I spent all four years of college with the same roommate. His name was Jeff, and he was a true pal. We made great roommates because our personalities matched so well... both a little goofy, both a little geeky, both a step to the left of the mainstream, neither giving a damn.
We also made great roommates because of the stuff we owned. I had a stereo, and he had a TV. As far as roommates go - in 1990, that was a perfect match.
One of our prized possessions was a hammer named "mom." I don't recall how we found mom - or if it was mom that somehow found us. I simply remember opening a drawer in the kitchen one day, and there she was. She had a silver metal top and wooden handle - just like any other hammer. And scribbled in black marker down her handle was one word: Mom.
Initially, we debated whether it said "mom" or "wow," and though wow would have been a better name for a hammer, we stuck with mom - with good reason.
Much like a real mother, mom was always there for us. She helped make our world a better place. If something was broken, mom would help us fix it. If something was really broken, mom would help us put it out of its misery.
Mom cared.
Mom stayed behind with Jeff when I moved out after graduating college. He was on the double-major five-year plan and had another year to go. Truth be told, she always liked him best anyway.
Today, while digging through my metrosexual toolbox (the one with my Ikea picture hanging kit and spare parts to things I no longer own) I found my hammer.
My hammer has no name. In fact, I don't know why I even own it. Like mom, I have no idea where this unnamed hammer came from. Do people 'buy' hammers? Somehow, I keep inheriting them.
I've never claimed to be the most masculine of guys, but my hammer is a wuss even by my standards. It's got a sticker on it that says "PLAY SAFE. WEAR GOGGLES."
Play? Goggles? WTF?
It should actually have a sticker that says "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE. STEAL ME. PLEASE!"
My hammer has nicks and scrapes that suggest it used to hit things, but there's little thwacking going on in this apartment. I mean, really... what would I hit? I'm not the abusive type. ...sigh... I should probably set the unnamed one free...
Maybe mom was right to stay with Jeff.
...back.
