave me directions. At the store, I instinctively grabbed a cart and James stopped me.

"Give me the cart," James said. "It is my job to push it."

I had no idea James was the family cart-pusher. It's usually my title, but I gladly obliged.  

We roamed the aisles. It was a different shopping experience. It was slower than my normal frenzied pace, and since it's not my usual store, it was also an adventure. There was a shared sense of overwhelm at the cheese section. We hemmed and hawed over Ritz cracker selections. We picked out a soup that James seemed excited to try, and I wondered if it was a little tiny rebellion that he was picking a soup my mom didn't know about. Together, we navigated the store, an 85 year-old without his daily companion, and his stepdaughter, who usually zips from aisle to aisle wearing headphones and listening to smooth jazz.

Often, I tell my 13 year-old, "Rosie, be in the world." It's usually to tell her to put down her phone and experience the moment. She often reminds me that I need to follow my own advice. 

Today, James and I were in the world. It was really nice.

____

We arrived back at mom and James' house, and I realized that this is the longest that James has been without my mom for a long time. I thought back to when I left for Germany, and how my mom made a paper chain for each day I would be gone. The chain was made out of 365 some-odd pieces of yellow, black, and red colored construction paper - the colors of the German flag -  and she hung it in the hallway of our house. Each day, mom would tear off a piece of the chain, say a prayer for me, and count down until she would see me again. She did the same when my sister spent a year in Switzerland, 365 days of red and white pieces of construction paper, carefully made into a chain.

This morning, I decided to make a chain for James. I'm not a very Pinterest kind of gal, but I have to say this is a pretty cool idea for people who are on the home side of long trips. I did a small twist on my mom's chain and added highlights of her itinerary so James can think about the things Mom will be doing while she's away. Each morning, James can tear off the previous day, and count down the days until she returns.

When James went on his morning walk today, he was disappointed that he hadn't found anything of interest to draw. I presented the paper chain, and James immediately went to work on drawing it in his sketch book. The chain was a hit.

James realized quickly that 12 pieces of multicolored strips of construction paper aren't easy to draw. We talked about things that are hard to draw. I think noses are impossible to draw, and I love it when kids say, "Noses are hard." James noted that he is terrible at drawing women, then I asked him if he ever drew live nudes in school, and he said that he did, and I tried to hide my amusement at the thought of a young James Wilkins drawing a live nude because he is such a modest gentleman. He told me a great story about how the nudes would come into the classroom and disrobe, and they would put paper over the windows and doors so nobody could peek in.

As he drew, the television was off. I snapped this pic, but otherwise, I stayed in the moment. Slowing down isn't easy for me, but I'm savoring the tremendous gift we've been given to spend quality time with James. 

The first day of Camp James has been a great success. We'll continue to update as we tear off pieces of the Judy Chain, wishing her well on her travels, and savoring the moments until she returns.

Get Up, Stand Up: The Night I Tried Open Mic

Cross doing stand-up off the bucket list!

First, the back story.

I've always had a secret desire to try stand-up. I thought about how for every good stand-up comic, there are about 1,400 crappy ones and I would never want to be on that list. When I thought about what it would feel like to try it, my stomach would twist into knots and I would almost feel nauseous. For a long time, I figured that if something made you feel that way, you should avoid it. But there's something about being in your 40's that changes your perception about so many things in life, so I changed my view and decided that if something makes you nervous, unless it's trying heroin or jumping off a building without a rope, maybe that's exactly the thing you should do.

It didn't hurt that fate got in the way to give me the extra push I needed to make it happen. Several months ago, Tim was working outside when he found an employee badge in the street by our house. Most people would see it and either leave it there or throw it away, but Tim is not most people. He took the badge inside, looked up the name of the employee, investigated his email address, and reached out to reunite the badge with the proper badge holder, a guy named Manish.

Manish happens to live a few houses away, so Tim connected with him to return the badge, and during the course of the conversation, learned that he's a Ph.D. candidate living temporarily in Austin. He just so happens to be a Ph.D. candidate who does stand-up on the side.

