I Hate Sleepovers

I was a child of routine. As you may have read, I loved my stuffed animals and my pets. I loved the pictures on my walls, the sound of my Dad playing guitar at night, my blankets, my room, my bed.  

When I was really little I started a tradition we would call Naked Ranger time. It consisted of me throwing off my towel and running around the house buck naked after bath time, and enlisting my sisters to join. This would prompt my parents to exclaim, "here come the Naked Rangers!"

Three serious sisters

In short, I liked being at home, and still do to this day.

In elementary school I would get invited to sleepovers every once in awhile, and a similar pattern would ensue. I would show up and play with the other girls, but I would always get tired and fall asleep first. I hated games like Truth or Dare, and still do.  Didn't like the pressure, or being told to do dumb shit, or being asked things I would rather keep private. In the morning I would wake up first, and eat a granola bar and read a book in my sleeping bag, or better yet, go upstairs and socialize with the parents who were drinking coffee and making pancakes. 

Usually though, I wouldn't make it through the night. Yes, I was that kid. My resolve would cave once 11 pm hit, and my parents would get the phone call asking in a trembling, quiet voice, if they could please come pick me up. They always did, and I remember it was with great relief that I loaded my overnight bag, stuffed animal, and sleeping bag back into the station wagon, ready to be back at home.

There was a famous sleepover, Katie Sharkey's birthday- we watched Groundhogs Day and had such a great time, and I remember that her family was always warm and very kind. I still had to make the call though, and in a tremendous show of parental patience my parents let me sleep in my bed, and then brought me back in the morning so I could eat waffles and bacon with the other girls.

For this reason, sleepover camp was never really an option.  I remember going to a father daughter weekend  with Camp Fire on Vashon Island at Camp Sealth- it was pretty fun, but even with a parent there I was itching to get home.  I remember that my friend Sarah was there too, she ate a Marion-berry pie and threw up, and it's strange that I don't remember more about the trip.

Sarah was one of my closest friends, one of the kindest and loveliest kids you ever laid eyes on. She had long dark hair and a sweet smile, and came from a nice Jewish family. I liked sleeping at Sarah's house. Her family would have Shabbat dinner, and I was allowed to turn lights on and off since my family wasn't very practicing. I remember once we made cookies at my house, and the dog put his paws on the table and ate about a dozen when we weren't looking. Sarah also watched my hamster once when we went to the east coast, and the damn rodent got out of its cage. The Munro's frantically looked for it, and finally lured it back into its cage with a ramp and a peanut butter sandwich.

This trend continued throughout adulthood- I was known as the girl who fell asleep at dorm parties in college, and just from tiredness, not from the use of illicit substances. Just last week I tried spending the night at my boyfriend's, but at 4 in the morning I was wide awake.  We usually sleep at my house, but you would think after a year and half I would be fine to not sleep at my place. But I missed my dog, and my bed was more comfortable, and his house was loud. I said I was fine, I would try to sleep for a few more hours then go home. He looked at me compassionately and said, "We can go back to your house Lindsey, it's okay."

So we did, and when I told my Mom that I didn't make it through a sleepover she laughed so hard she started snorting.

There is a balance between comfort and adventure. I've spent weeks sleeping in the mountains with only the night sky as a roof, and months on my own in other countries, everything changing and unfamiliar. But I have the wisdom to know that I am a creature of habit, and will always find solace in the quiet rhythm of a well kept and familiar home. In the words of Kenneth Grahame, from Wind in the Willows-

"He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome."

Shortcake and Sunflowers

I've been carrying around little scraps and bits of things to tell you, and don't know where to put them.  So, today you get odds and ends all wrapped up together, sort of like a blog pinata.

The sunflowers in my yard are 5 feet high and still growing, and I have fought back the weeds so my little collection of plants has room to grow. I bought them at the grocery store- 1 basil, 1 rosemary, 2 tomatoes, a sad pepper plant, and the fig tree I promised Emily I would keep alive.

I sent packages the other day, to friends in Taos, Boulder, Memphis, and Seattle.  Sending packages is one of my favorite things to do.

One of my other favorite things to do is make strawberry shortcake. This the second or third time I have mentioned shortcake in the past 2 months.  I'll move on to a new dessert now, I promise. But seriously, for about $6 you can get a small carton of whipping cream, a plastic container of strawberries, and some Pillsbury biscuits.  Eaten on the porch on a warm Texas night, watching the fireflies- I don't miss my slugs or raincoats back at home.

Early morning sitting on the couch with Guthrie, reading Annie Dillard's An American Childhood, drinking coffee out of the little white mug with painted mosquitoes on it that we found at a garage sale in Santa Fe.  The bottom of it reads "Sharon, 1976," and I wish I knew its story.

