A man, stage left, pauses. Looks up, tilting his head slightly.
Honey? Is that you? What are you singing?
Upstairs, too-high pitched laughter begins, then stops abruptly.
Oh, the caulk it is so eeeeeevil, eeeeeevil, so eeeeeeevil is the caulk.
The voice trails off, giggles briefly, then falls silent.
The man listens, then shakes his head sadly.
Lesson of the day: after spending the day alternately scraping at sanded caulk, then doing anyfreakin'thing else, the last remaining bits of unscraped caulk will still be there when you haul your now-tired tushie back into the bathroom. No matter how useful or virtuous the other things are that you did, ultimately, time will be short, you will be tired, and the mmnphrmgrlt [our apologies for the editorially imposed gag. done now] caulk will be sniggering at you.
Oh, also - don't mix sand into your caulk, even if someone explains that this will be oh-so pretty and match the grout. And the tiles. I don't care how extremely close you are to delivering a baby in that unfinished bathroom when you hear this, or how much you'd like something to be oh-so pretty at this time of your ginormousness. Or how temptingly confident this idea of pretty sounds, when you thought you weren't going to make it past functional before you go into labor.
No, woman. Stand your ground, hoist your uterus and insist on sandless caulk. Or rue it lo, these several years later, when it is too dry, black-brown-yellow, and only barely more flexible than the grout it covers. Then, you will be forced to ruthlessly part the sanded caulk from its sanded mate, and consider the menage a trois that seems to be happening with the ancient caulk from bathroom incarnations of yore.
And you won't like it any. Capisce?