One of Tim's many gifts is that he loves connecting people, so he told Manish that I wanted to do stand-up, and introduced us. The first time I met Manish, he was walking behind Tim, coming in from the back yard, and the scene in itself was just hilarious. Tim's a big guy in every sense of the word. He's 6'2', balding, super loud, and has a laugh you can hear 15 miles away. Manish, on the other hand, is under 5 feet tall, has a ton of hair, is seemingly serious, and rather quiet. I've always said I wanted a "little man" to be around to help me with things I don't feel like doing. When Tim came in the back door with Manish, I honestly thought he was just making my dream come true.

Manish goes by a few names - Manni, Manish, and in the comedy world, "Big Manni." Born in India, Manish has a keen sense of the world around him and his writing is really funny as a result. He strikes a great balance of being self-deprecating about his height, but to me, his most hilarious stuff is his keen observational humor.

I think the mere fact that Tim found Manni's employee badge and was so thoughtful to return it to its owner, Manni felt he owed Tim a favor back. Without realizing what he was getting into, Manni became my official comedy coach.

Manni will not let me call him my comedy coach, but I do it anyway. I'm bigger than he is so he just has to deal with it. From the first time we met, I grew an instant appreciation for how very hard comedy actually is. When your comedy coach is a Ph.D candidate, you get the added bonus of some deep analysis. I won't give away his secret sauce but there's a lot going on behind the scenes to make it work. It's a LOT of work. Manni is out there several nights a week hustling his material at Austin stand-ups. It's exhausting. I tagged along to a few shows and felt nervous for everyone going on stage and putting their material out there. The first time Tim and I went to see Manni at Capital City Comedy Club's open mic, he warned us ahead of time, "There will be a lot of dick jokes." He wasn't kidding. Every open mic I've gone to, I've tallied up the penis jokes. There are a LOT of them. For that reason alone, I wrote a vagina joke just to balance things out a little.

Through this process, I have started to envision a pie chart of comedy. It's not just walking up to a mic and talking. It's creating good material. It's timing. It's a hell of a lot of preparation. It's stage presence. It's confidence. It's not easy, and it's a LOT of work.

Manni patiently worked with me as I read him my material. I was so nervous I would have to leave our house and meet Manni at a coffee shop for fear of my family hearing me and telling me I was awful at it. After several months of writing material, crossing out entire bits and starting over, Manni got pushy.

"You have to do this," he said. "If you don't get up and just do it, this is never going to happen."

He was right. I was finding excuse after excuse not to just give it a go. Every single time I thought about approaching an open mic, I would feel nauseous.

So we set a date. June 17. 17 is my lucky number, and since Manni will be returning back to San Diego by the fall,  I needed him to be my safety net.

I've always been big about imagining what a moment will be like. That can be good and bad, because the vision of a future moment is often much better than what actually happens. When I imagined what it would be like to try stand-up for the first time, I was going to be on a dark stage indoors at a small comedy club. There would be more than 12 people present, and I wouldn't be perfect, but there would be enough laughs so that I would survive it, and it would be fun.

This entire time, I've been telling Manni and anyone who knew I was going to do this that I wasn't going to do it more than once. One time. One and done. I wasn't posting an announcement to invite friends, and the only other person who would be invited was Tim because Tim has the biggest laugh on the planet and that's a really good asset when you're going up for the first time.

So last night, I did it.

The venue was a cute East side restaurant/coffee shop called Cenote. Manni had warned me ahead of time that Friday night open mics in Austin are pretty bad, and that there would probably only be about 6 people there. There were 29 (not that I counted). We were outside, and the sound equipment was pretty terrible, but there was a mic and a speaker and a really fun guy announcing people who made it feel legit. I was #12 on the list. There was a giant piece of yard art in the form of a frog, and I decided he was going to help me get through it.

The open mic rules are pretty simple: You get a 4 minute set with a flashing light warning at 3 minutes. I knew going into it that if I dawdled, I would be over 4 minutes. Anyone who knows me wouldn't be surprised. I'm not exactly short-winded.

Manni went before me, which was great for calming my nerves because he has a really funny bit about a fat stripper in Vegas, and I needed the laughs.

