A while way back, our bathroom mirror/medicine-cabinet/light source became unhinged and let go of two of its mirrors, leaving storage shelves of toiletries and medication and cuticle oil (three scents!) on disagreeable display. The other day, a Wayfair ad for precisely the item I was looking for – a modern mirror/medicine-cabinet’LED light – went on sale for about $600. (Don’t even ask the original price.) After scouring the specs and comparing with some other offerings online and in person, I decided this one looked like the best of the lot, so I read through the fine print of the “professional installation service” they offered as that’s always a concern. The policy read as such:

This item requires installation. We recommend adding professional installation so you can enjoy your item quickly, conveniently, and safely.

This was a big item. 48 inches wide, 32 inches tall, and 115 pounds. One person could barely lift the unwieldy thing, much less install it. At least, that’s what sense told me. Angi put the blame squarely back on Wayfair for not setting up the original appointment correctly. This is when Wayfair got involved.

I explained that I had purchased a professional installation, and assumed that that meant the requisite number of people with the requisite knowledge of installation would be sent. Sending one person with the task of a “mirror wall hanging” seemed to indicate they had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of their own product, and no idea that it needed an electrical hook-up as well.

A long afternoon of text chatting with WayHelp Wayfair’s Social Media bot, who later became Alicia, Bill, Kallie and Jacob (I’ve got the screen-shot receipts to prove all this, and more) resulted in them unable to work with Angi to set up a two-person service, and putting it back on me to cancel the first rescheduled date, order a new one for two people and pay out of pocket, after which they ‘may’ reimburse me. I asked about the electrical aspect, to which they replied “What Angi would consider installation would be hanging the cabinet but not the electrical aspect.”

So they are planning to have one person hang this enormous item, not connect it electrically, and call it a day? That’s Angi and Wayfair’s apparent answer. I reiterated that this was an item that required electrical work – hello, it’s a light! In their own explanation of what they don’t provide it says, “For plumbing or electrical installations, there must be an existing line or the pro will be unable to complete your service.” There is an existing line right where the item is to be hung. But alas, installation is just hanging this thing, so Andy and I will have to find an electrician to do that.  (At one point one of them suggested that we have someone on hand who might help with the lifting – I’m out of town that day and my husband just had hernia surgery, so that seems dumb.)

We should have just done the work ourselves and not even bothered with the installation fee, but I’m waiting to see how tomorrow works out because I ordered this with the good faith that the product and service would be rendered as represented. The last that Jacob said was that “I think we can wait until March 2nd to see if this item can be assembled (installed) by one professional.”

Spoiler alert: it can’t. 

If I’m wrong, I’ll happily update this post accordingly. 

And if I’m right, I’ll also happily update this post accordingly. Watch this space!

And if by some miraculous miracle Wayfair and Angi decide to treat this customer with the basic services that have been purchased, then I’ll be happy to take down this post. Until then, the search engines for ‘Wayfair customer service’ or ‘Wayfair nightmare’ or ‘Wayfair awful service’ or ‘Angi fraud’ or ‘Angi terrible service’ or ‘Angi sucks’ can rev up for anyone considering a Wayfair installation service. 

UPDATE: Saturday morning, March 2, arrived, and with it the second ‘pro’ that Wayfair had hired from Angi. He was great – and he confirmed what I had told Angi and Wayfair multiple times: the item could not be hung or installed by one person. Well DUH! He also said that Wayfair and Angi had been pulling this sort of thing many times, only requesting one person for jobs which needed multiple people to complete. There’s much more to say about the chats I had to have with Wayfair and Angi, and if they fail to appropriately correct this maybe I’ll post those receipts. People love to read about such drama!

UPDATE #2: After several disappointingly rude discussions with Wayfair and Angi, on chat texts and on the phone, which took up two days of time and increasing aggravation, I requested the refund on the installation service, which I think (can’t be sure until it goes through) is happening. We will find our own installer, which only delayed our bathroom from being functional, but I simply don’t trust Wayfair or Angi to do this properly. I posted a new blog to give a quicker synopsis than this lengthy entry offered, and shortly thereafter I got a message from Wayfair saying the following:

“I have been speaking with my manager regarding your displeasure with the Angi installation service, and what was included. Wayfair, would be happy to help, with providing a discount on your order, so you could hire someone locally. I do see the Angi service was refunded ($72.35) already. We would be happy to issue a discount of 30% on that bathroom cabinet… which would have us issue a refund back to your card for $181.43. I look forward to your response.”

I thanked that final rep and said I appreciated their help. What baffles me is why they think paying me back $250+ is better than simply contacting their service company (Angi) and having them send two people instead of one based on my original request. I asked why there was such a change in tone and practice with this discount offer after days of questionable correspondence. They replied:

“On occasion, we do not always solve issues correctly, and do apologize for that! We looked at it from your perception, and too were frustrated that Angi left you hanging not once but twice. In addition, all the added time you have spent on this order, we felt a discount would be the best way to help. I do want you and all customers to return to shop with Wayfair.”

