http://www.tahoebonanza.com/article/20071130/COMMUNITY/111300041

Incline Village mother haunted by glue gun 'expectations'

Debbie Larson
Special to the Bonanza


 
The fateful day came when my 6-year-old, Paul, announced he wanted to be a mummy for Halloween. The possibilities played through my mind from wrapping the kid in toilet paper to slipping him into a king-sized pillowcase and drawing horizontal lines.

I was soon cornered by the obvious: this was a job for Supermom, the one who has a glue gun and is prepared to use it. An impulse buy had put one in my closet, and there it had stayed, unopened, for over five years. I had feared using the thing, as if a glue gun were a firearm. But when safety pinning sheet strips on Paul's clothes drew blood (mine), I knew it was time to arm myself properly.

I read the entire instruction sheet, understanding the English portion the best. Basically, it said the glue would be hot and not to touch it. I lay the white strips I had prepared on the table. I wrapped the first strip around a newspaper-stuffed white sweat shirt, and gently pulled the glue gun trigger. Like magic, a hot glob landed on the sheet. I tried another spot and another. This wasn't so bad. At one point trigger pulling yielded nothing. I looked closely at the gun and saw the problem. The glue cartridge had fallen out. I searched the ground, my hunt leading me under the table. At this point my husband came in and I explained the oddity. Kindly as he could, yet seemingly unaware of my humiliation at receiving Martha Stewart guidance from a man, he said, "I think you used it up." I was slow on the uptake. "Yeah," I said. "But where's the cartridge?" Demonstrating a quality I married him for, he said, "I think you consume the entire cartridge when you glue." Oh.

I slipped the next stick in place and found my rhythm. Things were progressing well, and I was pleased glue-to-skin contact didn't melt fingerprints. Through the growing web of glue strands, I noticed that I was wrapping the strips too tightly. That's when I learned the third glue gun basic: there's no going back.

The fact that Paul had been bragging about his mummy costume, coupled with my tardiness, led to a spotlight effect as I entered his first-grade classroom, bag in hand, for his Halloween party. I took him to an empty room to change. The bottoms he could wiggle into; however, he could only get his head and one arm through the top. This was not acceptable. Possessed by determination, and probably an expression Paul found disconcerting, I tested his contortionist abilities, but he couldn't dislocate his left shoulder as I was proposing. "I want out of here!" were his exact words.

Paul's easy going personality prevailed and he accepted his semi-mummy status. He marched into his classroom, head held high, and 36 eager eyes were pinned on him. Batman, Harry Potter and Ninja-kid looked especially baffled, clearly trying to recall the species of mummy with white wrapped legs and a striped navy shirt.

That afternoon, with trick-or-treating just hours away, I began the scissors massacre. I snipped wildly at the sheet strips until Paul could wear the costume. He dropped his head studying the look. Loose ends dangled. "You're a ragged mummy," I said. "It's scarier. Doesn't it look cool?" His yes was as flat as a mummy's heart monitor display.

That evening, a friend complimented me on Paul's costume. I wanted to tell her everything, the trauma, the pain, the humiliation, the disappointment. But the fact was, the mummy walking in front of us would make any mummy proud and was a victory for me. By conquering my glue gun I had broken the curse of the mummy.