The nitrogen gods have heard my cries.

 

David didn’t take the hint but Mantis got the message. David asked why ComposTumbler ads started popping up in his ad space on web sites as he surfed.

It’s because I’ve been Googling them.

So the ads started showing up. In the gardening world we call that volunteerism. He did not take the hint. At least two Mother’s Days have passed with no tumbler.

I decided to open it outside because I was afraid all the fairy dust would spill out everywhere.

 

Yes, it looks just like Calvin’s transmogrifier. But I tried it, and it doesn’t work quite like that. This is my one complaint so far.

 

The packaging was very efficient, which I can appreciate. The bitties, however, do not. They would more appreciate a refrigerator-sized box. Maybe with some pre-cut windows and a chimney. Curtains are a must.

 

I followed the suggestion to assemble what I would need before I started. Here’s everything, except pretend for a minute that those wire cutters are actually pliers because I grabbed the wrong thing. You don’t have any need for wire cutters. Unless, of course, you are Jack Bauer. But even in that case you would probably just use one of your fillings to get the same job done.

 

 

In case you’ve ever wondered what the inside of a ComposTumbler looks like. Or if you’ve ever wondered how the compulsively-organized put together a ComposTumbler. Yes, those are all the teeny pieces sorted neatly.

 

Fitting the drum assembly into the second endcap was a little tricky. I had to put my focus on.  At one point I was basically inside the tumbler.

 

David would like the record to show that he offered to help multiple times but was shoo’ed away. In the service of science, I wanted to see if I could do it all by my big girl self. While he didn’t help he did on occasion offer such supportive nuggets as “hey there’s a gap at the bottom.”

 

I was afraid of the door for some reason. Putting it on was giving me the mental sweats. But as it turns out, putting on the door was like age 2 with children. You hear all about it…the TERRIBLE HORRIBLE NO GOOD VERY BAD TWO’S. And then they get there and you think “wow, I am so good at this.”

{There are some lengthy slits in the circular barrels for the screws and those are a nice touch when it comes to assembly, because you don’t have to be spot-on perfect. Maybe ComposTumbler could pass that little tip right on along to every toy maker who ever lived.}

 

This is right around the time that my dad showed up to spend some time with the girls, and David went back to work. But as the girls weren’t yet awake, dad was also asked to sit by quietly and watch me complete tasks that would have taken him 1/16^th of the time to complete. It was probably more painful than teaching me to read.

 

So if the door was the “terrible two’s,” then fitting the gear drive assembly to the drum assembly was the really-no-good-very-bad-three’s. AKA: the threenager. Remember that girl who said “wow, I am so good at this?” Nobody falls quite so hard as the overly-confident. Just ask Goliath.

I would like to say at the onset of all this: It Was Entirely My Fault.

Maybe I was trying to hurry, maybe the dog wouldn’t quit photobombing my shots, maybe my dad was actually verbalizing his disdain for my poor usage of the adjustable wrench….maybe I was just out of steam. But I did not read thoroughly.

In my enthusiasm to complete the job I kind of wonkied up two of the bolts…two of the most important bolts. The ones that connect the gear drive to the drum. I mussed and fussed and tried All By My Big Girl Self and then I said “ok, dad, have at it.”

To which he applied approximately 90 seconds of doing that awesome thing dads do where they fix it right the first time. So, yep, white flag.  I had help.

 

I just think the gear drive contraption is the coolest thing ever. And it really, genuinely, makes it easy to turn. In fact, turning it makes you feel like a mechanical engineer, because, you know, you just put the thing together yourself.

Ok, mostly by yourself.

I asked dad if it would be different with the weight of the compost in it and he shrugged his shoulders “shouldn’t.” I will report back.

In summation comma I would like to say that I’ve put together baby stuff that was more complicated. {I’m looking at you round-about-thingy.} Here are a couple of notes I would tell someone about to put one together themselves:

-The bags of screws/nuts/bolts/etc aren’t separated for any reason—they’re all mixed up so don’t think you are missing some stuff…it’s just in a different bag. {You’re welcome for the 20 minutes I just saved you.}

-Read the entire instruction paragraph BEFORE you begin that direction. Sometimes there are handy sentences after the sentence you’re reading. This is called reading for comprehension and apparently it’s what former high school teachers should be able to do. Whatevs.

-You can complete it start to finish in a long afternoon.

-It would be handy to have someone’s help, but only really at the end, for assembling the gear drive to the drum, and also perhaps for putting on the frame legs. The rest of it was no trouble to do by myself. If you like I will lend you my dad.

 

I want to thank the nice folks at Mantis, because in case it’s unclear, they gave me the tumbler in exchange for writing about it. David would like to thank Mantis, the balmy weather, and Newcastle for quite the entertaining afternoon. And my dad would like to thank the ComposTumbler for finally making me learn how to correctly use a wrench.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to practice reading for comprehension in the Mantis How To Compost manual.