As I fall asleep at night, I binge watch/sleep through a variety of shows that I have loved in the past.
Following a story helps my brain not perseverate on whatever it is that I’m currently experiencing anxiety about, and having it be a storyline that I already know allows me to not have to focus fully, and drift off to sleep.
The only problem is, as I rewatch these shows, I am 100% positive that the theme songs are different.
The first time I noticed it was when I was rewatching Gilmore Girls.
Season One was definitely good ole’ Carole King, but then, suddenly, in later seasons, I swear the song was different.
I would flip back and forth between season one and whatever season I was currently on, listening and listening. I couldn’t mark the difference, but I swear it was there.
When I finished Gilmore Girls, I moved onto Friends.
Again, season one was super familiar, but by the time I hit the end of the show, I felt like it had undergone quite a few iterations.
And it was driving me crazy.
I couldn’t decide if I was really hearing it or if I had just forgotten how it sounded, way back when.
Flipping between seasons, like the eye doctor showing different lenses, “One? Or two? One? Or two?” I couldn’t distinguish between them, but again, I just knew they were different.
I’m currently falling asleep to Sex and the City.
And rather than fast fowarding through the intro, I have been paying close attention.
And I’m telling you…it is not the same as it was when I watched that show on tv.
And it’s not the same from season to season. It’s just not.
You probably think I’m crazy for obsessing about this. After all, the whole point of bingeing these shows is so I don’t have to think about them.
And, yes, I finally googled it.
It’s a thing. Producers don’t want to spend the money on the licensing of the song for streaming.
However, every article I find says that Gilmore Girls never changed their theme song from start to finish to streaming.
Yes, Gilmore Girls. Yes. You. Did.
It’s subtle. It’s barely noticeable. But you did, and I’m not crazy.
I am well aware that 95% of the people reading this post have no idea who Shaun Cassidy is, and to that, I just have to say, I’m so sorry for you.
To those of you who DaDoKnowKnow who he is, then you will probably better appreciate this story.
So, over the summer, I was scrolling through TikTok and I came across this video. Everyone who commented went between thinking it was hilarious and thinking it was terrible of her dad to do this.
But friends, rewind that clock back to 1979/1980 and I WAS that girl.
We were out in Ohio with my grandparents and we were out to dinner and as a typical late 70’s 7/8 year old girl, I had THE BIGGEST crush on Shaun Cassidy.
Wavy golden locks. Big, beautiful eyes. Shaun Cassidy was the first boy to set my heart aflutter.
So, there we were in the restaurant (which I have a vague memory as being The Lobster Shanty, but is there a Lobster Shanty near Ashtabula, Ohio? It is near Lake Erie, so maybe? Are there lobsters in lakes? Are they just ocean creatures? I have no idea!) (also…I’m allergic to seafood…would my parents take me to the Lobster Shanty? Yeah, probably. Sorry Mom and Dad, but you know it’s true.) and the waiter came to the table and I was dumbfounded. Completely speechless.
Our waiter was Shaun Cassidy.
I was sure of it.
No thoughts crossed my mind like, “What would a mega superstar be doing serving at a restaurant in Ashtabula, Ohio?” (Just like, at the time, I didn’t question the existence of a Lobster Shanty in Ohio, but I digress…again)
Instead, my mind thought “Shauncassidyshauncassidyshauncassidy” over and over and over.
When he left, I leaned into my Dad and whispered “Daddy, I am pretty sure that our waiter is Shaun Cassidy.” And my Dad said “Oh yeah? Like, THE Shaun Cassidy?”
“Yes!” I said. “I can’t believe it!”
My Dad said “Me neither!” and patted me on the head.
I assumed that was the end of the conversation and that my Dad and I were in on some massive secret, and wasn’t that awesome, and weren’t we a sleuthy team?
And then the waiter came back.
And my Dad said “Excuse me, my daughter is positive that you are Shaun Cassidy. Are you Shaun Cassidy?”
