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In the middle of a bathroom repair, I left a bottle of Super Glue uncapped while I answered the phone. My husband went into the bathroom and disrobed for a shower—but first, he sat on the commode. An inveterate bathroom reader of anything and everything, he picked up the glue bottle and started to read the label. A few minutes later, I heard this muffled cry for
help. I immediately hung up the phone and went to investigate. My husband had somehow glued his chest to his thighs. I got him backed out of the bathroom, onto the bed and tried to pull his legs free from his chest. We couldn’t get him unstuck! I decided he must be rushed to a hospital emergency room, but he refused to go there naked. I mean, how do you get pants on a naked man glued to himself? I brought in a plastic lawn bag to wrap him in, but he refused to go like that. Panic was setting in, so I called a nurse friend, who, after 20 minutes of uncontrollable laughter, suggested I dribble fingernail polish remover onto his chest and then work the polish remover into the glued area with cotton swabs. The technique worked, but to this day, any mention of Super Glue brings a look of indescribable terror to my husband’s face.
