Frienemies with Katy Perry

Well, Rachel Hauck...you've done it this time. You've gone and gotten a blog post written JUST FOR YOU so that you can understand that yes, my love for Katy Perry IS in fact a "heart/soul connection" that goes back more than a decade...

I present to you, Katy's first ever album with a written dedication on it TO ME:

Now I know what you're thinking! How cute! How sweet! Amanda met Katy before she became way famous and now she has this wonderful little memento along with a cursed desire to watch and know and listen to all things Katy Perry!

Oh, dear Rachel. If only it were that simple...

I have often thought that if Katy and I had gone to the same high school we possibly would have been frienemies. I mean we both came from families heavily involved in ministry, and we both have hearty amounts of experience leading worship at homeless shelters and rescue missions and outdoor evangelism parties. So on those counts, we probably would have been BFFs. BUT! when it comes to boys, our fate was doomed from the beginning.

It all started when I went to a concert and found myself being squished against the stage by a bunch of raging psychos. Panicked, I remember looking with a helpless expression to the lead singer of the band, who WINKED at me. Not a lame, boring, meaningless wink. This was a wink that said, "It's okay, I've got you. You're going to be fine and then you and I are going to get married and live happily ever after."

This boy was Matt Thiessen of Relient K.

So, naturally, I left the show, thinking that my life was about to get awesome because I was going to have a rockstar boyfriend!

Wrong. It was only a few weeks later that I discovered via an old school Christian music message board that Matt had started dating Katy Hudson (now Katy Perry).

RE: she stole him from me

*insert childish girl scream here*

I did my best to move on and forgive her. I mean her music was great, and I secretly wanted to be her, but there was always this voice in the back of my head that was like "She took him him! Now you can't have him! AND SHE'S YOUNGER THAN YOU!!!!"

This was the first time that Katy and I shared a romantic interest. The second time, was way weirder...

There is a name...a very specific name that if I were to whisper it in Katy's ear, she would probably gasp and cover her mouth and then whisk me away to a quiet corner so that she could ask me how in the world I know that name...

You see, Katy's and my intertwined romantic interests didn't stop at Matt. There was this guy on a different message board (I guess there were lots of those then). And he had this MAJOR interest in Katy.

But he also had an interest in me.

And he was like 40.

Now this guy had SUCH an interest in Katy and SUCH an interest in me, that he is the reason I have the above signed album. He went to one of Katy's concerts (he went to a million of them because she was a no-name back then and did small, accessible shows), bought the CD, had her personalize it for me in such a way that it proves that he actually spent time telling her about me, and then mailed it to me along with other nice gifts and such.

Yes. This. This happened. Katy and I shared an admirer for what I can roughly estimate to be a year-year and a half.

Of course this was an admirer that neither of us wanted, but still. It totally counts and is weird.

So THERE, Rachel. THAT is my "heart/soul connection" to Katy. A strange game of 6 degrees without a single Kevin Bacon in sight.

All of this points to one truth and one truth only...if my and Katy's romances are destined to overlap, SHE IS NEVER ALLOWED TO MEET TAD BECAUSE SHE WILL STEAL HIM.

Also, it was probably a good thing that Tad stopped me from chasing that Russell Brand lookalike that we saw at the fair this summer to ask him if it was really him.

(I was just curious).

My Brief Career in the Rap Industry

You know how rappers feature guest artists on their tracks?

And you know how those artists are usually women, tasked with the role of turning a meandering jumble of verse into a song by belting out a meaningful hook that brings it all together?

Once upon a time, I was one such artist.

I should probably stop there and let you imagine all sorts of horrible or awesome things, depending on how you view the genre, but the story is just so bizarre that if my sister weren’t there to witness the actual recording process, I probably would have convinced myself that I imagined the whole thing.

I’ve been a rap fan for awhile…well…I should clarify. I’ve been a fan of white rap for awhile. Which makes me sound racist, except it has nothing to do with race and everything to do with sound. White rap is just different from black rap…which is different from what I would currently categorize as dance rap.

But anyway…

The story picks up in Peoria, Illinois. I’m sixteen or seventeen, and in the midst of a major crush on a local rap artist, when I’m introduced to a local rap duo. Now I can’t for the life of me remember their names. Something like Doughboy and Rocket (yeah, real winners). But they were local CHRISTIAN rappers.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the best part of the story.