We shall see… 

This is the extra day that makes 2024 a Leap Year. If I cared, I’d google the original and reason for it, but I really don’t. If you do, look it up yourself and tell me if it was worth it. While supremely uninterested in the reasons for it, I’m fascinated by the fact of it, the same way I’m fascinated by the extra hour of time we trick ourselves into thinking we get with Daylight Saving Time (coming up on March 10). The idea of a whole extra day that appears once every four years feels like some literary machination to get characters into or out of trouble in service of an otherwise non-existent narrative. These days life is tense enough without adding more drama to it, and perhaps that’s why I’m not so keen to discover the origin of the Leap Year. 

Instead, I’m doing a different kind of leaping – with a few links leaping to sunnier and funnier days. 

Last summer began in hopeful fashion, and it required a second part to begin.

Summer in shades of gray, also requiring a second part.

Solstice of summer.

Another summer post that needed another summer post that needed another summer post… 

Summer begins where the boys are.

It’s finally happened – I’ve turned into an almost-old man. (By the way, the original title of this blog post was ‘ He’s Got Legs and He Knows How to Use Them’ – still torn about whether I made the right decision…)

The realization of old-manhood came as I was halfway down our driveway to pick up a package that had been delivered to our mailbox. I got the message late at night and slept on it, and upon remembering it first thing in the morning, I just threw on an overcoat over my long-sleeved t-shirt and underwear, then stepped into a pair of ancient, battered slip-on sandals that Andy and I have been sharing for years, and made my way out into the cold, sunny day. As I reached the end of the driveway, I looked down at myself and saw what any of the neighbors might be seeing – a middle-aged guy with crazy hair and glasses, bare legs and sandals, with an overcoat hopefully buttoned in the right holes whose occupant was too scared to fully check. (Some things are better left unknown.) When I got back inside (and the short walk back into the house was much quicker than the walk out as my brain woke fully) I realized that I actually didn’t care. Moreover, I wanted to capture the reality of it, so I took a few pics with my phone to commemorate the early-morning occasion. 

It is a most unflattering photo you will see below, but not inaccurate, and if we’re going to be real here – my main endeavor whenever possible – we are going to be super-real. That means owning and acknowledging and accepting all 48-and-a-half years I’ve lived on this earth. It means being ok with being perfectly (and often wildly) imperfect. It means being messy and crazed and unkempt, and embracing all of it at every moment. 

That makes for a sillier, and happier, life.

It also makes me feel less alone, because you are all just as fucked-up in the morning, and I don’t see any of your asses out posing for pictures. Good day.

When you haven’t been to Raindancer with your bestie in a couple of decades, you have to order a Colossal Flowering Onion. So it was that Suzie and I found ourselves on the receiving end of what is indeed a Colossal Flowering Onion, in all its fried glory and horseradish sauce splendor (and no, we did not completely finish it). We were in town for the Still Remains show, and decided to do a catch-up dinner at one of Amsterdam’s stalwart haunts. 

When I arrived (we were traveling separately) I sat in the parking lot for a minute and watched as an older couple got out of their car. The woman hurried ahead, while the man, in white hair, walked around to the passenger side to examine something before catching up with her. It was such a commonplace scene, and not at all noteworthy, except it reminded me of my parents, and all the dinners we had there over the years. Such simple scenes would not happen now that Dad was gone, and I took it in again. There was a pang of sadness, the insidious sliver of loss, but it was ok. I pulled my coat around me and rushed out into the winter’s brutal cold.

At our table, I noticed the salt and pepper shakers, thinking of how well they went together, and how strange it would be for them to be apart. But Suzie kept the talk buoyant, and I never let on what was in my mind. Not that she would have minded or that I intentionally wanted to keep it secret (clearly, as I’ve poured it all out here) – I just stuck to other people’s drama, and we ended up having a fine dinner before the show. 

A little fried food goes a long way toward comforting new wounds, as does an old friend. 

We have reached the final week of the final full month of winter, and while arch may come in like a lion (and often leave like one too) the very first wisps of spring are carried on the wind, and a little feeling of hope is in the air again. With that happy thought, on with the weekly blog recap…

It began on unsteady legs and uncertain terms.

What February 21st has looked like for the past ten years.

Circus Maximus.

Like a vagabond.

Apple Pay is as easy as I used to be.

See Tom Holland topping Shawn Mendes.

Time was…

That microwave chocolate cake in a mug.

A return to Cape Cod realigned the chakras or whatever else needed alignment.

It offered a glimpse of a swan, and a stunning sunset, as only the Cape can.

Suzie and I made a surprise appearance at my brother’s band’s show this weekend for his birthday eve – see this little write-up on Still Remains here. 

Dazzlers of the Day included David Archuleta, Pamela Anderson and my very own brother.