Issa Rae for the win—and the inspiration

by jodi marneris

January 2023--I just finished a Master Class (a wonderful Christmas gift from my son and daughter-in-law) conducted by Issa Rae—award-winning actress, comedian, writer, and producer. Keyword for me: writer. It’s a year-long opportunity to delve into the work of professionals who offer their insight into a particular area of interest. My interest is writing, and as such, Ms. Rae was my first selection.

Her class was just as amazing as she is. I took away so much—including an extra dose of inspiration. One of the exercises she suggested is to tell a story from the perspective of an object in your house. There were other tips and suggestions, but this one really resonated with me. I thought it was an interesting task—and maybe a bit of a challenge.

I pretty sure by the second sentence, you’ll know what I am.

---

It's morning and everybody is getting up. The noise level is rising and it looks like the little ones are heading my way. I really wish my owner would have put plastic covers on me like Italian grandmothers used to do. I’m looking very worn and saggy and just a bit tired of all the “fluids.”

Some mornings it’s milk from an uncovered cup, sometimes it’s a little milk and a handful of sweetened grains from the cereal bowl. Of course, always followed by slurping from the pooch who understands the importance of not wasting a drop.

And some mornings, it’s whatever is leaking from the little one’s diaper, or droplets from their sneezes and coughs. It won’t be long before the mom is walking over with a wet rag to wipe up the messes. Again, more fluids. Sooner or later, they’re going to replace me. I just know it.

As the day goes on, the older inhabitants come home and just plop on me. Good grief, if I had bones, I know they’d be broken. Rough housing can only go so far without something breaking and it’s usually me who ends up with the broken parts. Although, there was this one time the teenager bounced right off me into the coffee table and….. I digress.

Now the pooch is sniffing me all over—I think he smells the bits of granola bars stuck in between my cushions. I want to laugh because it tickles but I’m a little perturbed because his slobber isn’t exactly pleasant to smell—or feel.

I have four feet—they’re made of wood but nonetheless they’re feet. And they’re getting bumped by the vacuum cleaner, a dog that runs into them while he zooms around the room and the dad who stubs his toe each and every time he walks past. I’ve been here for 8 years. You would think he knows my feet have been permanently set in the same place for all this time. <insert face plant>

It's now night. I’m relieved to think I’m going to have a reprieve from all the chaos of the day. The jumping, the tumbling—can’t anyone ever just sit still? Nope. No reprieve in sight. There’s a classic movie coming on and the owners are going to camp out to watch it—with popcorn and a little wine. I’m cringing at the thought of what I’m going to smell like tomorrow after a night of being soaked with butter from the late-night snack, kernels stuck in my cushion and spilt red wine that reeks of dirty-sock smells.

Hmmm….seems like the movie is over. Time for these two to get up and get to bed. Sounds logical to me. But that’s not happening. The female fell asleep before the credits were done and the male doesn’t want to disturb her, so he grabs a blanket to cover her and leaves her sprawled out right where she’s at. I’m secretly screaming “Disturb her! Disturb her! Take her with you!” I have no voice so, obviously they can’t hear me. Duh!

I’m totally bummed at this point. I was so looking forward to at least six hours of no butts, no legs, no feet, no buttered popcorn or soggy cereal all over me. No tug-o-war games with my cushions. No worrying about who’s going to get those cushions up off the floor for me. (A bit of an impossible task for an object like me.) That’s not to be the case.

Tomorrow is a new day, Those little ones will be out here before I know it. And the drips and drools will start all over again. Yes, I know I’m going to be replaced. It's just a matter of time. I always knew I was expendable--but I didn't think it would be so soon. Here I am. Just waiting to be turned over to a donation center.

I sometimes wish I’d get refreshed and restored and covered in plastic at a new house—in the front room—a front room nobody ever uses. Alone. Quiet days. Quiet nights. No chaos. No disarray. No frayed cushions. No food stains. No drips. No drools.

That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?

Or would it?

jodi marneris

Scroll down to leave your thoughts in the comment section.

Read another!