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Insert Part E into Part B

     Four sides, a bottom, no lid. I figured I'd get this together in a jiffy. No twenty-eight pieces, fifty-eight screws, special tools and five-page instruction manual like a few other things I've ordered from Amazon. This was a simple pool storage bin, basically a mesh bag held in place by four plastic poles—I know, it's late in the season, but at least I got around to it. I wouldn't have to ask my daughter to help me after work; I wouldn't have to text my sons to see which one of them couldn't wait to come over and give me a hand.

     The bin came in a long flat box. I was really excited about getting it put together. I'd be able to clear the pool noodles, rafts and floating basketball hoop away from the edge of the pool. That night I could hardly sleep—finally I'd be putting something together that wouldn't leave me dripping with sweat and nursing sprained muscles.

     After working up my courage this morning—even easy assemblies require much courage—I opened the box, reached inside and pulled out a large blue mesh bag, a plastic bag of three-sided connectors, a bag of four-sided connectors, another bag of three-sided connectors?!, a bag of short plastic poles, a bag of long plastic poles, a bag of medium plastic poles and another bag of short plastic poles. When I picked up the box to throw it away I heard something rattling so I turned it upside down and with a loud clunk, another bag fell to the floor. A screwdriver and an allen wrench. This can't be what I ordered!

     There were no directions anywhere so I looked for a picture on the outside of the box to assure me this really was the simple storage bin I'd ordered. Not only wasn't there a picture, there wasn't even a description—other than "This side up," which by the way, would've been most helpful later on in the assembly process. But it was no help at the moment.

     The bags of parts sat helplessly on the table. Without directions, where to begin? I sat down and thought. There HAD TO BE directions. I peered down into the dark recesses of the narrow box. Aha! What's this plastered against the side of the box? Yay! Directions!

     Five pages. My visions of simple assembly were totally shot down because yes, it was the right bin. Gritting my teeth, I got right to it and applied my questionably superior engineering skills to the project. In spite of the five pages of instructions, in forty-five minutes I put the whole thing together, except for the casters and four long poles—part E—dangling from the top, waiting to be inserted into their bottom connectors—part B.

     Part E refused to go into part B, no matter how hard I shoved. Looking into the hole, I saw why. There were little grooves in there. Caster-holding-type grooves. Where was the "This side up" sign when I needed it? The connectors were upside down. I tugged hard and pulled the connectors away from the eight already-attached bottom poles. Figured I could just twist them around to face the right direction. No such luck. 

     Oka-a-a-y. I can't believe this. I had to take the whole thing apart and start over. An hour later, dripping with sweat and nursing several sprained muscles, I rolled the bin out to the patio, now perfectly assembled—if you don't count the fourth pole which is looking a bit sway-backed. Kind'a like me by this time.

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