When they called my name, I thought I might faint. I grabbed the mic and immediately wanted to smack myself for taking my note card up there with me, but it's a good thing I did because I think without it, I might have forgotten everything I practiced no less than 80 times over the past week.

I did my thing, and I heard laughter. Never mind that the laughter I heard the most was Tim's. I looked out into the faces of the people watching, and some people were laughing. A few people were on their phones, which I found to be pretty rude given that I paid 100% attention to everyone before me, but with millennials, you kind of have to expect that. Those whippersnappers!

4 minutes flew by, and it was over. The woman behind me who later got up and did a hilarious bit about peeing in front of her two sons said, "You did great!" I loved her.

I'd asked Tim to take a picture, but bless his sweet heart, he was too busy being my Main Laugh, he forgot. Manni did the honors. There is no video. You're welcome!

Okay, enough about me because wow, I just spent a LOT of time writing about myself. If you've gotten this far, I want you to ask yourself what you're afraid of and why. What makes you feel like you're going to vomit with fear, but it's also a mix of excitement? Think about when you're a little kid and you pull up to Six Flags or whatever nearby amusement park, and you are so excited to ride the roller coaster that your body fills with adrenaline. Again, if this feeling is associated with heroin or unprotected sex with a rock star or joining the Trump revolution, just run the other way.

Otherwise, think of that thing that you're afraid/excited about and go figure out how to make that happen. I want to hear about it! Tell me in the comments section what you want to do, and if I can help encourage you, I will.

As for me, I haven't decided if I will keep it up, but the feeling of fear and adrenaline is still there when I think about trying it again, so perhaps I'll let that be my guide. Manni is very bossy and insists that I'll go again next week. We'll see.

A Circus Wedding and the MOH Toast

My sister is married! The wedding was a literal circus - a vintage-themed circus where so many guests dressed up and made the night unforgettable. There were fire dancers and circus games. One little girl put her hand in ice for something like 17 minutes to win a huge stuffed bear. It was a wedding like no other wedding, and it was awesome.

Several people have asked me to share my toast because some people missed it and a few people threw back a few too many mint juleps before the toasts began.  Also, please note that since this wedding was anything but traditional, I am bucking tradition and would like to be referred to as a maid, not a matron. It's very fitting as I am extremely youthful and maid-like.

I practiced this baby a jillion times, using advice from my comedy coach to record myself. I have lots of videos of myself in a robe, towel on my head, working on timing. I will not share these videos as they only work to disprove that I am youthful and maid-like.  

When the moment came, I was a ball of nerves. Nobody believes me when I say I struggle with public speaking. I REALLY struggle, as social and extroverted as I am. So in the end, I took a little note card up on stage to calm my nerves, and I did my best. I flubbed some of the jokes and left out a few humdingers that I'm sad about, but hopefully the meaning wasn't lost on the bride and the groom, because in the end, this was all about them.

To Mr. and Mrs. Montez, I am so happy for you both! What a magical wedding for a magical couple.

_____

I’m Amy Arndt, Emily’s sister. I know about 25% of you and I have no clue in hell who the rest of you are, but I look forward to meeting you at some point tonight.

Most of us don’t know over 450 people they like, much less love enough to invite to their wedding. But Rocky and Emily are not your average people, and that is part of why we’re all here. Still, I’m keeping an eye out, expecting a clown car to pull up and piling out of it will be 16 of the failed Republican presidential hopefuls.  

If anyone spots Ted Cruz in the hot dog line, he was absolutely not invited. Please let Rocky's mom Elvia or his sister Celeste know and they’ll take care of it right away.

As you can see by this fantastic place and the transformation from a working film studio to a magical vintage circus, a lot of work went into this labor of love. Just last weekend, I watched as this gorgeous bride hovered over a some kind of a saw with a nail file thingy on it that my dad and stepmom gave her as a pre-wedding gift. As I watched in awe, Emily painstakingly cut out the elephants you see behind us. I didn’t offer to help because Em is the handy sister, and I like having fingers.

____

Last weekend, I was sitting at a coffee shop when I noticed a dad with a stroller with a baby in it. Standing beside the stroller was a little girl who was around 4. She looked up at me with a serious expression on her face.

