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…

Amanda Raeanne Heinsch - the formative years

So a bit about the aforementioned Heinsch family video Christmas present ..

There is a side of me that wants to burn the video. Burn it so that the world may never know what I was like in my 13th year. Burn it so that no one can see my ungraceful and awkward transition from childhood to young womanhood. Burn it so that humanity can be spared raw footage of my acne and wretched fashion sense.

You see, homeschooling allowed me to miss out on any public documentation of my beastly transformation. I have no school photos, no yearbooks, no school plays or choir performances recorded on videotapes. Nothing...except this.

Sure, there are a few family photographs, but those can easily be dismissed. I mean who doesn't look bad in a photo or two (or three or fourteen)? But when you have a living, breathing, moving representation of who you were in the midst of puberty, well there's just no forgiveness. The video camera doesn't lie.

So with no further adieu, here are 15 observations on my life from 1996 to 2002:

1) When I get to heaven, I need to thank God that cheeks thin out as one ages
2) Hair down to my butt, parted in the middle and quasi-greasy. WHY DIDN'T ANYONE LOOK AT ME AND SEE THE PHYSICAL MAKINGS OF A FUTURE DRUGGIE?! WHY WAS THERE NO INTERVENTION?!
3) Gah! So tall at such a young age!
4) Dear Mandi - why don't you wear shirts that fit? Sincerely, Stacy and Clinton
5) Ugh, my facial features are being eaten BY MY OWN FACE.
6) I had better softball form than I remember...still, the glasses that take up half my already-large face are unforgivable. My high socks are awesome, though.
7) Yep, there I am. Left field. Probably batting 8th. It wasn't that I totally sucked...I was just going through this funk with my swing...oh, and I was afraid of sliding and getting dirty.
8) And BIG SIGH OF RELIEF. We cut to high school graduation and I'm actually starting to pull it together. 9) I open my mouth WAY too much when I laugh.
10) Hey, my makeup was really nice on grad day! And my hair very acceptable. I think I'm very datable!
11) Ugh there's the girl who got the solo that I wanted. *crosses arms*
12) I graduated with high honors! I forgot about that...funny how everything you do in high school means nothing down the road.
13) And there I am walking down the graduation aisle with the tallest boy in class. I remember feeling weird about that...but it turns out it looked ok. And at least I got to walk with a boy, am I right??
14) My close HS friends are all in this!
15) And then we cut to Ryan's basketball game. Note to self: when filming future sporting events, do NOT tape the whole thing.


And there you have it. Adolescence in a nutshell...and the joy of growing into your own.

what to do if...

Tad and I like to have game plans for tough situations. I think this all started after watching too many seasons of House. We’d see a fictionalized couple go through a horrific situation, and then we’d talk about it. Thanks to House, Tad knows whether to save my life or the baby’s (no, this is not hinting at anything) and we both know when to pull the plug.

But the other day, we were watching The Walking Dead, and I realized there was a topic that we’d yet to cover.

“Tad?”

“Yeah?”

“If I turn into a zombie, I want you to just kill me.”

Silence.

“Tad?”

Nothing.

“I’m serious.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t forget.”

Sigh. “Ok.”

Still not sure on what to do if he became a zombie. But I’m thinking he doesn’t want me pressing the issue.

hometownless

For the longest time, the “hometown” field on my Facebook profile was blank. I had absolutely nothing to put in it. Because I am hometownless.

Growing up, we moved every 1.5 to 2 years. So much so that by the time I was in my sophomore year of high school, we were moving into what was at least our 11^th residency.

Four of those residencies were in the Chicagoland area.

Three were within Peoria, Illinois (yes, mom, I’m counting the time we lived in a barn).

One was in Minnesota.

One was in Iowa.

The rest were in Illinois.

(Thank goodness my parents never followed through on their desire for us to travel the country in an RV, otherwise I’d have an even bigger conundrum).

So when I was first creating my Facebook profile sometime back in college and it came time to enter a hometown, I panicked. What should I put? Where was I from? I didn’t know, so I left it blank.

Living in Fort Wayne, Indiana for the past 9 years (yikes), this hasn’t really been an issue. People ask where I’m from and I just say Illinois. Their silly minds immediately think I’m from Chicago, which is fine by me. I mean I did spend the majority of my childhood in the suburbs and to be honest, I like them thinking that I’m a big city girl. But for the few who press me further, I end up blurting something like “Everywhere! I’m from the entire state of Illinois.”

