Hammer time


I don’t recall if Mr. Wonderful was the suspicious type when we met, but I can attest that he certainly is now. Every time I ask Mr. Wonderful where we keep the power drill, he looks deeply worried, if not downright concerned. I am beginning to suspect that he actually carries it with him in this truck not because he thinks he will need it, but rather, to keep it out of enemy hands. 

I would say the man has no sense of adventure, but he has lived with me long enough that this cannot possibly be true. I think he has decided that when it comes to making holes in things with wild abandon, I don’t need to escalate my attack on our unsuspecting walls and other surfaces beyond rudimentary hand tools.  


I am a homebody. I always have been. I come from a long line of people for whom a house is more than shelter — it is part of the family. It’s nothing for someone in our lineage to live in the same place for over 60 years. I’ve “only” been in our home for 26 years. 

I love to putter around my house. I absolutely love to be home all day with nowhere to be. I throw on a ponytail and my finest paint clothes — because you never know when the urge to slap some paint on something will hit you.  

If Mr. Wonderful gets a shiver up his spine, however, it’s not about paint. I continue to be a menace to society with my use of hammers. 

Last Sunday was just amazing. I puttered around the house, made lasagna for dinner, and in between these endeavors, I pounded about 1,000 nails into the wall when Mr. Wonderful wasn’t watching. All in all it was a wonderful day!  


I love to move art around the house. I move paintings, photos and mirrors around with wild abandon. I like to switch things up. If you ask Mr. Wonderful behind every wall-hung item in our home you can probably find a few dozen random nail holes. 

He is not wrong. How am I going to know what angle, height and spacing I want if I don’t try a few things? The man just has no sense of adventure. Hanging anything with him is so precise. We have to measure the wall placement at least twice, then we measure the piece of art (eyeroll). He is all about finding a stud (insert predictable jokes here). 

Of course, he does a beautiful job and the items he hangs rarely ever move again because getting them up in the first place is such a production. Granted, I think that’s the point.  

I like to pound a nail into the wall, plunk a frame on it, stand back, tip my head like a confused canine, then take it down, pound another nail, repeat. For some reason, Mr. Wonderful takes offense at this. He just doesn’t respect my process.  


I received my first personal hammer when I was 19. It came from a friend’s mother. It had a pink handle and I still have it. I use it often and always think of her when I do. It’s the perfect size for pounding unnecessary holes in things. I’m a big fan.  

Recently Mr. Wonderful, who apparently has learned nothing from years of married life, came upon another pink-hued hammer. He gave it to me. It has a hot pink handle and I absolutely adore it. Now I can destroy things in style and keep one on every floor of our home.  

Drawer stuck? I tap it with a hammer. Hinge crooked? I whack it with a hammer. New frame to add to one of my walls? Nothing a nail or six can’t fix.  

Fortunately, our relationship is built on stronger stuff than drywall and plaster. My man is what you would call a glutton for punishment, and my reign of hammer terror continues. 


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Kymberly Foster Seabolt lives in rural Appalachia with the always popular Mr. Wonderful, two small dogs, one large cat, two wandering goats, and a growing extended family.



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