...and my name was Ricky Ricardo, I would put the fucking thing back where it belongs so my lovely, dear wife Lucy could find it.
Ricky and I have been married awhile. This isn't a new complaint. In fact, in order to live in harmony, I bought myself my own little tool kit within the first five years of our marriage and kept it under the kitchen sink. It was a small box with a hammer, screw driver, measuring tape and various sizes of screws and nails. That's all I need, really. And then one day, I went to find it and it was missing.
I asked my dear sweet Babalu if he happened to know what happened to it. "Umm, yeah... I got it out because I didn't feel like going outside and I broke the hammer."
So I went awhile without one and complained enough that Ricky bought a new one to replace the one he hijacked. It's been sitting happily under the sink ever since.
So, this morning, I decided to put out all my fall/Halloween decorations. Ricky is away on business and I can't find the fucking toolbox. I just spent the last hour in his stupid shed and found an assortment of sockets in every size, wrenches, screws, other "I-don't-give-a-shit-what-this-does-and-therefore-don't-know-it's-official-name" tools. But not one fucking hammer or one fucking nail.
That's all I need. A hammer and a nail.
How hard is that, really?