“This is my baby sister,” she said, pointing to the baby. “I take care of her.”

The age difference between the two girls was just the same as us, and I instantly knew what the older sister was talking about. I also instantly burst into tears, scaring the kid, her father, the infant and very likely the manager of the coffee shop.

For most of Emily’s life, in my head, I was her caretaker.  We had four terrific parents, but I was her constant as we moved back and forth between houses. She was very sweet, very cute, and pretty easy to boss around. We’ve been more than sisters, we’ve been the greatest of friends. Through the years, Emily has been my default dance partner, always offering to be the boy. At our mom’s 60th birthday, we hopped on stage and sang the harmonies to “Sisters." We share a secret language based loosely on the critically acclaimed movie, Ladies Man.

She may be the younger sister, but Emily’s been taking care of me just as long as I’ve taken care of her. If you are lucky enough to have Emily in your life, she’s taken care of you at some point, too. In this room are countless recipients of her grace, love and unending generosity.  

Some examples:

1. She singlehandedly outfitted Cella Blue for at least 27 White Ghost Shivers Halloweens. One of those dresses was made out of NEWSPAPER.
2. When my mom had foot surgery, Emily handled all of the things I was super dramatic about, like reading basic medication instructions, and finding the wine opener when we needed it most.
3. I can’t count the number of handmade costumes she made for her namesake Emily Rose, including a hand-cut acrylic guitar, a suede and rhinestone cowgirl outfit, and a Mad Hatter hat so detailed and gorgeous I almost didn’t let ER wear it for Halloween.  
4. Emily helped me get motherhood off the ground when I had a rough start. Then she moved from LA to Austin and got to see my kids grow up, and she helped us raise them. She even helped me raise Tim.
5. And, lest you think she wasn’t already a superstar, she did most of these things while simultaneously holding Max and Maya, Todd and Michelle’s dogs.

It’s probably no secret that of everyone in this room, I’ve been the most guarded about letting my sister go. But what does that mean, “letting her go?” I looked up a quote about it, and I found one from Emily’s favorite philosopher, Jack Handey:

If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let' em go, because, man, they're gone.

But a wedding isn’t about letting go, it’s about letting more people in. So tonight, our family gets the honor of welcoming a huge new family, and the love expands.

In that new family, the anchor is Rocky.

Now, Rocky, I love you to death but I am not going to refer to you as my brother, because if you’re married to my sister, and we’re brother and sister, this really is a circus.

Rocky, here’s a little secret about Emily that I’ve never shared. The very first time Emily told me about you, it was clear you were the one. You make her laugh harder than anyone has ever made her laugh - her most important criteria for a good relationship. You embrace her obsession with Elvis. You make her bacon on the grill and pour her a sip of whiskey. You can dance her socks off. Together, the two of you know more show tune lyrics than any two heterosexual people have the nerve to know.

Rocky, I know you will care for Emily when she’s so tired she falls asleep standing up. Because she is Emily, she will care for you in return, and you will have a beautiful life together.  So tonight, I raise a glass to Mr. and Mrs. Montez. I love you both.  Cheers.

Memorial Day and the Travelin' Soldier

On Friday, my husband and daughter and I were waiting to board a plane for a family trip when an announcement came on the overhead that a group of WWII veterans were there, heading to DC for Memorial Day weekend. Bagpipes began playing, and the terminal aisle cleared. Men removed their hats in respect, and people rose to their feet, some applauding while heroes in wheelchairs rolled past.

Now that we walk around with a portable time capsule in our hands at all times, I felt compelled to snap a photo but after taking this one, decided to stop and be in the present moment. That's not an easy place to be these days. As a parent, I have to consciously stop myself from experiencing everything from behind the lens of my phone's camera, and I often catch myself missing a moment because I'm so busy capturing it.

If you've ever been in a car accident or driven up on one, there's an eerie silence that happens afterwards that is almost impossible to explain. It's as if the moment of impact is automatically followed by a quiet stillness that is the direct opposite of the sound of the crash. As the parade of WWII veterans came through the terminal, I thought of that silence, because while some people were applauding and others stood still, there was a feeling in the space of that kind of quiet stillness. 