Obviously he said no, but I have no idea as to the actual words he used, because, at that point I slid under the table, the original TikTok girl, embarrassed by her Dad. I’m pretty sure I stayed there for most of the meal, (because, again…seafood restaurant, so why not), because I was mortified.
Great story, right?
Well, that, my friends, is not the story I’m here to tell.
The story I’m sharing is not one of embarrassment. It’s one of triumph.
My parents moved from my childhood home when I was a sophomore in college. I was away at school when they moved, and so they packed up my belongings and the movers put them in a truck.
It took longer than expected to pack up our little home, and at the end of the day, the movers decided that it was better to move in the next morning than to try to get it done that night. So, my parents agreed for the movers to bring the locked trucks to their depot for the night.
Except, it rained that night, my friends. And the truck which held everything I owned that was not currently with me at college? Well, that truck’s roof had a leak in it. And it flooded. And I lost everything I owned. The clothes I hadn’t brought with me. Toys I had held onto. My books. My albums.
When they called, I was devastated. I can’t even talk about the books. My cassette tapes that I had spent hours taping off the radio.
But let’s discuss the albums. Sure, it was now the 90’s and cd’s were the thing, but I had some albums from my childhood that I had held onto because I just LOVED them.
The Halloween album that I’ve never been able to find again. My Grease double record set. Along those lines, (and RIP Olivia Newton John), my Olivia Newton John’s Greatest Hits album. Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Some Sesame Street albums. My first 45, Hall and Oates’ Maneater. The list goes on and on.
Among those lost was my favorite album from my younger childhood years, and what I believe to be my first album, Shaun Cassidy.
I had drawn lips and hearts all over that album. I loved it. I knew every word to every song. And, even though, by the age of 19, I had gotten over my crush on Shaun Cassidy, it just gave me memories of the mid-70’s, reminded me of the home we lived in from the age of 3-8, of which I didn’t have many memories, reminded me of singing and dancing with my earliest childhood friend, Judy, and just made me feel good.
For 30+ years, I have always mourned the loss of my books and albums (and some of my 80’s fashion that I had refused to part with). As an adult, when I go to garage sales, I look to see if I can replace any of what was lost so many years ago.
Can I buy them all new? Sure. But I like getting the beat up copies that look more like mine. I buy any Sweet Valley High or original Nancy Drew hardcover that I find. I pick through the albums at the Goodwill and drag whoever is with me in the car to every yard sale just to see if they might have anything I’ve been missing all these years.
With books, I’ve done well at replacing my collection. Albums? Not as much.
Over the summer, I was in an antique store, trying to sell some items, and after wandering for awhile, I found an album section and started thumbing through. And suddenly, I gasped. There it was. There he was.
Shaun. Cassidy.
And, so I had to buy it. (and no, the replacement did not have the full sized, autographed poster inside)
Listen, I don’t have a lot of vices. I don’t smoke, I really don’t even drink, I’ve never done drugs. But words and music? Those are my things. My Achilles heel. My books. My music. Aside from my friends and family, they are everything to me.
I brought that album home and played that record and sang and danced around the room for quite some time. Everyone here thought I was crazy, but for just those moments, I was transported to a simpler time where my greatest responsibility was remembering to take out the dog, and my biggest worry was the dirt spot on my rainbow pinstriped white jeans.
I’ve seen the videos of people playing popular music of their youth to patients suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, and I’ve watched them absolutely come alive. People who have been catatonic suddenly smiling and tapping their feet, and sometimes, even singing along.
I get it.
Music. Your music. My music.
It becomes part of us. It soothes our aches. It sparks our memories. It creates our joy.
Thanks, Shaun. For a little while, I was a kid again, this summer, and it was wonderful.
I went grocery shopping, and it was the first trip I’ve made where I haven’t had to pick anything up for my father-in-law, who we lost last week.
I was definitely in my head as I drove from one store to the other (I shop in two stores to save some money) and I must have been driving too slowly for the driver behind me.
They slammed on their horn, long and loud and then swerved to pass me.
However, we were pulling up to a red light at the time, so they wound up idling right next to me.
I inched up a little so our windows were parallel and looked in the car.
