The Secret Lives of My Tools

I often say that I don’t clean the house. That isn’t entirely true. What I really mean is that I have a thing about having the right tools at my fingertips so I can get the job done easily.

When Michael was alive, he felt he should help clean while I was at work. Each day, he would choose an area to work on. I always thought that was a kind and loving gesture. The only problem was that when I wanted to clean, I couldn’t find my tools. I kept my cleaning supplies in a certain place, rags, brooms, sprays, all together, and by the time I had hunted everything down, my motivation had usually vanished. I was ready to move on to another project.

That probably sounds like a made-up excuse. But as much as I miss my husband every day, I can now find my cleaning tools. And if I can’t, I have no one to blame but myself.

Another area where tools matter greatly to me is vacuuming. I have become a perpetual vacuum-cleaner shopper, the kind who believes this next one will finally change my life. My sister owns several excellent vacuums. She has one small black tank vacuum that she once had repaired, and when it came back from the shop, it ran like a champ. If you don’t get out of its way, you’ll find yourself vacuumed up! (That’s an exaggeration… mostly.) I’ve never been able to find a vacuum with that same power and performance, no matter how hard I try.

I often say I don’t enjoy painting inside the house either, and once again, tools are the issue. When it’s time to paint, I can never find my brushes, paint trays, or edging tools. I don’t know whether I loan them out or whether so much time passes between projects that they simply get lost in the shuffle. Once I do have the right tools, I can paint… assuming I can also find the motivation.

My garden tools are even worse. They frequently sprout legs and walk away. I’ll have them one minute, and the next minute they’re gone. My weed-pulling tool is famous for this behavior. I’ve lost countless pruning shears in the garden and suspect they’ve sneaked into the weed pile. I’ve spent many hours digging through pulled weeds, but I’ve never found a single missing pair. Since pruning shears are not compostable, I assume I must simply be missing them in every search.

One place where order does reign is my little household tool kit. I pull out my gray kit often.  It holds a hammer, flat-head and Phillips screwdrivers, a wrench, regular pliers, needle-nose pliers, and box cutters. I keep it in the same cupboard in the laundry room, and I’m pleased to report that it is almost always exactly where I left it.

I’ve come to believe that the proper tools are the magic behind getting any project completed. The real trick is having a system of organization that eliminates the need to search for each tool before I can even begin. In full transparency, I have been known to throw a small tantrum when my precious tools are somehow misplaced. I’d like to think that’s not something I do, and yet, here we are.

When I blame someone else, and they deny any involvement in the mysterious disappearance, that leaves only one suspect: the dog. But since the lack of thumbs makes tool handling a challenge for our furry friends, the question inevitably turns back to me. “Judy,” I ask myself, “where did you put that hammer?”

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