*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)
Hello, my name is Diane, and I’m a toolaholic.
I first realized I might have a problem the day I caught myself whining at my husband because he wouldn’t let me buy a hydraulic engine hoist (it was on sale, too, dammit).
Everybody needs an engine hoist. I have an engine stand. How am I supposed to get my engine block off the stand and back into my car without a hoist? At the time, I rationalized it as reasonable behaviour. But I knew I’d hit rock-bottom the day I sneaked home with a knife-sharpening kit… and hid it.
Maybe I was feeling guilty because I already have a wet-wheel sharpener for my wood-turning tools. I’ve used it in the past, but the stone is really too coarse for my good-quality kitchen knives. And Hubby’s diamond sharpening set doesn’t have a jig, so it’s hard to put a precise angle on the blade. And I’ve never mastered the art of using the steel to hone knives. And nothing drives me crazier than a dull knife.
So really, I needed a five-stone sharpening kit with a jig.
My husband is my enabler. Sometimes he buys me tools for my birthday and for Christmas. Sometimes he buys me tools “just because”. Tools are the perfect gift. They’re beautiful. They’re shiny. They’re powerful. They’re practical. I need tools. Everybody needs tools.
I wasn’t always a toolaholic. When I got married, I only had one set of carpentry tools, one set of kitchen tools, and one set of automotive tools. My tools were always clean and organized and ready to use. Hubby had a couple of sets of his own tools. Everything should have been fine.
I’m a put-it-away-er. He’s a drop-it-where-you-used-it kinda guy. So he misplaces tools frequently. Then he steals mine, because “they’re easy to find”.
Yeah, because I actually put them back where they belong after using them.
Then I go to do some small job and I can’t find my goddamn-sonuvabitch-where-the-hell-are-my-fucking-TOOLS?!?
He’s a resourceful fellow with a well-developed sense of self-preservation, so he solved the problem. Not by putting my tools back after using them. Oh, no. By buying me new tools when he gets in trouble.
For example, we now own at least eleven hammers. A couple of framing hammers, a couple of ball-peens, a couple of hand sledges, and several multi-purpose claw hammers. Oh, and a brass one for when you can’t risk striking a spark. And a rubber one. Plus three full-size sledgehammers of varying weights.
I still can’t find a hammer when I need one.
The same thing has happened with socket sets and screwdrivers and pliers and drill bits and oil filter wrenches. I may have actually threatened him with death the day I couldn’t find my nice little ultra-fine flexible Japanese hand saw. (It still hasn’t turned up, but he bought me another).
After a few years of marriage, I began to stash tools in out-of-the-way places, hoping they’d still be there the next time I needed them. Then I started buying extra tools “just in case”. Soon I couldn’t walk into a tool store without buying something.
So really, the tool addiction isn’t my fault. He drove me to it.
But I can quit any time I want.