The woman started frantically gesticulating while mouthing (I assume she was yelling, but I could only see her mouth move) something like “Why can’t you drive? You’re so slow! What’s wrong with you?”
Her anger seemed disproportionate to the situation.
So, I simply smiled, raised an eyebrow and mouthed back “Really?”
And, man, did that piss her off.
She starts gesturing, pushing her hair back from her face, like model, in what I assume was a dig at me, like I thought I was so special. She made like, a “La-Di-Dah” gesture with her hands and then continued to act like I was somehow pretending to be better than her.
Friends, at the time of me writing this, I haven’t showered in two days. My hair is greasy, I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. I’m exhausted and have bags under my eyes. In no way, shape, or form do I look like someone who thinks they are too good to follow the rules of the road.
She then started mouthing all sorts of things that I didn’t understand, and then started hugging her shoulders and mouthing “OOOh, I’m so scared! I’m so scared!” and making faces at me.
All the while, I just sat there, watching her, smiling.
She was SO mad, at this point, and I noticed a little shadow in the back seat, so I assume she also had a child in the car with her, watching this all go down. At one point she turned to say something to them, so I know there was someone back there, I just don’t know who.
But, I couldn’t muster up the energy to be angry back. And I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want her child to be afraid, and I just wasn’t angry, despite her theatrics.
The past few days, the mantra has been that “peace and harmony” is the way to go, and I recalled a story that my husband told at the repast, following his father’s funeral, two days ago.
In discussing how even tempered his father had been, he said that the most scandalous thing that his father had said was when someone cut him off in traffic and he came out with (imagine this in a thick, Jersey City accent) “Aw geez…what a turkey driver!”
And as that story went through my head, I just started to laugh. I laughed and laughed at the antics in the car next to me, and I laughed at the memory of that beautiful man saying “turkey driver” as the biggest insult he could think of.
The light turned green and she zipped through the intersection and way ahead of me and that was the end of our interaction.
The point of this story?
Be gracious, friends.
Be patient, be kind.
I absolutely could have been someone who was distracted with their phone or someone who wasn’t paying attention to the road, or who was just a bad driver. I could definitely have earned her anger.
But, I also could have been exactly what I was. Someone who was sad and lost in their thoughts and not driving exactly the way this woman wanted me to drive.
And for all I know, she had just gotten a call and was on the way to the hospital, or was trying to get to someone quickly who needed help.
I’m never the smartest in the room, but I consider myself to be fairly intelligent.
And yet, there are many moments in my day when I realize that I 100% do not understand how some things work.
I share this, because I can’t be alone in my head scratching. I know that there are other people out there that wonder the same things, but maybe just don’t say them out loud.
Because, a lot of the world is able to be deciphered.
But some of it? Not in a million years.
Take backflips, for example.
I have looked up the physics of backflips. I have watched slow motion videos where people have explained how to engage the body in such a floppy, twisty feat, and I have, myself, been a gymnast.
And yet…
The backflip? I don’t get it.
If I jump up and throw myself backwards, at best, I’m just landing flat on my back.
At worst, I have the correct arch in my back, but have landed directly on my head and broken my neck.
I don’t get it.
And people do it with such ease. They just jump and throw themselves backwards, and some people don’t even use their hands!!!
I swear there is some type of superpower involved in a backflip.
And if we are talking about things that don’t make any sense being in the air, let’s take a moment to discuss airplanes.
Like…what?
I love to fly and wanted to become a pilot when I was young. But my love of flight and airplanes never translated into an understanding of the physics behind it.
I’ve looked it up on numerous occasions and found the explanation.
Planes fly so fast, and the wind is going so forcefully over the wings and down that it creates lift which counteracts the weight of the plane.
I read the words, I understand what they are saying, but I don’t get it at all.
At all.
A plane is about 90,000 pounds. How is wind able to keep that afloat? That’s 90,000 POUNDS!
If airplanes all had rocket boosters underneath them, keeping them up, like some really high hoverboards, it would make more sense to me.
But nope. Just a smooth underside and little tiny wheels.
