My Tool Bag

For most of our  marriage Tim and I have been at odds over tools.  When I was growing up, my dad had all his tools organized in the garage.  Some were in a red tool chest thingamajig, some were in Tom (a cabinet that *I* will inherit), and some were hung on the wall.  He always knew were everything was.  He always hung the pictures and really only ever had help from mom on the math to get stuff straight.

Well, Tim was never a tool guy.  He didn't use them growing up and he doesn't use them now.  Even though somebody gave him a tool set when we got married and Tim's dad said to keep them in the car (I still don't understand that one) he never used them and doesn't ever know where they are. (Regardless, my husband is awesome.  This is not a Tim bashing post... there will never be one of those.)

But I love tools.  I love sanding things and sawing things and nailing things.  I built the shelves in my big closet, in Ilse's closet, and in my bedroom closet.  I love carpentry.  I love hanging pictures, whether or not I do it correctly.  For years I'd slowly been accumulating some tools.  I had my own hammer that's not allowed in the garage and I had a few boxes of nails.  But **my tools always disappeared.**  I could never find them because someone else always used them and then lost them. Chris actually rusted a whole set of screwdriver bits because he dropped it in the sink and never told me or dried it off.

The other day I just couldn't take it anymore.  I reached the end of my rope.  The rust incident was the straw that broke my camel's back.  So I spent the $21 and bought myself a tool bag.

I filled it with all manner of tools.  I love it.  It is mine.  It makes me happy.  Yes it's pink; I'm a girl. No one else is allowed to use it.  Hopefully, never again will I search in vain for a tool.  "This is my [toolbag].  There are many like it but this one is mine."  Full Metal Jacket.