And then I feel foolish.

So to remedy this problem, my mom encouraged me to just pick somewhere. Pick a town that I feel most connected to...one of which I have the most memories, or one that I think of fondly...and have that be my hometown. So that’s what I did. I picked Des Plaines, Illinois and slapped it up on my Facebook page with pride. And no one called me out. No one questioned its validity. No one even noticed. Win-win if you ask me.

But then the other day Tad asked me the very morbid question of if I were to die, where should he bury me?

And I said Illinois (though I realize I should have said “wherever YOU want us to be buried, love of my life”).

And he said where in Illinois?

And I said I don’t know. Just somewhere by Chicago.

And he said like your grandma’s place or a place where you grew up or...?

And I thought and thought and threw out half-hearted suggestion after half-hearted suggestion before saying oh goodness, I don’t care. Just pick a place. Any place in Illinois and it’ll be fine.

And now instead of worrying about what my hometown is, I’m worrying about what my deathtown should be.

Not a good trade.

unstoppaBULL

Growing up in the Chicago suburbs, basketball was always a very happy thing. Michael Jordan was in his prime (when was he NOT in his prime?). And I watched with my family as our Bulls secured two three-peats and the best record ever in NBA history. 72-10. I even have the t-shirt to prove it.

I don't remember ever feeling scared or anxious or worrisome. It wasn't a matter of whether they would win ... it was just a matter of when. They never let us down. Ever. Well, except when they would retire and then un-retire ... but even that was as though they were undoing whatever they had previously done to lose our trust.

It was an epic time of victory and awesomeness.

But since moving to Indiana, I realize that not everyone feels the same way.

Here, I introduce you to a disgruntled Pacers fan.

His name is Josh. I've featured him here before.

You see, Josh is sad, because his whole life he rooted for the Pacers. And every time they had a shot at the championship, those darned Bulls knocked them out of the running.

Needless to say, Josh is a bit bitter. But he's not the only one. I have another friend ... a Cavs fan, who also shares in the hatred. Apparently, it's a serious problem for NBA fans across the nation.

When I first heard of this Bull-hatred, I really couldn't believe it. I seriously had gone through my entire life, assuming that everyone was in love with the Bulls. I mean, who could hate them?! But of course that wasn't the case. Many people hated them and were wishing them to die, while I was praying that not only would they rule the world, but that Michael Jordan would actually grow wings and fly.

Bottom line ... While my childhood memories were full of wins and beat-downs and great moments, theirs were full of losses and beatings and embarrassing moments.

It's not fair. It's not right. But that's the way it is.

And that's why we're here, 15 years later. 2011 NBA Playoffs. And the Bulls and Pacers are at it again.

Apr 16 @ Bulls		Q1	Q2	Q3	Q4									TOTAL
	Pacers	27	28	24	20									99
	Bulls	23	28	20	33									104

Sorry, Josh. Looks like some dreams just aren't meant to come true.

Est. 1983

I really hate including my graduation year in my literary agent bio.

I mean I really really hate it.

It makes me sound as though my college degree is one of my top credentials. As though I'm one of those "Class of '06, baby!" losers who wants every single person to know exactly where I studied and who I graduated with.

And I didn't even go to Princeton or Harvard or Yale. I went to a tiny school in Indiana.
Doesn't really scream prestigious academia, does it.

The truth of the matter is just the other day, someone asked me if I was still in school ... a question I get far too often. And everytime, I just want to scream "No, I'm not still in school. In fact, THERE ARE PEOPLE MY EXACT AGE RUNNING BILLION DOLLAR BUSINESSES AND LEADING NFL TEAMS THROUGH THE PLAYOFFS."

Do you think anyone would ask Jay Cutler or Aaron Rodgers to have their dad contact the service station if their car broke down? Of course not! In fact, they probably don't even get carded at restricted movies or have to tell their insurance guy that they don't qualify for the "good student program". And they're 1983 babies just like me.

So with a heavy sigh, I'll send my bio off to the conference organizers, my 2006 grad date in big, bold letters.

