Stuck on You

By Debra MacDonald-Beauchamp

I came to the realization today that I cannot compete with my husband’s new love. It is his replacement for screws, glue, nails – and me: duct tape. My husband Bob has many rolls, all in different colours. In his view, if he matches the colour of the tape to the colour of the object, no one will notice there is five inches of duct tape holding the broken object together.

He tells me he likes duct tape because it's easier for him. He had a stroke a year ago, at the age of 51, and using a hammer or screwdriver is harder now. As he also cannot speak well, he writes stuff down. He smiles at me after handing me his note about duct tape. I think he's measuring up my mouth.

I have duct tape holding my computer and phone lines together. Not in an inconspicuous place behind the desk – no, right on the desk. A big, ugly grey blob holds together my wires so, as he puts it, they won't look “messy.” I tried once to unravel the tape but once it's on something, it's there for good. Another accessory by Bob.

Designer duct tape holds the top of the window blind together in our living room. To Bob’s credit, he used a smaller blob of the stuff so it wouldn’t stand out as much. The shelf in our fridge is also held together with duct tape and in this case, he was very generous with it. Duct tape holds our children's toys together, from dollhouses to car wheels. He even uses it as a bandage.

This spring we purchased a new metal outdoor gazebo. I helped him put it up. Even though the parts fit together just fine, he thought we should cement them with – you guessed it – duct tape.

“No!” I said firmly. “This is brand new. You are not going to maim it with that awful tape.”

Several days later, I came outside to enjoy my tea under the shade of our new gazebo. It didn't take me long to notice it. Around every joint was a shining, black hunk of duct tape.

Today I came into the kitchen and there was a roll of it on the counter, staring at me like the other woman. I looked around quickly to see if he had used it yet, and where. Please, not in my kitchen, please. Bob came sauntering into the kitchen, headed for the fridge. I stepped in front of him, dangling Miss Duct Tape. “Where on earth did you use this today?”

He smiled proudly as he walked over to the kitchen counter where I keep a container of large cooking utensils. He dug out the hamburger flipper and held it out for me to see.
On the handle was a great blob of duct tape – black, to match the rest of the spatula. The handle had a small crack in it, and the duct tape was there to cover that up.

He had used a least three dollars’ worth of this stuff on the spatula I paid a dollar for, but he was a man at work.

When Bob isn’t applying duct tape to components of our home, he spends a great deal of time looking for the television remote controls. Like most men, he believes it is his right to rule the TV channels. Our daughters are notorious for leaving the remotes anywhere but in the rooms with the TVs. My husband has tried banning them from even touching the remote, but that doesn't work. They wait until he falls asleep in front of the TV and then sneak it away to watch music videos. He thought of charging them a fifty-cent fine any time they lost or misplaced the thing, but they just borrowed money from him to pay the fines.

“Debbie,” he yells from his favourite chair. (Lucky for me, his speech therapist helped him master my name quite well. I will have to thank her one day.) I come running into the room. He is waving his finger angrily at the TV. “Where?” he asks, meaning, where is the remote? And we are off on the hunt. It got so bad that several weeks ago he bought himself remote number three as a backup. He has set it on top of the living room TV (the “main control room”) as an emergency remote for when the other two go missing.

Yesterday, I thought he was going to pack his bags and leave us, taking the TVs with him. The remote was gone again. At first he remained calm. Smiling, he retrieved his backup remote and sat down contentedly in front of the television. He hit that red power button – but nothing happened. He turned it over. There were no batteries in it.

Seems our youngest daughter needed some AAs for her portable CD player.

I think Bob just discovered another use for duct tape. Those batteries aren’t going anywhere next time.

(Writer Debra MacDonald-Beauchamp keeps her household together (without duct tape) in Caledonia, Ontario.)