The sleepover embargo

I was 11 years old before I ever spent the night away from home.

To call Mama overprotective was an understatement.

She didn’t want me spending the night with people she didn’t know or feel comfortable with. She had her reasons, as crazy and fantastical as they were.

Once, I befriended a new girl in my class and she had a spend the night party.

I could not go.

“I don’t know her,” Mama stated simply.

“You aren’t the one invited; I am.”

This logic went no where with Mama. She didn’t care.

A few months later, the girl had another spend the night party. This time, she made it a point to painfully exclude me, telling me quite haughtily that, “My mother is real funny about who I invite.”
I assured her my mother was even funnier about where I went, so it was not a problem as I would not have been allowed to attend anyway.

There were times I felt like she was the meanest mother in the world. Surely, she was only doing this to make me a friendless, social outcast.

Anytime someone invited me to spend the night, Mama had to know who their parents were, where they lived, and where they worked.

“Do you know the mother’s maiden name?” she would ask.

Whether I had it or not, she turned the information over to Granny.

Long before the days of Google, there was Granny. And Granny was more thorough than the FBI when it came to background checks and the vetting process.

Within fifteen minutes, that woman had found out everything to be known about the person, down to parking violations, any warts removed and what pew they sat on in church.

“You ain’t going to this gal’s house,” Granny declared. “I done found out all kinds of stuff about her distant cousins.”

“Distant cousins! What does that have to do with me spending the night?” I cried.
“You don’t know if that no-good distant cousin is gonna show up the night you’re there. A bunch of hooligans, the lot of them,” Granny said.

And with that said, I knew I was not going anywhere.

Until the Girls in Action group at church had a sleepover.

“Please. Please, please, please let me go,” I begged.

Mama had known the two women who were over the group practically all of her life; heck, she even worked with one of them!

This would be it, the first time I would get to spend the night at someone’s house other than mine.

“I am not sure I want you to go,” she said.

“You can’t use your old excuses, Mama. You know these people. Granny knows these people. We go to church with them! You have no good reason why I can’t go.”
At this, Granny snorted. She knew as well as I did, if Mama wanted an excuse as to why I couldn’t do something, she would find it.

She was the woman who told a science teacher once I couldn’t go on a 4-H trip to Jekyll Island because it may sink. The woman tried to argue with her but decided to save her time and sanity.

By some miracle, I got to go.

My first time sleeping over at someone else’s house with other girls!

Let me tell you, it was nothing like I thought.

They wanted to stay up and talk.

I wanted to sleep. I was kind of tired. Being excited was exhausting.

I was scared of the shadows in the house; it’s one thing when you know the creaks and moans of the floors in your own place but in something new, it was terrifying.

There were other sounds that I didn’t hear at home. The ice maker in the freezer sounded like a monster trying to break through the wall. Seeing the lights of neighbors bouncing on the backyard through the sliding glass doors could have been UFO’s landing for all I knew.

I laid there awake, all night, waiting for dawn to break so I could leave.

When I saw the sun creeping through the trees, I rolled up the sleeping bag and grabbed my stuff, not even bothering to change out of my pj’s and went to tell the grown-ups good bye.

“Honey, are you sure your mother is even here?” one asked.

“Oh, she’s here, don’t worry.”
And she was.
Out in the driveway sat Mama in her little blue Ford Escort, her chimney of cigarette smoke curling out of the driver’s window while she sipped a cup of coffee from a gas station.

I wondered if she had slept out there; odds are, she did.

It was fun, but, I missed home.

Over the years, I spent the night with a few other friends but not many. Mama’s rules were still just as strict, and Granny still ran background checks.

I just realized there was no place quite like home for my introverted self.

When I was much older, I realized why Mama was maybe so protective; perhaps there was a method to her madness after all.

My own child, now 13, has never spent the night away from home.

Thankfully, he hasn’t expressed any interest in it.

Maybe he knows I was trained by two of the best in the Mama-ing business and my snooping skills can rival Granny’s sometimes. She still, to this day, was better than Google, even posthumously.