And maybe while I'm there, I'll walk around with a Jimmy John's Est. 1983 t-shirt. Sure, I'll still be one of the young-uns. I'm ok with that. I'm just trying to avoid people asking if I'm agenting as part of an internship (true story).

Any other ideas? BTW, mom jeans, lipstick and a darker hair color are out of the question.

Sidenote: I realize the Jay Cutler/Aaron Rodgers reference was random ... but I'm SO excited for Sunday's game that I couldn't resist. Go Bears!

boxing, unboxing and reboxing

So what happens when you spend your childhood moving every two years?

You box up all your crap. Move it to your new destination. Only to unbox some of it, while the rest goes in 'storage'.

And then you do it all over again.

Eventually, you have what I refer to as 'lost toys'. Items that were once part of your life, but then disappeared after the move from point K to point L. You know they're out there somewhere and that one day you will reunite. But you're just not sure when.

Ladies and gentlemen, today we were reunited.

Barbies. Books. Hand-painted dogs. They were all there. In mass amounts.

The worst part was throwing away the hundred or so cards I'd accumulated over the years. Birthday cards. Christmas cards. Thank you cards. Cards-for-no-reason cards. I had felt obligated to keep them simply because someone somewhere had felt obligated to give them.

But realizing it was never the intention of those people to burden me with guilt, I threw them away. All 254 of them.

The second worst part was going through my high school and college notebooks. There had to be a few dozen of these, and I swear the only reason I'd held on to them was because I knew that one day, I'd run into someone who would challenge me on the order of the rulers of the Roman Empire, and I'd have to bust out my Greek and Roman History notebook from high school in order to win the argument.

But since the invention of Wikipedia, I realized my books were outdated. So I threw them away. All 87 of them.

And finally, the third worst part of going through all my crap was the fact that I was a writer. Always have been. Always will be.

Poems, thoughts and stories were scribbled on everything from church bulletins to portions of Bounce Fabric Softener cardboard boxes. Folders of ideas, notebooks of the beginnings of epic tales--EVERY THING I HAD EVER WRITTEN FROM AS EARLY AS 1991 filled the cracks and crevices of each box, causing me to flip through every notebook, scan over every page and unfold every piece of paper.

And since I've actually grown in to something of a writer, I reboxed it all. Swearing to myself that it would not be lost again. That I would return to Fort Wayne and find permanent homes for it.

Yeah, we'll see about that.

Imagining a White City

Here I am., strolling the Midway Plaisance:

It's something my friend, Beth, and I have wanted to do since reading Erik Larson's Devil in the White City. To walk the grounds that once held the greatest fair in the world. To catch a glimpse of what exactly drew Helen Keller, Buffalo Bill, Thomas Edison, L. Frank Baum, and others to visit. To imagine the sight that was the world's first Ferris Wheel and envision the attractions and amusements that saw 27 million in attendance.

The World's Columbian Exposition (1893) introduced Cracker Jack, Juicy Fruit, and Shredded Wheat. It inspired Baum's Emerald City and Walt Disney's theme parks. It had the first commercial movie theater and was where Milton Hershey first purchased chocolate manufacturing equipment. It also was where the "Snake Charmer Song" was written ... you know, to set the mood for the "Streets of Cairo" exhibit (complete with belly dancing).

It was also home to America's first serial killer.

But we'll get into that another time. For now, let's just enjoy the Midway, shall we?

(Photo taken from the east end of the Midway. The railroad was directly behind me.)

To view a map of the Midway during the fair, go here.

And lastly, a photo of the Midway in its glory:


If you would be so kind and are into entertaining thoughts of parallel universes, please take a moment to imagine me and Beth to be but specks in the distance, facing the camera (which I assume was up on the Ferris Wheel in order to get a shot this good) and taking pictures of our own. Mine, I posted above.
Thank you. I do appreciate it.

I'll have the Hubble

I am not a science-y person. I’m a curious person, yes. And I’m relatively good at thinking things through and coming up with creative (though inaccurate) explanations of natural phenomena.

But overall, I am not science-y. In fact, I’d say I’m rather unscience-y. To the point where I look like an idiot on occasion. Like when visiting Chicago’s Museum of Science & Industry.

