The Holbs has been engaged in a long-time battle with our bathtub caulk job. I'm not sure what it is about that bathtub that so irks my Holbslover in his soul, but time and time again I will come home sweaty from a run, or feel the need deep in my bones for a long, hot shower, only to find out that the tub area has been declared off-limits for another 48 hours. And I say, But Holbsy baby! but he shakes his head firmly. And I wonder aghast at what 1964 had against the idea of having two showers?
This is how he likes to do it. First he takes a scraper and scrapes every last bit of the previous, perfectly acceptable caulk-job off the tub. Ideally he will leave the caulk scrapings, little curls of rubbery confetti, all over the tub floor.
Then he meticulously dries every last droplet of moisture from the plastic tub. This involves sticking rolls and rolls of toilet paper in every leaky joint and deep down into the drain, and also leaving wet towels crumpled on the floor, and then smearing dirt everywhere? (Do I need to mention that he prefers to do this part this fully shoed?)
Finally he hops in the tub, caulks that sucker to within an inch of its life, and emerges declaring,
"This time, it will be perfect!"
Forty-eight hours later I get to shower. Until then, I get to read handmade Holbsigns every time I brush my teeth, signs saying things like, "Do Not Use Me Until Thursday!" and signed with a squiggly smiley face.
Inevitably, two weeks later, The Holbs is screwing up his face in the bathroom in his birthday suit, wondering if that seam is really as water-tight as it could be, and how much caulk is left in that caulk gun do you suppose?
Wisely, I choose blame it all on his B.S. in Accounting. Sometimes I say to him, Holbsy baby, why can't you be more like your wife? Honestly. I consider my lack of attention to detail to be one of my most appealing characteristics, I truly do.
Anyway, attention to detail gives you heartburn. Not that I'd know anything about that.
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