My Sofa: Archaeologist’s Wet Dream or the Stuff of Nightmares?

Dearest Readers,

Sometimes when I’m not behaving as a human taxi cab or professional laundress, I think about the human race and how it has changed over time. What mark will your Betty and her descendants leave on this world? How will others even know that we walked the planet and existed as the Crackpot clan?

One.More.Popsicle.
Hold up.

Uncannily, the other day while having these deep thoughts, I stumbled upon an article about Polish Vampire burials from centuries ago—archaeologists recently discovered bodies buried  with sickles and stones placed upon them so that they couldn’t rise from their graves to haunt or bite or whatever-the-fuck dead 17th-18th century undead folks might do. Anyway, this news made me think about what the world would learn about my clan should some kind of unexpected disaster occur leading my house to be excavated by archaeologists of the future.

Where would they begin their search?

I know! I know!

C'mon. I'm comfy.
C’mon. I’m comfy.

OUR COUCH.

Our sofa and loveseat hold all of the secrets, kind Readers. And these secrets are dirty. I learned great deals while my teenagers were out and about and Mr. Crackpot was running errands having decided to excavate my sofa with fresh eyes—the eyes of an outsider. Namely, I learned that we are disgusting.

After scooting the dogs into another room, I heaved the sofa into a leaning/standing position. Upon doing so, the sound of objects raining in the depths of the lining was startling. Luckily for your Betty, there exists a small arm’s length tear at the bottom of our sofa’s lining. I prepared my excavation site by placing a sheet on the kitchen tile for my findings. My tools consisted of barbecue tongs and a spatula with which to reach and gather.

For fun, I decided to announce my findings to my dogs in what I imagined to be an archaeologist-like voice—and in the way he or she would catalog the findings.

It went like this (please use a terrible British accent in your mind while reading for full effect):

My, my. What do we have here? It appears the Crackpot clan consumed an inordinate amount of popsicles thus proven by the fifty or so Popsicle sticks at the bottom of this sofa. Red appeared to be their preferred flavor.

Seriously. How far away is the trash can?
Seriously. How far away is the trash can?

Which clan member believed in storing his Nike socks in the crevices of this site. Why are rolled into balls? Was this a sport?

So many earrings—none of them matching. None of them of any particular value either.

What ritual involved the shoving of so many wrappers for something called ‘Skittles’ into the depths of this sofa?

A dog collar. For why?

Three poorly assessed math worksheets. Some great cartoons of a Mr. M. sketched in the margins, however.

12 various sized batteries and what looks to be a remote control. Probably from the 1970s.

6 RSVP cards that appear to have been attached at some point to various Bar or Bat Mitzvah invitations. There are snide comments written on three of them in what may be presumed to be the handwriting of a 7th grader. Apparently, Josh, Alison and Samuel were ‘douchebag snobs’ and were held in contempt for ‘sucking up’ to the Rabbi.

Hold it! I’ve found the mother lode!  An entire journal tracking the weight loss goals of one named Betty. She states that “This time she means it,” on 7 different occasions and yet her starting point doesn’t waiver. Also, the phrase ‘Fuck this shit, I want some bread’ appears at least 36 times.

Oh, my darling Readers. It was indeed illuminating. Thankfully, I don’t own a DNA kit. I cringe at the thought of what stories our microfiber might tell–I mean how often have I had to tell the mini-Crackpots that their couch is not a napkin? After I completed my excavation, I took all of the loose change and placed it in a dingy Mason jar originally intended for some kind of Pinterest project but which now dons the label: Funding for New Couch.

Maybe we'll use this to buy a new sofa instead of cleaning our present one.
Maybe we’ll use this to buy a new sofa instead of cleaning our present one.

Do you think the evidence of our living habits would warrant fear from those left to bury our remains? Would we be laid to rest with precautionary cages or stones to prevent us from haunting the bread, candy or frozen treat aisles? Would they bury me with my journal and a note stating, Congratulations, Betty, you’re finally Fat Free…

I need to go—there’s still time to catch Mr. Crackpot before he finishes at the grocery store. I must tell him to forget the cherry popsicles and maybe even persuade him to consider couch covers until the jar fills up.

Yours Until the Timer Dings,

Betty Crackpot

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