Essentially Ashland: By Lance Pugh — The other day I realized that I had an abundance of repair projects that needed "super glue" to seal the deal.
The other day I realized that I had an abundance of repair projects that needed "super glue" to seal the deal. As I was strolling through the aisles of a local bargain store, I noticed the sticky stuff and thought — after all, it was the "99 cent" store, where you are in luck if you have a buck — how could I possibly go wrong?
I grabbed the three-tube pack and checked out, ready to render results and adhere to them. When I got home I carefully laid out my work on the kitchen table and began to gleefully glue and mend a half-dozen items, mindful of the power of the glue and the precise nature of my work.
My first challenge was to repair the green squeaky frog that serves as a horn on my Segway. With the delicate touch of a surgeon's hand I began to apply the colorless glue, being careful not to come into direct contact with it as accounts are legion of fingers and other body parts being unintentionally attached to each other or to a wide array of assorted items.
It took me far too long to realize that the glue tube was structurally deficient and that the glue was mopping my hand with a like a sailor swabbing the deck of a ship in gale force winds.
Just then the phone rang and within seconds I had a cell phone firmly attached to my ear. While forcefully prying my hand away from the phone I, through sheer force of habit, reached for my reading glasses to help me glean any Houdini-like information from the packaging. This was not a smart maneuver as I instantly added glasses and packaging to the molecular trap, which, like a black hole, never lets go of anything.
During the ensuing moments I quickly added a fork to my collection on the right hand, while my free hand had acquired several dollops of the miracle substance. I soon had both hands molecularly bound, one to the glasses and fork and the other — do not ask me how — to a rather heavy toaster.
It was then that I heard a persistent knock at the front door and, still in my nightshirt, did the only thing I could think of ... I strode confidently to the portal and opened it with my two free fingers. That would soon change.
I am extra courteous to those who grace my porch, for I know that it must be difficult to ask for a donation from a man in full panic who, it would appear, seems to be unable to remove his grip from the door knob.
Somehow my lips were able to move and, just as I was about to ask them to drop back again next year, my cell phone literally rang my ear off — well, almost. The noise was deafening as I smiled and hoped that they would leave while I stood waiting for something to change the equation.
I am not certain how it happened, but the phone self-answered and switched to speakerphone, allowing the alms seekers still standing before me audible access to an editor from the New York Times, congratulating me on the acceptance of an op-ed piece recently submitted. The editor asked me to call her later on her private line. This was a breakthrough, as people in her position are surrounded by moats filled with piranha the size of tuna whose sole purpose is to deflect any and all attempts to communicate.
When my wife, Annette, came home, she dismissed my plight with a yawn, asking me only if I had started a load of laundry, to which I pleaded for some nail polish remover to break the strong bonds of the glue. After finally freed, I asked in a voice reminiscent of Mt. Vesuvius as it ate Pompeii how her day was going. She cocked her head to one side and stood hands on her hips and replied in a cacophony of honey-coated razor blades: "Well, I glued myself to my work, though it seems you have literally done the same."
Lance@journalist.com was last seen wearing a clean room suit and was back to some molecular bonding. Feel free to e-mail him a sticky note, now that he is prepared.