The Standard Sleepover

As long as I can remember, I’ve had sleepovers with my friends.

The Days of Innocent Sleepovers
In kindergarten, it was mostly Michelle R. and Harve. Our parents would sign bus passes and permission slips (Mom Z. would say aloud, “Permission. P-E-R-M…is it two M’s?” nearly every week), bags would be packed, and Barbies would be played with. Harve could be counted on to leave at least one piece of clothing at my house, which my mom would find later as she did laundry. She’d hold up one of Harve’s socks and say, “Is this hers? Or one of your Cabbage Patch doll’s?” laughing at the mini-sizes of Harve’s clothing.

With our small house, if I had more than one friend sleepover we’d set up camp in the living room (much to my dad’s annoyance, I’m sure). I like to think we slept end to end like neatly paired shoes. Mom Z. has informed me it wasn’t quite so…and in fact, we looked more like a litter of puppies, all arms and legs unconsciously strewn on each other.

I vaguely remember playing “Girl Talk” with zit stickers and “Truth or Dare” at Ryan H’s house. I didn’t have any dark secrets, so I always took Dare. This led to me licking the entire length of a floor and putting my bra in the freezer (thanks for those suggestions, Alison A. So gross.).

By 8th grade, Harve and I had become seasoned sleepover veterans. My mom still wrote out my permission slips, insistent she could finally spell “permission.” I’d ask, exasperatedly, “Why don’t you just find another word for ‘permission’?” And she’d yell back, “BECAUSE. I am going to learn how to spell this damn word, that’s why!”

At my house, Harve and I had devised a system for who would get my bed and who would sleep in a nest of blankets and sleeping bags on the floor. I had an antique purse shaped like a box with two slips of paper in it.

One person would shake the box, the other person would extract a slip. “1” stood for bed, “2” stood for floor. We’d devised the system because too often we’d argue over who got the bed. She’d argue that since it was MY house I should get the bed. And I’d argue that since SHE was the guest, SHE should get the bed.
Sidenote: I should mention that Harve and I have been friends for 27 years and have never had a fight. Yes, we’re that adorable. 


The Sleepovers Ending in Boobies and Hangovers
In high school, it was more of the same, but a larger pool of people with whom to sleepover and with less Barbies and more teenager-y behavior. For New Year’s Eve one year, Deege had a giant sleepover and at midnight we went streaking through the neighborhood (you’re welcome, people of Parkside).

My freshman year in college was a year of continuous sleepovers. Becca, who lived in the room next door, would sleepover because her roommate on the bottom bunk would have sex and shake the bunkbed. Aimdog, who lived down the hall, would sleepover because she didn’t feel like walking back to her side of the building after a night of partying.

After hearing about our plight of not having a place to put these guests, my mom bought Spank and I two giant dog bed pillows, which we put end to end to create an impromptu bed.

Some of my most memorable sleepovers were at The Skunk House, the home of Homer and Kara (and sometimes Jones) in our college town. I was out of college for a few months and working my second “real” job, which just so happened to be located within walking distance of The Skunk House. There was a family of skunks living under their house and despite numerous attempts to eradicate them (humanely), the place fucking stank. Anything leather brought into The Skunk House would leave smelling to high heaven after the leather absorbed the scent. Unzipping an overnight bag would inevitably lead to gagging as all the clothes would have a hint of skunk in them.

It was at The Skunk House Escobar and I devised an ingenius plan. We thought if we stacked 2 airbeds, it would double the comfort. What we didn’t think about, was Esco getting off the airbeds to pee in the morning and catapulting me into the wood-paneled wall.


The History and Philosophy of Sleepovers
Maybe sleepovers are alluring because my sister had them and I was never invited. I was, however, encouraged to pop in once in a while and report back to my mom what was happening and once, even to bring back a sample of punch my mom had made ahead of time and my sister indubitably spiked.
Sidenote: my sister was held responsible for cleaning the vomit out of the carpet and sleeping bag due to Julie M. drinking said spiked punch.

Even before I had friends, my brother Johnny and I had sleepouts.