Those men served their country when they were just kids. To consider what they saw and experienced is impossible for us to comprehend. In a time where it seems to be the norm to spew insults and take the low road, being in a moment where people were gathered to show appreciation and respect was a really powerful thing.

Whenever Memorial Day weekend approaches, I am riddled with internal conflict about how to best honor the holiday. I have a utopian view of the world and would prefer that we exist without war and without conflict. You may say I'm a dreamer, but that's just how I view things. However, Memorial Day makes me think long and hard about the men and women who served willingly. I also think about those who were drafted, and what in the world that must have felt like to have your number called. My dad was drafted during Vietnam, but his poor vision kept him from serving in combat. I'm so thankful for that, because had he gone, he might not have returned, or he could have returned a very changed man. Memorial Day also raises my internal conflict about how we treat our veterans, and about mental illness, and the trauma our veterans face entering society after serving our country.

During every family road trip without exception, my family listens to the Dixie Chicks version of the song, "Travelin' Soldier." We've been listening to it for many years, since my stepchildren were little.  We listen to it every Thanksgiving to visit family in Dallas or Tyler. It's the song request that comes up most when everyone is fighting and we want to just listen to music and quit bickering already. We sing it at the top of our lungs. My daughters take the melody and I jump in with my old high school and church choir harmonies, and my husband and stepson just shout the lyrics. To me, it's one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. 

It's difficult to articulate how important "Travelin' Soldier" is to me as a parent. I know the importance of the anti-war anthems of the 60's, but this song singlehandedly teaches my children such a powerful message: war has consequences. For my kids, they will associate their feelings about war and patriotism with the lyrics to this subtle, yet extremely meaningful song. It's really big stuff.

In an odd twist of fate, when my youngest daughter entered elementary school 8 years ago, one of her classmates was the daughter of country music artists Bruce Robison and Kelly Willis. The first time I met Bruce it took everything in me not to jump up and down shouting, "You wrote 'Travelin' Soldier!' We sing it every single family road trip!" But I held back. It's Austin, and we're so lucky to have so many talented musicians raising families here. Please pardon me while I humble brag, but I've had the good fortune of meeting a nice little handful of Austin's music royalty, and I like to think those people want to feel normal when they're taking their kids to school. I also figure its best not to tackle a musician in the school hallway with questions about their songs because that's just weird.

In all of the years I've known Bruce and Kelly, I have never been able to dig up the courage to ask Bruce about what was in his head when he wrote "Travelin' Soldier." I want to ask him about the writing process, and what inspired him to come up with the imagery of the young girl, tucked under the bleachers, crying when the solider's name was read. As a writer myself, I can't imagine creating something so pure and so meaningful. I'm afraid if I got Bruce to open up about the writing process, I would start sobbing, because he wrote a song that means so much to my family. But mainly, I can't get the courage because Bruce is crazy tall and he still kind of scares me.

So this Memorial Day weekend, I'll honor the holiday by playing this song for the thousandth time, and think about those brave men we saw pass by in wheelchairs. I dedicate this to the men and women who made it home, and the ones who didn't. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x93VzHMGIzU

It's Supposed to Look Like This

My beautiful, incredible sister is getting married Saturday.

The wedding theme is vintage circus, which is very cool because my sister and her fiancé are both extremely creative people who love all things vintage, and with a huge guest list and a ton of DYI projects to complete, the wedding promises to truly be "The Greatest Show on Earth." It’s a really exciting time for our families.

The bridesmaids are wearing vintage attire, including 20’s headpieces.  Mine is supposed to look like this:

As the Maid of Honor (I’m married, but I refuse to be referred to as a matron of anything), I should have ordered this lovely headpiece months ago, but I put it off because I’m picky and forgetful, which is a really terrible combination. Now, I’ve backed myself in a corner and I’m forced to make the vintage headpiece myself.

There’s just one problem here. I am not crafty.