So anyway, I head them perform at my dad’s outreach event a few times and in turn they heard me sing to my accompaniment tracks. (Classy!). And the next thing I knew they approached me, told me how great I sounded, that they were looking to re-record one of their songs (because the original vocalist on the record was Doughboy’s wife and they had since divorced and I guess there’s something uncool about a rapper still performing with his ex-wife’s vocal track…because we all know rappers must must must be bitterly divorced…), and that they thought I would be perfect for it.

Now, I don’t think I’ve done a very good job of communicating their excitement here, but they were PUMPED UP. I mean it was as if they won the lottery. Or as if the biggest problem the world had ever thrown at them had been solved! And now everything was going to be great and they were gonna be rich and famous, rapping about Jesus. (Which hey, Toby Mac did it, so it’s possible…)

Now before you laugh at me and wonder what the heck I was thinking, remember:

This was a time in my life when I was convinced that I had a shot at making it in the music industry.

This was also a time in my life when I had a major crush on a local rap artist and I thought in some crazy way that doing this would make him notice me.

So, I said yes.

A bit later my sister and I drove to their recording studio which was in some guy’s basement, and almost as soon as we got there, they shoved me into the booth with a pair of the biggest headphones I’d ever seen, and they started playing the track.

Mind you, I WAS SIXTEEN. I had no idea what I was doing. So for some dumb reason instead of making the song my own I tried to recreate what Doughboy’s ex-wife had done.

Note for note.

And I’m REALLY good at recreating vocal stuff.

I imagine Doughboy had some kind of panic attack as the ghost of his ex fluttered through his thoughts. He asked me to re-do it. Then he asked me to switch it up a bit. And after only about three tries, all of which I was very proud of myself for NAILING the original sound, they brought me out of the booth, told me what a great job I did, and then …

Some random guy… maybe it was Rocket. I can’t remember. I guess he’d been singing along while I’d been recording. Someone suggested he try laying down a track or two. And then someone else said that they could layer us.

And I can only imagine that Doughboy saw this opportunity to forever erase his wife’s stamp on the song, because he took the idea and ran with it.

Random guy was thrown in the booth and started singing.

AND. HE. WAS. HORRIBLE. Flat. Weak. No breath support whatsoever.

And the end result? A chorus in which the two of us are singing the exact same melody. One of us sounding like the ex-wife. The other sounding like a dying mouse.

I’ve often wondered if maybe I was biased. If maybe it really wasn’t as bad as I’d remembered, and if I was simply reacting out of jealousy and anger and hurt. So, I asked my sister about it a few weeks ago.

And she was like “Yeah, that guy sounded horrible. It totally ruined the song.”

Every time I think back on that experience, I cringe. And not just because I never got my promised CDs and t-shirts. Or because I blew it.

But because the end product was SO BAD. And they probably re-re-recorded it soon after.

AND because I realize now that featured artists are usually introduced somewhere in the song. You know, where they’re like…

“Doughboy!”

“Wassup?!”

“ROCKET!”

“aw yeah!”

“And introducing…AMAAAAAAAANDA PAAAAAAAANDA…”

*cue hook*

Bummer.

Now, even if the recording survived, no one will ever know it was me.

Though maybe that’s not such a bad thing…

Wherein I Embarass Myself

At the top of my list of JOBS I'D LIKE TO TRY OUT FOR A YEAR is music impersonator.

You think I jest.

I pretty much spend my entire day, walking around the house trying to impersonate whatever musician whose song is stuck in my head. And as Tad can attest, my impersonations know no bounds. I tackle everyone from Beyonce to Gavin Degraw. Yes, even Gavin Degraw. My best is Cher. My worst is Adele. But they're ALL my favorite and so very dear to me. They reflect the life I could have had on SNL.

So despite my better judgement, I thought it would be a good idea to share the hilarity of what it is to sit in on a practice session.

I may really regret this...and it ended up taking WAAAAAYYYYYYY longer to put the visual side of the video together than I thought, but what the heck, right? If anything, you can laugh with me at my stupidity.

So ladies and gents, I present one of my worse, yet most-fun impersonations.

It's a pitchy Adam Levine and a straining Christina Aguilera in Moves Like Jagger.

The Story of How I Got Engaged to a Rock Star

Once upon a time, I had a massive crush on a rock star. He was in a no-name screamo group from somewhere in the Carolinas. They toured the US (still do), so even though he wasn’t a major rock star, he was a minor one.

Minor rock star = good enough for me!

Here is the band, Emery, as they look today:

And now, for the sake of making this story really come alive for you, here is the one that I loved:

Those of you who know me really well are now like “saw that a mile away” and those of you who know me somewhat are probably thinking about how you thought you had me pegged but now this throws everything off and YOU DON’T KNOW ME AT ALL ANYMORE!! Settle down. It’s okay. There will be other opportunities to predict my past crushes, I’m sure of it.