It was one of those days when my I’m-not-afraid-of-anything attitude was leading the charge, and I boldly stepped up to the museum cashier guy, leaving my friends behind me. After finding out that I needed one general admission ticket, he asked if I wanted to do the IMAX movie thing.

Well of course! Who wouldn’t! This is a carefree girls weekend, by golly, so of course we’ll pay the extra dollars to sit in a giant dome for thirty minutes!!

“Alright, which movie would you like to view?” He asked.

Uh …

I looked at the board (where I can assume all of the movies were clearly labeled and explained so that the average joe could find one to his liking and move on), but couldn’t decipher it for the life of me. I looked at my friends. There was some mumbling, after which one of them shouted “HUBBLE!” and I responded with “Hubble??” to their assurance of “Hubble!”.

At this point I internally freaked out, because NO MOVIE ABOUT SCIENCE COULD POSSIBLY BE CALLED HUBBLE … a children’s movie, maybe. Or perhaps a romantic comedy. But not a deeply-involved scientific documentary.

I gave them a few more questioning looks and received a few more nods of assurance and mouthed forms of "hubble" before I turned to the cashier guy and said in the most questioning tone allowed that would still qualify as a statement,

“I’ll have the Hubble.”

Not my brightest moment, but I guess it was worth it, because come to find out, the Hubble is a ginormous telescope that takes super-detailed pictures of really far away stuff.

And the best part?
Its life is narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio!

Maybe I should get a little more into this whole science thing.

Best State Ever!!!

There's nothing weirder than watching television when suddenly a commercial comes on that you swear is showing a shot of dolphins in your home state.

Followed by a skyscraper that has a glass box jutting out of its side -- that you swear is in your home state.

Followed by buffalo that you admit could be in your home state.

Followed by an Abraham Lincoln nose that you're convinced is in your home state.

Followed by a gorgeous cave that you've heard is in your home state.

Followed by a skyline that you KNOW is in your home state.

Followed by an announcer who says:

Mile after Magnificent Mile. EnjoyIllinois.com

And then you realize that you have just witnessed a tourism commercial.
You've seen them all your life. But they've always been for Alaska. Or the Dakotas. Or Wisconsin.

But now you've seen one for your home. Or, what was your home for the majority of your life. Before you moved to a state that assumes everyone has heard of a particular movie even though everyone, especially you, has not.


And it makes you a bit proud when you realize that your state looks way way way awesomer than all the other states. Combined.

Though you may be a bit biased.

Remember, Remember, the 4th of November

This is my friend, Josh:

What a stud!

Now, being a die-hard Libertarian, Josh doesn't take too well to socialism. He also has a tendency to be offended by all things socialist, fascist or communist. It's just how he is. So, naturally, he was a bit nervous at this time last year. What, with all the "spread the wealth" allegations and what not.

So, for his birthday, I told him I was going to give him John McCain for president. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it was a step in the right direction and so he was pleased.

I was unable to follow through with this promise.

Sorry, Josh. Don't be mad!

So, this year, I'm going to scale things back a bit (because I really hate it when people promise stuff and don't follow through), and instead, list out for you reasons why Josh is one of my top 10 most favorite persons in the world:

1) He's a fellow home schooler.
2) He doesn't take himself too seriously. (Ahh, my knee!! )
3) He is easily angered. (We often tell him that Thomas Jefferson would have made a good president, or that JFK was a godsend or that Guy Fawkes was awesome!! or that we're glad the government tells people where they can and can't smoke--just to make him mad.)
4) He is of Norwegian ancestry. (Norwegian and Jewish, to be precise. I particularly like the Norwegian part, since I am also of that people).
5) He includes me in conversation. (There can be a huge group of guys talking about guns and video games, yet Josh, if he is close enough, will talk with me about books or his love life or taking over a small country)
6) He has dreams of taking over a small country. (This is a dream we've shared for awhile now...letting our Viking roots get the best of us...it's just a matter of choosing the right country....oh, and getting over the fact that Josh prefers freedom and is therefore morally opposed to conquering and ruling a people group even if in the name of liberty)
7) He is a superb actor. (I had the privilege of acting opposite him in Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park. Because of what we would later find to be typecasting, we were the old people.)
8) He could be a fighter pilot if he wanted. (Or, at least this is what I imagine of him).
9) He is smart, but not too smart for his own good. (Nuff said)
10) He may one day rule the world. (His most favorite thing in the world is politics (that, and reading while eating potato chips). It's just a matter of time before he gets so riled up over what he's seeing in Washington that he'll run for some seat, somewhere)

Glad to see you like the gift, Josh.