TBH (as the kids say): I hate crafts. When my kids were little and came home with turkeys made out of traced hands glued on popsicle sticks, I had to force myself to show appreciation before hiding them in keepsake bins under the bed. I was always the mom buying juice boxes while the other PTA moms were racing each other to the craft store to make pilgrims out of cotton balls and twine. When I see “Pinterest fails,” I don’t laugh because it hits just a little too close to home.

Last week I knew I was running out of time, so I ventured out to two of the most anxiety-provoking establishments known to non-crafty types: Jo-Ann Fabrics and Hobby Lobby. For me, the only thing worse is a trip to Pep Boys, so this was a rough mission indeed.

Stop #1 was Jo-Ann, where I set out to locate fuschia feathers, some kind of pearl/rhinestone embellishment, and a stretchy headband. I started by looking for an employee to ask for guidance, but stores don’t really have those anymore, so I grabbed a cart and began in the faux flower section and meandered through every aisle, grabbing anything that resembled a feather and tossing it into the cart while I groaned audibly and rolled my eyes at the overhead cameras. Like anyone would steal this stuff!

I learned a lot during that journey. Like, for example, there so many kinds of jewelry clasps in this world, they take up an entire aisle of real estate at Jo-Ann. I stood there dumbfounded, grabbing packages and inspecting them like Brendon Frazier in “Encino Man” when Pauly Shore introduces him to Sweet Tarts and Corn Nuts for the first time.

Overwhelmed, I followed the maze of monogrammed plastic drink cups and patriotic flip flops and made my way to the button aisle, hoping to find a vintage-looking buttony thing to glue on to the headband. The button aisle borders the area where people willingly look at pattern books. A customer was there, sitting in front of a 1987 desktop computer, talking on the phone. She was a sweet-faced woman wearing a sweatshirt with a bedazzled cross.

“I thought I’d add some lace to the bottom of it,” she said happily. Her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the creative process. “Oh yes, honey, I’m at Jo-Ann. I’ll be here all morning!”

Fully unable to relate, I made my way to the check-out. A teenager in a smock stood by the only working register. She was talking to another smocked teen who was pretending to sweep the floor while they talked. I put my fuchsia feathers on the counter while I waited for her to greet me.

“I should have called in,” said the teenager at the register, talking to the teenager with the broom, ignoring me completely.

“You need Emergen-C,” said the teen with the broom while I stepped back and began holding my breath.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s strep,” she said, coughing into her hand, then using the same hand to swipe my feathers over the scanner. “I’ve had a fever for like, three days.”

I thought briefly about asking to speak with the manager - partly because the kid spent more time talking to her coworker than addressing her extremely reluctant customer, but mainly because she came to work with SARS and that’s just rude. But I was already weary, so I used my elbows to pick up the feathers, and while heading to the car, it dawned on me that one of those poor girls was more than likely the manager anyway. It was all so very sad.

Stop #2 was Hobby Lobby. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I swore after Hobby Lobby’s shenanigans about birth control that I would never set foot inside a Hobby Lobby again (not that I set foot in there many times anyway), but desperate times call for desperate measures.

As I approached the doors, I checked out the clientele going inside. Walking up on my right was another woman with a bedazzled cross on her chest. Par for the course. Walking up to my left? A woman with a Bernie Sanders t-shirt and a sheepish expression of guilt. That made me laugh. Knowing we were all in it together, I entered in, prepared for the worst.

Confession: I got momentarily wooed by a cheap imitation of an Eames molded plastic chair lurking in a display of cheap beach-themed home fashions. I was so distracted by it that I pulled it off of the display and gave it a test sit.

It was cozy, as cheap imitation Eames chairs go, so I began looking online for a coupon, seriously considering buying it when the store manager approached me.

“That chair is just SO cute, right?” she beamed. “We sell SO many of them.”

She was a nice woman, but her overdyed red hair and lipstick-smeared teeth jarred me out of my hypnosis. I put the chair back into the fake beach scene while she watched on. She sweetly pointed me in the direction of the stretchy headbands and feathers, and I grabbed up more supplies and headed for the checkout.

