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.