HOT PINK IS THE NEW BLACK.... TOOLBOX, THAT IS!
BY T. LYNN OCEAN
I just wanted to hang a picture. I'd been asking my husband to do it for weeks, and if I continued to ask, my request would soon be considered nagging. I decided to do it myself. With a deep breath, I found the padlock key and boldly entered his storage shed.
Once my vision cleared after whacking my head on the low entry overhang, I took inventory. Or rather, standing in place, I tap-tapped a 360-degree circle, like a ballerina in blue jeans and flip flops. There was so much stuff piled everywhere that I couldn't do much else. I found golf clubs, muddy work boots, truck parts, a variety of lawn equipment, and boxes. Lots of cardboard boxes. I just needed a hammer and a nail. The most primal and basic of tools.
Frustrated, I thought back to the first townhouse I ever owned, shortly after graduating college. My dad helped me buy it and as a housewarming gift, he gave me a toolbox. I was the proud owner of a new hammer, screwdrivers, self-adjusting wrench and the all-important needle-nose pliers. He'd included an 8-piece socket set and wire cutters. There were a variety of nails and picture hanging equipment and a magnetic stud finder. Dad had carefully selected each tool—all top quality stuff with padded grips and lifetime warranties—and packaged the lot in a bright red toolbox.
But I soon discovered that men didn't want me to have tools. A chemical in testosterone
must convince their brains that a woman can't possibly know what a wrench is, much less
how to install a showerhead. It seems that every male in my life—even neighbors and boyfriends—left my house with one of my tools. They'd craftily offer their help and then make off with my wire strippers or screwdriver. Many years and several moves later, I still had the bright red toolbox, its contents a mere shell of what they used to be. When I married, my husband appropriated the barren toolbox and stashed it away with all his manly stuff.
Standing in the shed, filled with nostalgia, I thought back to all the little projects I'd successfully completed during my single days. Between several moves, I'd hung plenty of pictures, sure. But I'd also put in new light fixtures, fixed a broken hinge on an oven door, installed a cable splitter, and put in deadbolt locks. Even as my tools kept disappearing, I managed to be my own handyman, or rather, handywoman.
Jumping off memory lane with a sigh, I was ready to give up my search for hammer and nail when a beam of light caressed something red. My toolbox, perched high on a shelf! I carefully maneuvered it down. With anticipation, I opened the latch and lifted the lid…only to find a stack of spotted, folded rags. RAGS!
I experienced an epiphany, right there in the middle of my husband's turf: PINK TOOLBOXES.
Why, you ask? Because a man won't go near a pink box—something they'd imagine to contain pretty-smelling bath products or frilly, spiky shoes. I think it's every woman's inherent right to have HER OWN toolbox, fully stocked with things like a cushy-grip hammer and shiny nails. Blessed little picture-hanging nails.
Just imagine, ladies: your own tools, waiting and ready at a moment's notice for those times when the belt rack falls off the closet wall or the icemaker gizmo gets jammed just before a dinner party. If a higher-up from Craftsman, Stanley, or Kobalt is reading this…think about it. A fully-stocked hot pink toolbox just might be your next best seller.
VISIT T. LYNN OCEAN AT http://www.tlynnocean.com/ . SOUTHERN FATALITY NOW IN PAPERBACK. SOUTHERN POISON COMING SEPT. 2
BY T. LYNN OCEAN
I just wanted to hang a picture. I'd been asking my husband to do it for weeks, and if I continued to ask, my request would soon be considered nagging. I decided to do it myself. With a deep breath, I found the padlock key and boldly entered his storage shed.
Once my vision cleared after whacking my head on the low entry overhang, I took inventory. Or rather, standing in place, I tap-tapped a 360-degree circle, like a ballerina in blue jeans and flip flops. There was so much stuff piled everywhere that I couldn't do much else. I found golf clubs, muddy work boots, truck parts, a variety of lawn equipment, and boxes. Lots of cardboard boxes. I just needed a hammer and a nail. The most primal and basic of tools.
Frustrated, I thought back to the first townhouse I ever owned, shortly after graduating college. My dad helped me buy it and as a housewarming gift, he gave me a toolbox. I was the proud owner of a new hammer, screwdrivers, self-adjusting wrench and the all-important needle-nose pliers. He'd included an 8-piece socket set and wire cutters. There were a variety of nails and picture hanging equipment and a magnetic stud finder. Dad had carefully selected each tool—all top quality stuff with padded grips and lifetime warranties—and packaged the lot in a bright red toolbox.
But I soon discovered that men didn't want me to have tools. A chemical in testosterone
must convince their brains that a woman can't possibly know what a wrench is, much less
how to install a showerhead. It seems that every male in my life—even neighbors and boyfriends—left my house with one of my tools. They'd craftily offer their help and then make off with my wire strippers or screwdriver. Many years and several moves later, I still had the bright red toolbox, its contents a mere shell of what they used to be. When I married, my husband appropriated the barren toolbox and stashed it away with all his manly stuff.
Standing in the shed, filled with nostalgia, I thought back to all the little projects I'd successfully completed during my single days. Between several moves, I'd hung plenty of pictures, sure. But I'd also put in new light fixtures, fixed a broken hinge on an oven door, installed a cable splitter, and put in deadbolt locks. Even as my tools kept disappearing, I managed to be my own handyman, or rather, handywoman.
Jumping off memory lane with a sigh, I was ready to give up my search for hammer and nail when a beam of light caressed something red. My toolbox, perched high on a shelf! I carefully maneuvered it down. With anticipation, I opened the latch and lifted the lid…only to find a stack of spotted, folded rags. RAGS!
I experienced an epiphany, right there in the middle of my husband's turf: PINK TOOLBOXES.
Why, you ask? Because a man won't go near a pink box—something they'd imagine to contain pretty-smelling bath products or frilly, spiky shoes. I think it's every woman's inherent right to have HER OWN toolbox, fully stocked with things like a cushy-grip hammer and shiny nails. Blessed little picture-hanging nails.
Just imagine, ladies: your own tools, waiting and ready at a moment's notice for those times when the belt rack falls off the closet wall or the icemaker gizmo gets jammed just before a dinner party. If a higher-up from Craftsman, Stanley, or Kobalt is reading this…think about it. A fully-stocked hot pink toolbox just might be your next best seller.
VISIT T. LYNN OCEAN AT http://www.tlynnocean.com/ . SOUTHERN FATALITY NOW IN PAPERBACK. SOUTHERN POISON COMING SEPT. 2
4 comments:
oh, honey, they got 'em at the sassy little chick store down the street. (you know the place: it has seasonal door wreaths, bejeweled dip spreaders, decorative kitchen towels for those who never really cook, you name it....) Cute little hot pink hammers & screwdrivers with floral trim, delicate little pliers in the same motif....heck, they'll probably even monogram it for you!
Yeah, but we want REAL tools in the pink toolbox. You're so right, though, my husband constantly grabbed "my" hammer in the powder-blue toolbox, despite the sticker on the handle that read, in large letters, "Do It HERself"!
Then again, I'm not sure pink would have stopped him. He's an artist. =)
The Pink tool boxes exist at a quality that Craftsman could only dream of. visit www.theoriginalpinkbox.com these products are great includes tools all sizes of tool boxes great to deal with as well.
the figure in the post, remind me the typical and classic female figure in the 007 movies, you know the women that want to kill the agent, and always end in his bed.
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