The median age of the cashiers working at Hobby Lobby that particular morning was around 93. For a company that has a moral objection to birth control, I found it deliciously ironic that the women working at Hobby Lobby haven’t needed birth control for at least five decades. Guilt-ridden from spending $6.17 at a store that I promised not to patronize (or, more fittingly, matronize), I headed home with two bags of craft supplies, fully spent.

I know you’re expecting pictures, because they promise to be hysterical, but I have not yet started working on the vintage headpiece because I prefer to procrastinate and write about the activity instead. Be warned; I may never post a picture, because I’ll more than likely end up looking like a retired prostitute, or worse yet, there’s serious concern that I will glue my fingers together with the E 6000 craft glue, and I may never write again.

Either way, I hope you wish me luck, because I’m definitely going to need it.

Does Anyone Disgusted by US Politics Actually Move to Canada?

(Originally published in the Huffington Post, Feb 11, 2016).

I'm dying to know how many of you are seriously going to move to Canada when someone you don't like becomes our next president.

Are you really moving to Canada?

Over the weekend, I had a lively conversation over adult beverages with a few friends who represent a variety of political affiliations. I was curious: Just how bad is life with Obama in office? In our particular group, nobody appeared to have anything terrible happening that they could attribute to Obama. In fact, life has been pretty great, even for my most conservative Republican friends. To that I offer up a sincerely non-sarcastic, "Thanks, Obama!"

Pressing further, I wanted to know how many people actually move to Canada when their candidate doesn't win. My smart Republican friend wagered that nobody does. I came home and began some research to find out.

Thanks to a recent article in The Guardian written by Jordan G Teicher, I learned that in 2004, a staggering 179,000 people visited Canada's official immigration website. 

So it's not just all talk, eh?

Not so fast. Teicher writes that of the 179,000 people dipping their toe in the water of packing up the chuckwagon and moving to Canada, only 9,000 people a year actually do it. In fact, that number has been consistent from 2005 to 2014, so there doesn't appear to be scientific evidence associating the Canadian migration to anything politically motivated.

As a Texan who found herself extremely involved in the political process when we tried to elect a badass senator by the name of Wendy Davis, I will admit that when she lost, I seriously thought about packing up the family and moving, at the very least to a state where my reproductive rights weren't being dictated by a bunch of sour-faced old white guys who think they have the right to dictate what women do with their hoo-has. Then election day came and went. I cried some sincere tears of disappointment, then -- to borrow one of my sister's best phrases from her childhood -- I powdered my nose and got on with life.

Still, I was interested in learning just how many people move when the "wrong" candidate wins. When I began my research, I simply Googled, "Moving to Canada." The following search suggestions came up:

Unsurprisingly, "Moving to Canada from the US" is the 2nd most popular search string. However, "Moving to Canada with guns" is just below moving there with pets. Canada, if you don't already know, US citizens love their Chiweenies, but they're also very, very fond of their guns, and they are going to expect that you welcome them with -- pardon the bad pun -- open arms.

I continued poking around trying to figure out what kind of people are seriously considering leaving and are willing to put it out there on social media. I searched "Moving to Canada" on Twitter. There are a LOT of people who are moving to Canada when Trump wins, and a LOT of people who are moving there when Hillary wins. Canadian real estate agents, start your engines:

Writer Ben Kuchera is going to be "real honest," he sometimes fantasizes about moving to Canada. Since he's also pretty fired up about Canadian ketchup chips, lets assume he's just being sarcastic. Aspiring model Mike Hammontree has 106 of his closest friends who support his desire to move north, so perhaps they can set up a GoFundMe to help cover the costs (and buy him a coat). LW is so excited about moving if Trump wins, she can't even capitalize or finish her statement! Peace out, LW!

As for me, I am certainly concerned about the election results. I'm being sincere when I tell you that if Ted Cruz wins, I'm going to gag audibly every day I have to see him on a tv screen. However, no matter the election outcome, I'm sticking around. I like this country, and I know that if I volunteer and stay involved in issues that I find important, I have the ability to drive some actual change here. If nothing else, I'm staying here for the chips and queso. No ketchup chips for me, thanks.

Follow Amy Arndt on Twitter: www.twitter.com/theamysituation