Happy Birthday! Hopefully, this post will make up for the fact that I was not able to come through on last year's present and consequently we're about to have evil, government health care!!


P.s. - What do you think about North Korea? I hear Kim Jung Il will soon be relinquishing his throne to his son...sounds like the perfect time for a coup.

Living Within Means

According to the government, I made about $15,000 a year. I had my own apartment. Student loans. Other miscellaneous bills. And what did I decide to do? Purchase a fancy schmancy European car.

Smart move, there.

Now, two broken windows, a broken lock, a busted AC hose, $1100 in wheel work, $500 in a purge valve, $300 in a serpentine belt, $500 in tires, and $2200 in transmission work later, she's up on Craigslist. I finally realized that she's outside my means. She's always been outside my means.

It happened right after we had the transmission work done. We took her to Dayton, thinking the worst was behind us. Assuming we could now focus on some of her cosmetic problem (like the windows). Until she wouldn't start the next day. Two or three trips to the mechanic later, and we find out she needs $600 of work. Nice. Real nice.

Will anyone want her? Probably not. She needs some work, and I really don't want to take less for her than I'd get in a trade in. But I'm hoping. Hoping that she's within SOMEONE'S means. . . . Or at least that someone will be just as stupid as I was those three years ago and get caught up in her cuteness and German accent.

Auf wiedersehen, Mary Jane.

At least her butt is cute.

How I Prayed Shawn Michaels into Heaven

The year was around 1995 or 1996. Somewhere in there. We were living in Des Plaines, Illinois--a suburb of Chicago and neighbor to O'Hare. Mary Poppins-esqe scenes seemed a daily occurrence, only in our case the sky darkened, the earth shook, and the windows of our house rattled as giant planes flew dangerously close overhead. At least it seemed that way.

During this time, I had but two prayers that I faithfully and dutifully whispered to God every night:

1) That our dog, Traff, would go to heaven, and
2) That WWF wrestler, Shawn Michaels would become a Christian and go to heaven.

I believed in these prayers with the utmost of sincerety, knowing and believing that my sureness and faithful repetition would result in nothing short of a win. I wholeheartedly believed I could back God into a corner with my consistent prayer life and unparalleled faith.

And then I grew up. A year or more of this sort of prayer life, and it got old. Or, I got old. I stopped such prayers, turning my requests to greater things and more pressing matters. But the innocense wasn't there. The sincerety wasn't the same. I had become adult-ish. I had grown up. And eventually, I looked upon my old prayers with humor, thinking upon my foolishness and scoffing at my subject matter--my childlike trials. Oh, if life were as simple as worrying over whether a professional entertainer's name was in the Book of Life.

Until a few years ago, when I found out that Shawn Michaels had become a born again Christian.

For me, nothing better exemplifies the faith of a child.

I'll see you in heaven, Traff.

The Curious City of Fort Wayne

Things I find strange about Fort Wayne and Fort Waynians:

1) The streets flood within seconds. I am not even joking here. Seconds. I have oftentimes thought that Fort Wayne would be better off as a paddy field.
2) It is not safe to drive in the outermost lanes, because at any given moment they WILL turn into turn-only lanes. I will never forget when an old lady in church said that she wasn't afraid of anything...except for when the lanes become turn-only lanes and you don't have enough time to correct the problem.
3) Give the people of Fort Wayne a reason to bust out their lawn chairs, and they'll come in droves. DROVES. It could be the hottest day ever recorded on the face of the planet, and there they'll be, dragging their super-sleek chair-in-a-bag out to the middle of a grassy knoll to watch some old guys play Beach Boys covers.
4) They named their baseball team the Tin Caps, seemingly oblivious to the obvious nickname of the Pot Heads.
5) There is a Mexican restaurant on every block.
6) During the summer, there is a festival every week. I kid you not. Greek Fest, Latin Fest, Rib Fest, German Fest, Three Rivers Festival, etc.
7) The people of Fort Wayne rallied against spending millions of taxpayer dollars to fix up dilapidated schools and instead decided to build the ultimate minor league baseball stadium.
8) From the baseball stadium, the city looks unAmerican. Maybe Balkan. Or Russian. And there is a particular apartment building by the Anthony St. Wal-Mart that looks like it was hauled over here from Somalia.
9) There is only one true housing project that I know of. Only one. I am used to three or more.
10) Everyone blows red lights. A cop could be right there, waiting for his light to turn green and I guarantee someone will blow through the red without getting pulled over.

