"Dang, these corners are tricky." - Jenny McCarthy, while laying carpet, Baseketball

Here it is. The room isn't finished, but yet it's already filled with crap.

It’s been raining. And raining. And raining. Given the constant moisture, well, I’m more than a little hacked off that I haven’t been able to gather wood (I would use the phrase “get wood,” but have found that leads to naughty Internet searches).

As I was grumbling, I decided to finally put down the carpet I’d been threatening to install for about a month. As I indicated earlier, it goes down just like Post-It™ notes, except it’s not yellow. And it’s carpet. And, if The Boy or Pugsley write on it, they’re gonna be in a world of hurt.

The Mrs. called me, using the wonder of cellular technology, and let me know that I had to turn to a gubernatorial thingy on the radio. After using a pressure-washer to hose the embedded carbohydrate paste from Pugsley, I decided to:

• drink beer
• put Post-It™ carpet down, and,
• listen to whackos running for office.

The whacko running for governor of interest indicated that he felt (I’m not making this up) that:

• Canada is a terrorist nation,
• the Soviet Union still existed,
• the Soviets want Alaska,
• Alaska was ordained in Revelations to lead the world to destroy the Anti-Christ, and
• Alaska was a continent.

I’m actually thinking of voting for this guy, because who the hell knows what kind of policies he’d develop. It would give Alaska the funniest government in history, except for the one that’s been in Washington, D.C. since 1853.

Anyhow, The Boy and I continued to put the carpet down. In reality, I was putting the carpet down, and The Boy was using the (very small) amount of unusable carpet to line an empty cardboard box as a house for his imaginary friend, Smurphy, who I believe to be a forty-year-old female. Because The Boy says that Smurphy is a forty-year-old female. That lives with him. I’m thinking this is okay now, but if it continues until he’s thirteen we need to talk to a therapist.

I digress. The carpet (Legato®) went down like Paris Hilton. Which is to say, it was installed without difficulty, like I imagine Paris Hilton’s latest, say, car stereo was installed. The Boy kept me company while I put the carpet down. Eventually we finished, completing a room (mostly) that I’d been working on since The Mrs. was carrying Pugsley. (Safety tip: If your Mrs. is pregnant, finish a room during the whole pregnancy thing. It’s better than, well, being around a pregnant Mrs.)

So, in Alaska, we may end up with a Canada-hating, afraid-of-USSR guys as governor, but at least the carpet is done.

Dang. The carpet is red, and I thought we were better dead than red. Maybe taupe would have been a better choice?