i’m a woman and i write a blog. it’s not a blog about art or culture or oral history or historic preservation or any of the other things that i went and got a fancypants graduate degree in order to pursue. it’s about my life and it’s an awful lot about my domestic life: my apartment, my food, my make-believe outfits. this makes me more than a little bit self-conscious. sometimes i think i should quit this blog thing, just on principle.
i know i should be unapologetic. mostly i am. but i’m just saying that i get a little worried about this whole lifestyle genre. maybe it’s boorish or rude to say it, but this worry usually sets in around father’s day. we don’t have a television and so mostly we’re spared the inane commercials imploring tv-watchers to rush out and buy grills and tool boxes for Dad. in lieu of commercials, i get gift guides. just after mother’s day curtsies out, my google reader is inundated with gift guides imploring me to go out and buy clock radios and hatchets and awesomely rugged camping implements for Dad. what the what. i want that shite, too. so does my mom.
all of that is a roundabout and tormented way of saying that my absolute favorite items in my tiny apartment are my tool boxes. i have three. each of them is filled with tools and even though they take up about 3 of our 240 square feet, every inch of that space is well used. if you’re going to be an independent person in this ol’ world, get yourself a damn toolbox. it doesn’t matter that you’re not a dad or a grandpa or some monkey’s uncle, you need a tool box and it needs to be filled with tools, not just glue guns.