So, where was I? Oh yes ... I LOOOOOVVVVED him. He was in all of my M.A.S.H. lineups (as in the marriage game) and I talked about him incessantly. So much so that all of my guy friends were aware of this deep affection.

So when Emery headlined a tour my senior year, I knew I had to go. And even more than that, I knew I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to settle the matter of romance once and for all.

After all, there comes a point in every girl’s crush when she has to know whether it’s time to stop pining.

So my friends and I made our way down to Indy so that I could get married.

Now like all good bands, desperate for fans, Emery hung out on stage after the show. I watched from a distance for awhile, waiting for the right sign...the right idea. Then, it hit me.

In a stroke of college maturity, I pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something like this on it:

With one of my guy friends (also someone I had a crush on...it’s funny how stupid you are in college) right behind me, I walked up to Josh and held the paper out to him. He looked at it, his greasy, stringy hair covering his eyes. Then, he asked for a pen. I scrambled and finally handed it to him.

He began to scribble. I thought I’d die. I caught a glimpse of what Josh was writing:

I held my breath. I couldn’t believe it. This was it. The moment that would make or break everything I’d ever planned for in life.

In the midst of this, their lead guitarist, Matt, tried to talk to me.

He asked a string of questions that to this day I can’t remember. I mean it’s hard to keep your head on straight when all you can smell is the sharpie ink emanating from your love proposal. I gave him one-word answers and fleeting glances. I mean COULDN’T HE SEE THAT I’D ALREADY PICKED MY MAN? Finally, he gave up before...HOLY CRAP!

And that was it. I went home an engaged woman. Josh and I didn’t talk after that. In fact the only words he ever said to me were “Do you have a pen?” But I knew what we had was real.

Months later, I would lament not talking to Matt more. But what can you do? You’re dumb in college. You can’t see the forest for the trees, and a piece of paper engagement is more important than a guy who actually wants to engage in conversation.

But still...

Come to think of it, I should probably tell Josh about Tad.

Why No One Hits on Me at the Gym

You know those random thoughts you have that even though you’re like “Why am I thinking about this? I don’t even care about this topic/idea/question/what-have-you!” you can’t not think about them because they are, after all, random thoughts and you have no control over such things?

Well, I had one the other day. And it went something like: “Why don’t I ever get hit on at the gym?”

BEFORE I GO FURTHER, I must say that I really don’t want to get hit on at the gym. I mean first, I’m married. And second, even if I needed that little ego boost it’s not like the guys there are really all that flattering. I mean, sure, you have the occasional beefcake. But the one that I’m thinking of in particular has star tattoos on his triceps. Not really my type...or anyone's type aside from some shot girl working at a club.

So this thought kind of stuck with me, and I really started analyzing myself. Am I really that out of shape? Am I less attractive than the other girls? Is it just a myth that the gym is a place to hook up? I really mulled this over, folks, until the answer hit me whilst I was looking at my reflection in the gym's giant mirror.

I have horrible workout clothes.

Most girls there are really matchy-matchy, with their hot pink Fila shorts and white-with-pink-accents Fila tank and white and pink shoes. You know the type.

 

If they’re not matchy-matchy, they’re pretty basic with running shorts and a plaint-shirt. And if they don’t fit into either of those categories, they’re probably high schoolers with high school track t-shirts and such.

And then, there’s me.

I used to have lots of great workout clothes. But then I stopped working out. And gained weight. And now those clothes don’t fit. So, I’m stuck with this ensemble:

And this t-shirt:

Oh, and this t-shirt:

Clearly, this is why I don’t turn heads. Because I look like some grade schooler who just rolled out of bed. And I’m okay with that. Like I said, I don’t need to get hit on.

But then today, all of my workout shirts were dirty, so I was left digging through my dresser and random storage places for clothing before I found this...a t-shirt I bought at a concert I attended in college.

Yes, that is a creepy ghost woman.

I find it sad that my once-treasured concert t’s are now degraded to unattractive workout wear. But such is life. (Plus, this shirt is a major step above Royal Chambers, wouldn’t you agree?)

If anything, despite still feeling un-hit-on-able, I can comfort myself with the fact that I bought this shirt at the very same concert at which I asked a band member to marry me. And he said yes. Kind of erasing the non-hit-on-able feeling. But that’s another blog post for another day. Maybe Thursday.

Ps. Yes, this was the band. Can you guess who the lucky guy was?