Confessions of a Tool-A-Holic: A Love Letter to Shiny Things and Cardboard Boxes
I think I have a problem. And as they say, the first step is admitting it.
Hi, my name is Jerry.
(This is the part where you say, “Hello Jerry” in unison like we’re in a church basement surrounded by folding chairs and judgmental glances.)
I am a tool-a-holic.
I’m not even sure this is a medically recognized condition, but my wife assures me it’s very real. She’s been tracking the symptoms for years — mostly through our Amazon billing history. Every month, she sits me down like a financial interventionist with a spreadsheet, a highlighter, and that look. You know the one. The “Did we really need another orbital sander?” look.
And I say, “Need is such a strong word…”
The boxes arrive like clockwork. Big ones, small ones, mysterious ones that rattle. Our porch has seen more cardboard than a recycling center. The UPS guy waves at me like we’re old war buddies. I think he’s considering sending me a Christmas card.
Inside those boxes? Pure joy. Router bits, chisels, clamps, jigs, Japanese pull saws I swear I’ll learn to use someday. I once ordered a moisture meter just because it looked cool and had buttons. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be measuring. My emotional state, maybe?
There’s something magical about unboxing a new tool. It’s like Christmas morning, but instead of toys, it’s precision-machined steel and the promise of future projects I’ll probably never finish. I tell myself, “This dovetail jig will change everything.” And then it joins the others in the Wall of Aspirations, right next to the biscuit joiner and the lathe I used once to make a vaguely bowl-shaped object that my wife now uses to hold spare change and passive-aggressive notes.
Are there others out there like me? Do you feel the siren song of the tool aisle? Do you whisper sweet nothings to your cordless drill? Do you justify every purchase with, “It’s an investment in the shop,” while your spouse mutters, “It’s an investment in bankruptcy”?
Have you ever been to a Woodcraft store or Woodworker’s Source? If not, let me paint you a picture: imagine Willy Wonka’s factory, but instead of chocolate rivers and Oompa Loompas, it’s bandsaws, planers, and employees who speak fluent mortise-and-tenon. It’s not just a wood paradise — it’s a cathedral of craftsmanship. A place where grown adults whisper reverently about grain direction and cry tears of joy over a perfectly square glue-up.
They have every tool imaginable. And some that are clearly conjured by wizards. I walked in looking for sandpaper and walked out emotionally attached to a $3,000 drum sander I didn’t even know existed. I didn’t buy it — but I did name it. (Her name is Sandra, and she’s beautiful.)
There are tools in there that defy logic. Pull shaves. Edge banding machines. Spokeshaves. A Pfeil Scorp. That’s right, I said Pfeil Scorp. Sounds like a medieval weapon or a rare Pokémon. I have no idea what it does. I don’t know how to hold it. I don’t even know if it’s legal in Arizona. But it’s in my Amazon cart right now, sitting proudly between a set of brass marking gauges and a Japanese saw that looks like it could slice through time.
My wife saw the cart and asked, “What’s a scorp?”
I said, “I don’t know, but I need it.”
She said, “You need therapy.”
I said, “Does therapy come with carbide blades?”
Every aisle in those stores is a trap. You go in for a bottle of glue and come out with a doweling jig, a lathe chuck, and a new identity. I once overheard a guy say, “I came here for a coping saw and left with a coping mechanism.” Respect.
There’s something primal about it. Something that taps into the deep recesses of the woodworker brain — the part that believes happiness is just one more clamp away. You see a tool you’ve never heard of, and suddenly you’re Googling “how to use a scorp” at 2 a.m. while whispering, “I could make spoons… I could make so many spoons…”
So yes, I have a problem. But it’s a beautiful, sawdust-covered, hex-key-laden problem. And if loving tools is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear another box landing on the porch. It might be the flush trim router bit I ordered at 2 a.m. after watching a YouTube video titled “Top 10 Tools You Didn’t Know You Needed But Absolutely Do.”
Pray for me. Or better yet, send clamps.
