I love my wife dearly. But there comes a time when we need to put aside our feelings of the heart, and focus on the passion of the pocketbook. Especially when you want a new screen porch, which is what led to this latest epiphany.
Before I delve into the logic behind divorcing, re-marrying, divorcing and re-marrying to get a screen porch, you must understand the motive behind the madness.
We (me, wifey, kiddies) reside in Wisconsin, land of summertime humidity and overall meteorological misery. During the summertime, pests become a pestilence. Mosquitoes suck. Bees sting. Earwigs, well, earwigs just disgust.
Step outside on a hot summer night, and you soon find yourself under attack from above, below and all places in between. Add to it my wife’s phobia of anything airborne that’s smaller than a plane.
The slightest buzzing triggers bizarre spasmodic episodes of arm-flailing, screaming, upon which she makes a beeline (no pun intended) inside. According to her, the solution to these attacks is not psychotherapy, but a new screen porch.
It was a good idea, except the cost of adding on a screen porch meant I would have to forsake drinking expensive Belgian beer, which was completely unrealistic. Thus, my wife and I teamed up for our boldest epiphany yet.
It wouldn’t test our marriage. It would end it.
Dumping Me for the Handyman
When you’re not much of a handyman, it’s a humbling experience visiting a builder’s house, and learning that they’ve built everything by hand. With my pink hands and my deep-seeded fear of table saws, I’m not that guy.
But what if my wife were married to “that guy”?
We decided the fastest, cheapest way to get a screen porch would be to divorce each other, have her remarry a builder, have him build a screen porch, then have her divorce him and remarry me. Simple!
My wife was particularly excited about this, and she immediately started calling through the phone book to have handymen come over to put in “bids.” Soon a parade of builders were marching through the home. But something was amiss.
These were not middle-aged men with creaky knees and bad backs. No, these were strapping twenty-somethings, with bulging biceps and tanned skin.
“Hey, I’m not so sure about this,” I said.
“Oh, it’ll be great!” she said, eyeing those bulging biceps.
The seductive temptress she is, she ensnared one of those unsuspecting dupes, and soon she and I parted ways. She and the lad were wed in my former backyard, upon an elaborate screen porch he’d built for the ceremony.
I texted her on occasion, asking when the divorce would take place, but there was always a delay. “After he does a quick kitchen remodel,” she replied. Then when that was done, “Oh, right after he does the upstairs bathroom.”
I waited patiently, sleeping in the neighbor’s hedges, watching the light in my former bedroom every night. Soon I received word that they were planning on building a new home. “Just wait till he’s done with that,” she promised.
I do wait, patiently. I am holed up in the porta-potty on the construction site of the new house. When it is done, she will drop him, and we will be reunited in our beautiful new house. Right? I mean, she promised…right?
Photo by Lisa Hicks