Dear Jon Stewart,

I'm start to think you already have your hands plenty full dealing with all those people in Washington.  Man o Man!  How can they say such crazy stuff and get away with it?  I make just once teensy comment about the size of you know who's butt and only three other people hear it, and suddenly I'm off the Paint the Sunday School Room Committee and Lori Proctor, who has absolutely zero taste in paint, is in!  It just doesn't seem right.  It's okay, though, I'm not sure I fit in as well with those folks as my mom would like. 

So anyway, I'm still watching the show if I'm home and I'm still up, but I'm starting to see that the sort of problems I wanted you to solve are just not that big of a deal.  Except you might actually get somewhere with my ideas, unlike those people with the dull suits.

More

After the kitchen tidy-up, Irma checked the mouse trap under the sink--nothing.  She noticed the knob on the cupboard door was loose again, so she tightened up the screw.  On her way out of the kitchen, still pondering that coffee stain, her bare left foot stepped on something flat and cold.  A coin? she wondered.  No.  A button.  A red four-hole button.  Curiouser and curiouser.

Becca's Box

Rebecca has given me a gift that is essentially a writing challenge, a way to keep at it.  I am required to share one of my daily efforts each week.  Here goes:

Irma made some noodles for the soup she planned for dinner, then spent an hour cleaning the kitchen.  There was a stain on the counter she found particularly disturbing, a faint brown ring that she was sure must be coffee, yet she didn't remember even having coffee recently, let alone spilling it. 

I admit it's a weak effort.  But this is about practice.