Reading an email from Shelley in Bellingham, missing potato burritos and Boulevard Park, and her most of all.

Went running the other day, tripped on the sidewalk, and skinned my knee. Flailed around on the sidewalk in front of Steven and he said, "Lindsey, you've got to pick up your feet when you run." Then I pointed and said, "It's bleeding!" He replied, "Yes, I don't think a band aid will help you much,  you'll be okay."  This reminded me that I have been dramatic about injuries for the last few decades.  When I was a toddler I apparently ran screaming around the side of the house searching for my Mom, scaring the shit out of her for what was, in fact, a hangnail.

Found a baby possum in my recycle bin on the back porch- he climbed in there to eat peanut butter and then got stuck.  Funny looking guy, pretended he was dead and I believed him.

Went to Target and felt sorry for myself because I didn't have enough extra cash to buy crap I didn't need, like a throw pillow and a candle, and a stuffed giraffe for my friend's daughter. This was probably for the best, or the list of packages from above may have included a Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle for my Dad's stuffed animal collection.

We went to see a minor league baseball game last night, the Round Rock Express versus the Reno Aces.  The Express swept the Aces 4-0, and two players got hit with baseballs, one in the face and one in the shin. Our favorite players was a guy named Tuffy Gosewich.  We ate dollar hot dogs and kicked off our sandals while the sun set over the field.

Off to go water the sunflowers and throw on a summer dress, and get ready for the 95 degree day.

Hope you enjoyed your blog pinata.  Sorry I didn't include any baby bottles of booze, I know those are always a hit with adults.  I promise to write again soon!

Pickle Joins the Hamster Guerrillas

I have a story to tell you.  It's about three girls, two parents, and a small village worth of rodents. My first pet was Rosie the guinea pig. She was white with brown spots and had little brown ears.  I loved her. I fed her carrots, and held her, and once I got really mad at my sister for trying to bathe her with the garden hose. The one day, Rosie died, and I learned about what it meant for a special pet to die.  I tried to feed her a carrot but she wasn't moving, and Doug (my Dad's best friend from the last post, who recently partied it up at the Newman homestead) said to me, "you know honey, I don't think she's ever gonna eat the carrot."

So, we buried her in the backyard, under a tall pine tree, and my Dad performed the eulogy. Apparently, as I wept over the open shoe box that held her, my father came up with a rhyming eulogy on the spot, which nearly drove my Mom to laughter.

After Rosie my sisters got two guinea pigs- Shelley named hers Shelley, and Melissa named hers Fuzzy.  The little critters had been sick when we got them from the pet store, and the died within a week.  They went under the pine tree.

Shelley, Shelley, and Fuzzy

Now my memory is getting spotty- there was Marshmallow the teddy bear hamster, Scooter the dwarf hamster, the sweet mouse named Midnight, another guinea pig named Shelley, a mama guinea pig named Ginger, and a bunch of cannibalistic gerbils.

Soon to be a cannibal.

I wish I were joking about the gerbils.

I remember walking into the room I shared with my sister, looking in their house, and knowing something was horribly wrong. Apparently the pet store had sold us a boy and a girl, they had babies and then the Dad started eating them.  My Mom told me that after she cleaned everything up she took all the gerbils to the local animal shelter.  In her words, "the girl at PAWS was looking at me like I was fucking crazy! But I just couldn't handle it anymore, so I took the cannibals to the shelter."

Ginger and a remote control.

There was also my rabbit named Cosmo, who was jumpy (imagine that) and not as cuddly as a dog, and who I got tired of, so I gave him to one of my sisters as a birthday present.  On a side note, I have a habit of doing that- re-gifting things to other people, particularly my sisters. There were other gift giving occasions when the sisters would chide me, "Lindsey, I know you had two copies of that book- I saw it in your room!"

The story that takes the cake might be Pickle, the hamster that ran away.  One day he disappeared, and my Dad took us aside and solemnly told us that Pickle had run off into the backyard to join the hamster guerrillas. Being a literal child, I though he meant that Pickle had joined the hamster gorillas, who lived in the backyard in gorilla suits.  When I was in college my parents told me that what had really happened to Pickle was that the poor guy had fallen down an air duct and broken his neck.  Before we would get home from school they would run around trying to locate the source of the smell.

The pine tree is still in our backyard, and I wonder what will happen if my parents ever move.  Should we put a little picket fence around the tree, to let people know what lies there?  My Dad has joked about putting the house on eBay instead of going through the monumental task of cleaning it out.  The add could read something like this-

"House full of memories.  Comes with a full basement and rodent cemetery in backyard.  Offers accepted."

Pickle, wherever you are, I hope your days are full of sleeping in the shade and shooting guns in the jungle.

Rest in peace, my dearly departed little pets.