. . . And to think I got my license suspended for being rear-ended.

Notes of the Past

One of the most powerful ways to relive a memory is through scent. A friend knew this, and during our stay in Turkey you could find her in her room every morning, spraying a certain body splash and taking it all in. Now, I'm sure, every time she smells that particular fragrance it takes her back to the days of sweltering heat, lamb on a stick, olive Lays potato chips, and no coffee to-go (though I think the latter affected us more than it did her).

I accidentally managed this effect while in Russia a few years prior. I had an inexpensive, 9 or 12 oz. bottle of a sort of tropical melon fragrance that I used on a daily if not bi-daily basis. Every time I happen to stumble across that particular bottle in a box of old items (I never use my fragrances up entirely) or accidentally sample it in the Wal-Mart body splash aisle, I am transported to a place of blistering cold, dogs with no homes, bacon Lays potato chips, and a longing for Lenin to return.

The second most powerful way to relive a memory, I have found, is through sound. I have a shortlist of albums that remind me of where I was and what I was doing when I first truly became engaged with those songs.

Here are five albums that, when played, remind me of different times:


Parachutes by Coldplay:
When the album released in 2000, the popular track "Yellow" held me. The music video was nothing more than a ridiculous at-home-video, but I loved it. I broke down and purchased it a year or so later, but it didn't get adequate playing time in my boombox until my freshman year at college (2002). I'd never heard anything like it nor have I heard anything similar since. Coldplay veered off in a different direction afterward, and well, the sounds of Parachutes will always be just that: the sounds of Parachutes. Every time I hear this album, I am once again in room 106, my roommate Kim doing homework on the bed across from mine and our icicle lights glowing brightly.


Transatlantacism by Death Cab for Cutie:

I was a sophomore in 2003--the year Transatlaticism came out. I hadn't heard of Death Cab before, but was a goner once a friend showed their performance on Letterman (or was it Leno?). This played endlessly in my room, that year, and I'll never forget the moment of panic when realizing that I had purchased my first album with language I would have to hide from my parents. Needless to say, that moment of panic came and went rather quickly, as the sheer perfection of the album formed nothing but love and admiration in my heart for the indie group from Seattle. Listening to this album reminds me of have a double room to myself, sleeping through my Dr. Wes exam, pulling all-nighters and boys.

Speak for Yourself by Imogen Heap:
I've had a slew of female celebrities I've wanted to be. The most persistent, however, was Imogen Heap. This british electronica/pop rocker stole my heart with her collaborative effort as Frou Frou, and the moment her solo album hit the shelves in the summer of 2005, I was there. I took her music to Antalya, Turkey, where I listened to it while seated on our apartment's balcony, overlooking the busy street and monorail below and Mediterranean in the distance.

Our Endless Numbered Days by Iron and Wine:

My return from Turkey brought with it a list of new artists and albums to purchase, as the people responsible for putting the trip together fed my hunger for music. Iron and Wine was one such artist. I had graduated college and in the midst of a 6-week living arrangement with BethEmily when this album entered my life. It followed me out of that apartment and into one of my own, filling the empty walls and floors with its rich sound and at-home feel. It reminds me of those few years I spent living alone, eating rice and potatos and waiting tables.

Girls and Boys by Ingrid Michaelson:
Lastly, I present you the album I brought with my while touring the Chicago suburbs. As an Admissions Counselor in 2008, my primary travel zone was the Chicagoland area. The fun, upbeat songs on this album carried me from traffic jam to traffic jam, school visit to school visit, college fair to college fair, and pizza place to pizza place. This was also the album that witnessed my run-in with homes of my past. Not once. Not twice. But three times. This album reminds me of when I was truly doing something I loved in an area of the country that I'd marry if it were legal...an area I miss so very much.