That Time He Should Have Divorced Me

When I was growing up my dad fixed everything. He fixed the cars, the lawnmower, the clogged dishwasher, washing machine, and toilet, he tore a Mustang apart, rust proofed each piece and put it back together, he built a new bedroom, family room, and kitchen to the back of the house. Because of that upbringing I was under the impression that men could fix everything but that wasn’t exactly what I got.

Mark could throw a bundle of 50# shingles over his shoulder and climb them up a ladder all day long, he could tear off and roof a house in the summer heat or winter cold, he could stand on top of a flat roof and slop hot tar from a bucket, but the basics around this house functioned on WD-40, super glue, and duct tape. I would get mad about it all the time and sometimes when I’d ask him about doing something and he’d say he couldn’t and we’d have to hire it out, I’d say, “For god’s sake, Mark, a monkey could do it.” Then he’d pretend to pick nits off the kids head and eat them to prove that he was in fact a monkey but not a handy one.

Because of his lack of interest and skill, I handled everything with the house and cars. I was the one who called and scheduled repairs, explained the problem, and then negotiated the price until whatever was wrong got fixed by a professional. One time I was getting bids on a new central air conditioning unit while Mark was doing a cross-state bike ride, and by the time one company came with their proposal Mark was back. The guy was shocked that there was a man living in the house and said, “Oh, you have a husband. I researched this and gave you a great price because I thought you were a single mom.” I told him that price was a-okay and Mark said, “See this is why I stay in my lane. You’re way better at this than me.”

Of all the rooms in this house, none has cost more than our little screened porch which has been repaired, reroofed, and/or rescreened three times. When we bought the house it had fake green grass carpet glued to the floor and we pulled that up only to find linoleum tile underneath. That wasn’t going to work for my bougie plans and we started scraping up the tile. Because it was so old it came up easily except for the black mastic glue which is like hardened lava. Every night after dinner we’d go out with a razor scraper and each get a small patch cleaned off, and then try again the next night and the next. But my husband, my guy who took no interest in this kind of stuff, had an idea. When he was a roofer and would be covered with tar at the end of the day, he’d clean it off with Goop. It came in a metal container and he’d slather it on his hands, arms, and neck and the tar would melt right off. “What we have here,” he said, “is a chemical problem. I’m thinking I get some Goop and smear it on the glue to break it down, wait a few minutes and it should come right off.” Off he went to the hardware store and before long he had made mastic soup and scooped it up with rolls of paper towels. Within an hour the entire porch was down to the bare concrete and I madly loved my Mr. Handycapable.

A few years and many basement floodings later, the tile on that floor was cracked and coming up. I told Mark I thought we should scrape it up and he was pretty adamant that we shouldn’t since we didn’t know what was underneath it. To me this seemed to me like his usual “I don’t want to do this so let’s just keep ignoring it,” stall tactic. I was onboard with his non-plan for awhile but after going down there every day to do the laundry and looking at all that crappy tile, I went into the garage and grabbed a scraper to see for myself how easily it came up. It came up like a dream and in no time I had a mound of broken, scraped-up tile so I did what any good mother would do. I called the kids downstairs and told them they had to help me put it into trash bags and we could make it a game to see who got the most tile in a bag and it would be so fun. They didn’t have much of a choice in playing this game and as those things usually go it wasn’t really fun.

By the time Mark came home I was so proud of myself and couldn’t wait to show him. When he saw “my work” his whole body sank. “Noooooo,” he said, “no, I didn’t want you to do that,” because there in front of both of us was an entire basement floor of black mastic glue. “We can just use the Goop again,” I said cheerfully, “it will come right up just like you did on the back porch.” Mark looked at me and said, “I can’t do the basement with that, we can’t be breathing that toxic shit in the house.” Toxic shmoxic, I thought to myself but said to him, “Don’t you worry mister, we’ll figure it out.”

Narrator: He was not the least bit worried because he had no intention of figuring out a problem he did not create.

When he made no attempt to get rid of the glue, I thought I’LL SHOW HIM and went to the hardware store and got a can of Goop. I opened the lid and smeared it on the floor and waited. I thought it might bubble up and foam like a science experiment and kept staring at it waiting for the magic to happen. I might have stared too long because I got light headed and woozy and then had to take to my bed with the vapors.

That night over dinner I told Mark that maybe if we worked on it together a little bit every day that we could solve this problem. “Teamwork”, I said optimistically, “we’ll make it a Fisher team project.” He glanced over at the kids who gave him rolling eyes that said, “That wife of yours is a big, fat liar,” and after a hot minute he said, “There’s no Mark in teamwork,” which there actually is but it didn’t seem to be the right time for a word scramble game.