Since his room was in the basement, it was just different enough to warrant a big deal and an invitation. I’d bring my sleeping bag down to Johnny’s room and sleep on his floor while he slept high above me on his hand-me-down waterbed. In the dark, we’d play catch with a pair of his socks rolled into a ball — sailing through the air and hitting walls or each other.

We also camped out in the backyard together, always awoken by a menagerie of bird noises at 5 am. Once he spent an hour imitating a mourning dove, driving me further and further into fits of giggles, until Mom Z. had had enough and knocked on the side of our tent yelling, “HEY! ENOUGH YOU TWO!” which of course just sent us off into another round of laughter. To this day, I can’t hear the call of the mourning dove without smirking a little.

Once, he and I fell asleep in the car on the way home from my grandparents house and we begged our parents to let us sleep in the “way back” of our station wagon for the night. They did, despite the puzzlement of our neighbors, who must’ve shaken their heads at us tumbling out of the car with our sleeping bags at 7 am.

For Christmas one year, my parents gave all three kids air mattresses and I promptly used mine until it popped, then pilfered Gretchen’s and Johnny’s because for some unknown reason, neither of them continued with sleepovers after high school.

After college, my friends and I moved back to our hometowns or relocated, but it has always been an unsaid understanding that when someone comes to visit, the floor/bed/couch is always open and you are more than welcome to crash.

As we get older, friends offer guest rooms instead of futons, nurse newborns instead of doing shots, and hours are spent catching up over wine and board games rather than primping and dancing until wee hours at the club.

It’s funny though, because at the age of 31, I still think nothing of packing up my sleeping bag and seeing my friends in their jammies. In fact, I think that might be when lines of “acquaintance” turn to “friend”. Seeing people in their pajama bottoms, free of makeup, with glasses instead of contacts really bridges a level of friendship and invites people to be on another tier of closeness.

So to those who have ever seen me in my pjs, sporting my retainers and my overnight eye-firming cream, consider yourselves my closest friends and know that no matter how small my future homes are, you’re always welcome to crash at my house.

Why I See Getting Older As a Gift

At the ripe ol’ age of 31, I have a lot of friends who recently turned 30 and a few on the brink of 40. When my turn came, there was a celebration that spanned across an entire week and several states on the east coast.

There weren’t any tears, sad mumblings about my youth slipping away, or feelings of depression that I was getting older.

Instead, on my actual birthday (July 22, FYI, 8 shopping months left), there were a lot of Sally O’Malley impressions with me shouting repeatedly, “I’M 30! And I can KICK!”
(Thank you, Esco, for being one of the only people who got the joke when I retold the story a few days later.)

The timeliness of this blog entry is obviously not due to my birthday, as it’s currently November, but because last month marked the 10th anniversary of my cousin Josh’s death from leukemia. He was only 14 when he died, but he had been sick for about five years leading up to that. A lot of time spent in hospitals and in bed rather than running around the playground and sleepovers with friends (or, in the case of my boyfriend, throwing rocks at friends).

Although he and I weren’t very close (I was in high school and college when he was in grade school), I thought (and think) of him often when faced with new adventures. Sure, I would go on a cruise with my friends because it seemed fun, but I would also go because a little boy would never get to go on a cruise with HIS friends. It’s sort of my way of saying, “You didn’t get the chance to do this, so I’m doing this for both of us.”

At some point along the way, I became grateful for simply being alive, regardless of the ups and downs, the heartbreak, the sadness, or new wrinkles. I consider myself fortunate to have adopted this mindset, as it’s really made getting older a much wiser, more positive experience rather than one fraught with fear and panic about jiggly Oprah arms and chin hair.

So every year on my birthday, I spend time (there is at least one, 6-hour-drive so I have the time) thinking about new friends I’ve met over the past year, the adventures I’ve had, new restaurants I’ve tried, places I’ve been, lessons I’ve learned, and how much I’ve leaned on my closest friends and family (and they on me).

I’m not only not upset about getting older, I’m proud of it. Because it means for some reason, I’ve been given the gift of another year of life to see what kind of shenanigans I can get into and so one day, when it’s my time to go, people will say, “Man…that Heidi…she really lived each day to its fullest.”