It’s not going to stop me from wanting to fly, but it certainly makes my head hurt to think about.
And what are Bitcoin and NFT’s?
My class and I have watched so many student news programs about these two things, and I watch and soak in every word. And then I look at the kids and ask “What did they just say?”
I mean, I even googled the definition. Do you know what that jerk said to me in response?
“a type of digital currency in which a record of transactions is maintained and new units of currency are generated by the computational solution of mathematical problems, and which operates independently of a central bank”
Excuse me? That is supposed to be a clarifying definition???
So, I googled “Bitcoin for Dummies” which brought me to a Bitcoin cheat sheet.
The simplified definition they gave me?
“There is no Bitcoin, actually. There’s nothing tangible, of course, but there’s not even some kind of digital representation of a coin. Rather, Bitcoin is represented by records of Bitcoin transactions in the Bitcoin “ledger,” which is stored in a “blockchain” ― something else that few people understand”
Oooohhhh….yes. Now I completely and totally understand.
C’mon, people. At this point I think it is just some made up thing and that a whole bunch of people are in on the joke and are just laughing at the rest of us. Or me. They are just laughing at me.
And as for how land line telephones, cell phones, wifi, and internet work?
I got nothing.
Make me feel better, friends. Tell me something that doesn’t make sense to you, even though it’s been explained to you over and over.
When I was a kid, my parents and grandparents used to tell me the same stories, over and over again.
Being a typical kid, I likely rolled my eyes and said “Yes, I know. You’ve already told me this one.”
I know every detail of the time that my Dad DIDN’T win the John Phillip Sousa award, his senior year in high school. More to the point, I know that the band director, that year, said that they weren’t going to give the award that year because no one in the senior class was good enough for it. Um, really? Thanks, jerk.
I also can tell you, word for word, the time my Dad got hit in the face with a baseball and ran home to my Grandma, who was working in her beauty shop.
I could tell you the story of my Grandpa Lawrence, who was pitching for a Cleveland farm team and as he threw a pitch, everyone thought a gun had been shot, but it had been his bone breaking from the force of his throw.
Or, perhaps I could regale you with the time my Mom was dating a young man and went to the opera with he and his family. When they got to the restaurant after the show, the wandering musicians were packing up, but when the father said they should open up their cases and play, they opened up their cases, picked up those instruments, and began to play. Because, friends, when (insert mob boss name here) says play, you play.
I assured myself that I would never become an adult who told the same stories, repeatedly, convinced of their innate captivating nature.
No, I would be an adult who told stories once. Fabulous stories that had everyone on the edge of their seat. Including my children.
Guess what, friends.
The other day, Monkey Girl and I were driving as she was delivering an Instacart order, and we passed a residential complex.
“Didn’t you know someone who lived there?” I innocently asked
My eyes were on the road, but I heard the eye roll and she responded “No, Mom, but I know you did. Her name was Sena and you two almost burned down the complex when you were making funnel cake once.”
Oh. I guess she knew that one.
More evidence to my failure to be the “one-time storyteller” I dreamed of being is the fact that, if I start a sentence with “Did I ever tell you about the time…” any of my four children will finish the sentence with “…you and Grandma were driving to Lara Allen’s birthday party and a car was coming down the road and slipped on ice and flipped over and you had to run to a nearby house and have them call 911? Yes, you’ve told us that one.”
Or, on a recent college visit with Monkey Boy to my alma mater, I began “It was on this street…” and the story was finished by one of my children “…that you and Sandy were walking home from the store in the middle of a rainstorm and cars just kept splashing you until you were soaked and you laughed so hard that you peed in your pants. We know.”
There are so many other examples I could give you to demonstrate my repetitive storytelling, but now that I’ve lived a little more, I have a new perspective.
Here’s my take:
While I used to see this, in my parents, as evidence of a faulty memory, of a longing for a different time, or of a boring life where there were only a few stories that were interesting enough to share, I’m starting to see it differently.