Weeks went by and the midwest summer humidity settled over that black mastic glue like a boss. I’d go down the stairs with my flip flops on and as soon as I’d hit the floor they’d stick and I’d have to yank my foot up with each step. When I set the laundry basket down it would stick and I’d have to yank that up. I finally figured out that if I high-stepped it to the washer and dryer like a North Korean soldier my feet wouldn’t stick so much to the floor. Meanwhile, Mark would go down there and feed his fish and clean the litter box, whistling the whole time and he wasn’t sticking to anything, probably because his feet weren’t laden with shame. I told him this problem couldn’t go on much longer and he’d nod and ask, “So what’s your plan?” Well, I didn’t have one so I switched to my Fake WalMart Ugg boots because they didn’t stick as bad as the flip flops but every time I wore them they gave me a raging case of the feet sweats.

I was talking to a neighbor about my below ground disaster and she told me about a handyman she knew who was really good. “Call Abel,” she said, “he’ll do anything.” A few days later Abel came and surveyed the basement, sighed, and said, “It’s going to take some work, I’m not sure yet how I’ll clean this off and I have to charge you $400.” $400!!! I jumped for joy and a few days later Abel showed up at the house with his able assistant.

I went down with them to the basement and Abel said he’d get his guy to start and check on him throughout the day. I went to work and nobody was here when I got home. When I went into the basement it looked like our first attempts at the porch a few years earlier. Lots of scraping with all kinds of tools and not much to show for it.

Abel and Able showed up the next day just as I was leaving to walk the dog. When they came in I noticed Abel was carrying a gas can and I said, “You aren’t bringing gas into the house, are you?” Abel smiled and said, “Nooooo, of course not. It’s like gas but not gas.” I left with the dog and the more I thought about it the more panicky I got so I ran the last few blocks home. By the time I got back Mark was out of the shower and I said, “Mark, you have to go talk to them. They came in the house with a gas can and took it downstairs.” “A GAS CAN,” Mark said, “they can’t bring a gas can inside the house,” so he went down there with all the authority of a man in head-to-toe spandex and biking shoes that clickety-clacked all the way down the stairs like a tap dancer. I was right behind him but as soon as I hit the floor my feet stuck.

Mark started talking to Able and I was kind of in and out of the conversation because I hadn’t decided what I was going to wear to work that day which was the only highlight of my job at the time. Then I heard him talking about benzene and organic compounds and I was like sweet jeezus help us all. “Listen, Mr. Bojangles,” I said high-stepping it over there. “Nobody’s got time for one of your chemistry classes right now. Able, look at me. You can’t use gasoline inside the house or you’ll blow it up.” Able smiled and I thought why does he keep smiling about blowing up the house and that’s when it occurred to both of us that maybe Able didn’t speak English. Mark said, “Let me try. ABLE, YOU CAN’T USE GASOLINE INSIDE THE HOUSE OR YOU’LL BLOW IT UP,” which turned out to not be helpful because Able was not hard of hearing. Mark wasn’t deterred and said, “GASOLINE AND A GAS FURNACE WILL MAKE THE HOUSE GO BOOM.” Able smiled some more and Mark said, “WATCH ME, I’M GOING TO DO A DEMONSTRATION.”

That’s when Mark came up behind my head and started waving his arms up and out over and over while making exploding sounds. I should have been offended but in July and August I’ve got an explosion of big hair that rivals Mt. St. Helens so I smiled and nodded. “Look at me, Able. I’m exploding just like the house if you pour gasoline down here.”

Able nodded back and said, “Si si,” and we said, “Yes!!! See, Able, you see. That’s right. No bueno gasolino in the house. Good. Okay, we’re going to go to work now so you have a good day.” We gave him the thumbs up, I marched to the stairs, Mark clickety-clacked up and we left someone we knew for one day in the basement of our house with a full can of not gasoline.

All the way home from work I said pleasebeahousethere pleasebeahousethere and when I rounded the corner it was still standing. I let out a big sigh and ran downstairs to see that the glue was completely cleaned off the floor. Able had pulled it off.

When Mark came home later I showed him the basement. “Holy shit,” he said, “it’s all off.” As he walked around and surveyed the basescape he looked at me and said, “They totally used gasoline on this. There’s no way they could have gotten all of this cleaned off in a day without it.” Well, yes, I thought, but no harm no foul. We got what we needed done and the house didn’t blow up, but I was smart enough to not say any of this out loud because I was on the thinnest of ice with the husband.

Just kidding.

As he went up the stairs I followed behind him and said, “Don’t you think I have the best ideas? I know it takes some time and money to get to the final result but go me. I knocked it out of the park, wouldn’t you say? Just you wait, Markie, I’ve got more big plans to come,” and Markie clickety-clacked up step after step and didn’t say one word. If there was any fight left in him it had evaporated faster than gas fumes in a basement.