A few weeks ago, a conversation occurred as to whether or not to call the parents of a teenager holding a New Year’s Eve overnight party.

The other parent mentioned her daughter thought it was embarrassing.

“Embarrassing?” I thought.

Good thing she didn’t have my Mama or Granny.

A phone call to the parents would have been the least of her worries.

 

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The Return of the Crazy Cat Lady

Once upon a time, I had close to 20 cats.

This may seem a bit much to some, but for me, it was quite normal.

Only about 10 were in the house with me, which wasn’t as bad as one would think.

In fact, if you were only in the house for a few minutes, you may not even know they were there, until you started feeling like you were being watched and slowly saw ears rise from behind the couch or from under something to cautiously size you up.

The others were in another house we had on the property, referred to as the Cat House.

This led to a professor thinking I was the madam of Mercer after he received some salacious information from a classmate.

When I married my ex-husband and moved away, sadly, my kitties stayed with my family back home.

I was heartsick.

“You are probably the original Crazy Cat Lady,” my ex told me one day.

I think he meant it as an insult; I took it as a compliment.

The ex swore he was allergic to cats, and truth be told, I probably am a little bit too.

For a large portion of my life, I have had some kind of stuffy nose that began pretty much around the time I got my first cat, the one Mama told me not to pick up and bring into the house to which I promptly ignored and did just that.

But that didn’t stop me from scooping up the little grey striped feral kitten that I found outside my office one day and bringing him home.

“That cat is not coming inside this house,” the ex declared with an authority he did not possess. I paid him about as much attention as I did my Mama and brought the kittie inside, naming him Callahan.

Only problem was, Dirty Harry didn’t really like anyone and when I got my beagle, Pepper, a few months later, she thought he was a real-life chew toy. He eventually went to live on a neighbor’s farm.

For the last 14 years, my heart has only known dogs.

Until one day this spring, a little tiny tortoiseshell kitten showed up.

The first thing I told Cole was to not pick her up.

He listened to me as much as I did my mama and held her close to his chest.

He named her Bella, Italian for beautiful, and she is, all fluffy fall colors and a tiny face.

My previous experience with kitties had taught me another one would probably show up and a few days later, I saw it.

I felt like I was being watched when I was feeding Bella and slowly looked towards the edge of the woods. I expected to see a bear sitting there, wondering why I had never extended a bowl of kibble as courtesy.

Instead, I saw yellow eyes shrouded in a skinny, black body. I could almost see its ribs.

It would not come to me but watched cautiously.

I peeked out the window later and saw Bella letting it eat with her.

The next day, I took an extra bowl with me to feed it. “You can come eat, too,” I said. “And I’m calling you Freya.”

Still, the black kittie was cautious. Bella, on the other hand, knew she was loved and mewed her gratitude.

When I fed them the next day, I watched Freya approach the food as I walked away. She was beginning to trust me, slowly but she was.

On the following day, I kneeled and motioned for her to come to me, and surprisingly, she did. She was so thin, scarred up and its tail looked broken. And, she was a he.

“So, I guess Freya’s not a good name for you, is it?” I said, petting him. “How about Frank? Short for Saint Francis of Assissi and Frank Sinatra. You can be the Purrman of the Barn.”

It wasn’t long before Frank would let me hold him for long periods of time, purring as he cradled up against my shoulder. He’s not a big lap cuddler; that’s Bella job.

And she is a big biscuit maker, too.

The other day, I was looking at the various cat food choices and couldn’t find the one they liked. An employee asked if I needed help.

We got in a long conversation about the differences in pate versus chopped; gravy, sauces, and the merits of dry food. I took out my phone to show her the 100’s of pictures I have.

“You wouldn’t believe this fluffy, plushy kittie was scrawny when he showed up a few months ago,” I said, showing her a picture of Frank.

