Mrs. President

The art project David stored in my room is huge. It's purple balloons big sheets, streamers, other paper mached items, and stacks of plants. And it's exploding! It's ripped from the floor into space. It's blowing out the windows, and my grandpa is there trying to catch it. We run around pulling things back in windows and gathering up great tables of art pile. My grandpa almost dies and I am so careful with him. I place him by a window under sheet structure. I think he's okay and one of the really little kids from circus camp moves the piles of precarious plants into even more precarious structures. They tumble a little and explode.

They have to check the air for poisons since this is the president's office. They evacuate us, taking us to the cars. But I run back to the oval office, which is hidden in the basement of the white house, to get my bag. It's hard to find because of all of the play structures and merry go rounds in every corner. The bodyguards don't recognize me but when I tell them I need my purse they say that the president grabbed it for me. Thanks hubby, Phew! I run down to the cars.

I notice that my husband, the President, is alternately Steve Martin and Barak Obama. I marvel at the American People as I take my spot in the carriage. We're playing a game like strip poker with a bunch of people I don't know. Shucks: I guessed that we would get into some pretty freaky presidential tradition stuff, and here it is.