One time, when I was sick a few years ago, I used an app to get groceries. It went smoothly. They were out of one item and it was easily replaced. The shopper selected produce better than I could ever manage, and I still don’t know how she found avocados that ready-to-eat.

The experience was absolutely fine, except that it felt weird to not do the shopping myself. Luckily, I am not burdened with wealth and the decision of whether or not to have someone do my shopping for me regularly.

During this pandemic, though, I gave it another shot. Same app, but with Stop & Shop, which I only sporadically visit, opting to normally patronize smaller grocery stores. Not feeling the mask-and-gloves look, but wanting comfort food, along with enough goods to last me another month, delivery seemed like the best option.

On Sunday, I placed a booze delivery on another app. They shopped a local store, so I was still able to support small business. I scheduled my delivery for Monday, though earlier would have been an option, and it arrived within the time slot of an hour that I had requested.

Groceries were a different story. I was never given a window on a day. Not even a day. Since my shelves were not bare, I was not in a panic. It was more of a not-so-quiet longing for Mallomars and orange juice. As the days went on, I did start to worry that I would run out of staples before the shopping happened. Last Friday, about a week and change after I placed my order, I got an alert that the shopping had begun.

There were 29 items in my “cart” and what normally would have been a 10 or 15 minute grocery trip became something closer to an hour. I know this because of the constant alerts telling me that my requested items were out of stock. That was expected for the toilet paper and Clorox wipes. It was surprising for things like steel-cut oats. Of the 29 items requested, only nine were able to be filled without any additional consultation.

Nobody tells you how awkward it is to have a stranger shop for your tampons, and they definitely don’t tell you what to do when the stranger is a man who probably picked this shopping thing up as a pandemic gig, and who possibly never bought menstrual products for anyone before. Nobody tells you what to do when he thinks that incontinence pads are a suitable replacement, and even though you most certainly did not approve this change, they end up in your bag anyhow.

Instead of reporting this as a problem, I took it as a sign. This shutdown could go on long enough that I need pee pads.

Not everything that was out of stock was out out. They had carrots, for instance, but in a quantity that would feed four families, rather than something more suitable for feeding one person. Fine. I could always split that with friends and neighbors. The orange juice without pulp was available, but the kind with pulp wasn’t, which frankly sounds questionable. Also, adding the with pulp kind to my list was obviously my error, but I had been excited, dreaming of the mimosas I would make after getting my hooch delivery.

Since I was not there, I could not say if the toilet paper was all gone, but the shopper replaced this with paper towels, and since those don’t go bad, I went with it. Paper towels can be bartered for other goods and I ain’t too proud to beg.

The drop off was smooth and I did not have to touch anyone– always a strong preference in my interactions. But this experience reminded me why I like to do my own shopping: the dozen plastic bags used when three paper bags would have worked better. To be honest, I would’ve been happier if the shopper used his own bags and then just dumped everything right out on my porch. It would have added exercise to my day. Any cans that rolled off the porch into my bushes would’ve become treasures in a scavenger hunt. As Helen Keller would’ve put it, “life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

And when life hands you ten thousand plastic bags, you think of how to barter those with a dog owner who may have a couple rolls of toilet paper.

Last Sunday, I thought I would take a walk around town and peek into the small grocery stores to see how crowded they were, for future reference. I forgot it was Easter. Every place I passed by was closed. Everything was closed. Everything. Something you want open when you are miles from home: public bathrooms. The only options seemed to be portapotties and Union Station. Given our current plague situation, I gave those a hard pass. Then, I remembered what was in my pantry at home, unopened: incontinence pads. Maybe next time.