He is like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree; he went from being frighteningly thin to being a gorgeous cat who knows he’s loved by all. Well, with the exception of the Doodle. The pittie mix is not too sure about the cats yet.

I ended up talking to the lady for about 20 minutes.

Cole recounted this to his father later.

“She doesn’t even like talking to people she knows in the store,” he began. “She was showing this stranger pictures of Frank and Bella and talking to her like they were best friends. It’s insane how many pictures she has of them on her phone. I haven’t even seen her take that many photos. They talked forever. They literally bonded over Friskies and Meow Mix.”

“Did the other lady have cats, too?” Lamar asked.

“Yes, three,” he affirmed. “But they were blocking the aisle, talking and looking at pictures.”

“Crazy cat ladies don’t care, Cole,” Lamar said.

And he’s right. We don’t.

Lowering my expectations

Granny’s response to a lot of things was, “I ain’t getting my hopes up.”

I thought this was kind of morose and sad – we’re supposed to be hopeful, aren’t we?

“Why?” was her response. “When I do, I always get disappointed.”

Mama, on the other hand, tries to see the good in things and when stuff doesn’t work out, she tries to come up with some kind of divine reasoning.

“When something doesn’t happen the way you want it to, it’s just because something better is on its way,” Mama will say.

Being reared by both of these redheads has caused me to fluctuate between the extremes.

On one hand, I am always looking for the positive; on the other, I have started to understand Granny’s mantra.

And let me tell you, 2017 has been a year of disappointment.

I tend to do a lot of reflecting this time of the year and think about the past 12 months and how I want the coming year to be.

I hoped – no, make that knew – that 2017 was going to be amazing.

And it hasn’t.

Far from it.

As this year has gone by, I have realized some cold, hard truths about a few friends, making my circle even smaller.

Instead of trying to hold on to these outgrown relationships, I remembered Granny’s words.

“Not everyone will do for you the way you do for them,” she told me more than once, probably after she had experienced a personal lesson. “If you expect them to do what you would do, you gonna be sorely disappointed. They won’t. But they will be there on your doorstep whenever they need you.”

She was right. This year has shown me, yet again, the friends that only were around when they needed me and when I needed them, they dismissed me.

Boy, did it hurt.

“Ain’t no need for it to hurt,” Granny foretold. “Better to know what you’re dealing with upfront than not. I ain’t got time for people like that.”

A few opportunities I had been excited about turned out to be huge disappointments this year.

More than a few.

Some came to an end and some never really worked out the way they were supposed to.

“Look for the things that went right,” Mama gently reminded me.

It was an impossible task.

Mama didn’t believe me. I assured her it was.

So, in the coming year, I am lowering my expectations.

It’s not that I am being a Negative Nellie.

Like Granny, I am not going to get my hopes up about things; again, not trying to be negative.

Just go with me on this for a second.

I am actually going to look at things from a realistic standpoint.

I am not going to project my personal attitudes and ways of doing things on others. Other people may have their own thing going on that has nothing to do with me.

I am going to be a bit more grounded in my approach.

Instead of thinking one event was going to be so life-changing, I was going to put the focus on me and what I can do to change my life.

I think we tend to build things up in our minds sometimes where we make them so much bigger and grander than what they are.

We think that one job, that one person, that one something is going to make all these changes in our lives and when it doesn’t, we feel like Granny often did.

“Nothing goes the way I want, so why should I get excited about this?” she said more than once.

Mama countered with, “Because sometimes you have to be excited about something, Mama. It’s good for our souls to get our hopes up and be excited. We have to have hope to hold on to.”

Maybe that was just it.

Granny had gotten her hopes up so many times and it didn’t happen the way she wanted.

I know. I’ve been there. Heck, I am wallowing in the shallow end of the pool right now.

But I am trying, with all I’ve got, to find that hope my sweet yet crazy Mama preaches about.

So, I am setting the bar just a tiny bit lower.

I think lowering my expectations may be the answer.

Not that I am thinking I will be disappointed.

But maybe so I can be happily amazed.