Any time anyone wants to tell you some story from their life, they are trying to connect with you. Trying to give you a glimpse of who they are, or maybe even, who they once were. It’s a reminder that our lives are so much bigger and broader than the day to day that most people see. The sharing of life stories is an invitation to share an experience and an opportunity to appreciate someone just a little more.
So, even if you’ve heard it before, the next time someone offers you a story about themselves that you know by heart…just listen. And appreciate the fact that they care enough about you to share that bit of their life with you.
If you’ve been a long time reader of the blog, or friend of mine, or colleague of mine…heck, or even casual acquaintance of mine…it’s no secret that I am a consumer of entertainment.
I love books, movies, tv, Facebook, Instagram, streaming networks…all of it.
I love a story and I love to be entertained.
Heck, I even have a podcast dedicated to streaming platforms. (Didn’t know that? Check out the Boomtron Podcast wherever you listen to your podcasts)
During the pandemic, I found a new method of entertainment, and it’s the TikTok.
I know all the arguments against TikTok.
These fast snippets of videos will teach your brain to lose it’s attention span. It’s voyeurism at it’s height. China is watching you through the app.
All of that may be true, but let’s be honest; my attention span wasn’t anything to write home about before TikTok, and my Mom taught me at an early age that the best time to drive through a neighborhood is at night so you can look through the front windows of homes and see what people are up to.
And if China is spying on me through TikTok, here’s what they’ve learned: (if you now, you know)
-I like to watch people’s morning routines
-I’m obsessed with junk journals (thejulietjournal)
-I love to listen to people talk about books
-I’m super concerned if Kat Stickler will find love again (katstickler)
-I am of the opinion that GenX continues to be the superior generation
-I know way too much about Matt and Abby and their growing family (Matt_and_Abby)
-I want to be like Cecilia from Svalbard, a small island near the north pole (sejsejilja)
-I’m still mourning the loss of Noodle and it will forever be a no bones day without him (jongraz)
-I’m considering throwing it all away to go live in a van and travel the country (abigailmartin)
However, I’ve also learned some important things on TikTok.
Even in the world of book lovers, which is the largest community I am part of on TikTok, (lovingly referred to as BookTok), people can argue about absolutely anything.
-Kindle v Audiobook v Physical Books
-People who read too much v People who read too little
-People who read literature calling people who read fantasy or rom-coms “fake readers” v People who read fantasy or rom-coms calling people who read literature “fake readers”
Can’t we all just agree that books are the best and leave it at that???
In addition to the things I’ve learned, TikTok has also raised some questions for me:
-I don’t go to a gym, but for those of you who do…are you only allowed to go in skintight clothes? Because all the videos people are making of themselves at the gym are of them in skintight leggings and sports bras. Like, what if the whole reason someone wanted to go to the gym was because they aren’t comfortable in those clothes and would like to get there? I have yet to see someone, even in the background of these videos, in baggy sweats.
-Does everyone reset their kitchen at night? Like, are all of you out there making sure there are no dishes in the sink, your kitchen floor is mopped, and the dishwasher is running before you go to bed? Does nobody just say “Forget it…I’m going to bed?”
-Is washing my face and only using my Olay moisturizer not enough? Because the people on TikTok are using about 7 different lotions and toners every time they wash their face, and I’m sorry, I have neither the money, nor the energy for that before I’m going to bed at night.
-Why aren’t all teachers on TikTok? The amount of free ideas that people are sharing for all grades, all subjects, and all levels is astounding. Forget Teachers Pay Teachers…this is better.
So, yeah, I know TikTok is supposed to be for the younger generation, but believe me, there is a well-represented crowd of people who are 45+ making some amazing content out there.
And sure, TikTok can be problematic, but so can anything if it’s misused. The more you watch of any one thing, the more whatever media you are using will feed you that type of content. I can go for days only seeing book videos, because those are the videos that I watch in their entirety and like. Like a good waiter, the app feeds you what you order.
Would I let Tiny on TikTok?
Nope. Not on your life. Not yet.
But I’m 51 and scrolling through TikTok is one of the things that brings me joy, makes me laugh, and makes me think.
