oh, shaka zulu!

We have a leak in our house — our soon-to-be-not-ours-but-the-bank’s house. I don’t think I can express to you how much we do not need this right now. Is my screaming in my sleep not enough for you, O powers conspiring against me and the clutch that just went out in my car?

Wah.

Oh, wait. How negligent of me, to forget my life’s purpose: “BACK TO WHIMSY, OKAY??!!”

Grrrrrr.

(Okay. Calm down there, Trace. As MB is now saying to me 53 times a day, “Eaaaasy, big fella.”)

And, really, I don’t know the relevance of “oh, shaka zulu” to having an in-wall plumbing leak that is warping and ruining the annoying Pergo in our kitchen, but it seemed like a safe blog swear. I mean, we are completely family friendly ’round here. Only occasionally, for example, do I post large images of women’s naked bums or ruminate about the size of dog anuses.

So, well, I have no idea what this is all about. Please proceed apace with your lives.

And, consarnit: SHAKA ZULU!