My Uber Eats Order

Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you're right.

Me, last night. Courtesy of Shutterstock.com

This isn’t really an essay. It’s a hurriedly written confession:

I went Full Trashy last night.

As I watched myself in action, I sincerely hoped no child had their phone aimed at me. I could have easily wound up on YouTube next to the videos of Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. Luckily the episode was quick. 

In my defense it wasn’t my fault. But, for how I try to live, it was out of character. 

I hope. 

I have become the kind of person who is so neat, if an unexpected visitor comes by, I don’t worry how the house looks. The dishes are washed, the bathrooms are clean, the bed is made. 

And, if someone drops by (with the exception of when I’m in the rabbit hole, writing in bed) I look presentable. Secret Service is in charge of the door when I write. 

“She’s not receiving,” he sniffs haughtily. (No he doesn’t but it’s a nice thought.)

It makes me feel better to have a dab of lipstick on and be dressed. I use every trick in the book to keep myself out of despair.

Anyway. Loooooooong day yesterday. I worked editing my book for five hours, and then my trusty assistant Ella and I delved into the highly tedious work of estate inventory. I also patiently waited for the plumber who didn’t show. He’ll be here today at 11:00.

It was a full day which started before the first rooster crowed. By 5:30 pm I was starving and exhausted. I ordered through Uber Eats and jumped in the shower. 

Please note I am VERY CAREFUL about my location when ordering anything, ever since I placed a big delivery from Costco in New York and it was delivered to my address in Virginia. 

After the shower I put on my pajamas, because after dinner is bed and Netflix. I lead a very glamorous life, folks.

I use the word pajamas loosely. I do not have matching anything. Everything I wear to bed is ancient, because old clothes are the softest. These getups are scruffy, at best, and a source of amusement to Secret Service. I should mention he is in New York. I’m solo this week.

The food took forever, and they kept adding minutes to the delivery time, which I will say is unusual. I generally get good service from Uber.

I was getting cranky. Hadn’t eaten anything in 7 hours. I was so hungry I kept taking tiny actions to distract myself.

Finally, it was delivered. Yay. 

I go the porch. Nada. I look on the tables on the porch. Nothing. 

Mothereffers. 

I go back to my phone and look on the app. My address was correct. My food cheerfully read “delivered.”

This is just abject cruelty. 

Then I get a notification of my delivery with a photo of it. They’d dropped it at a neighbor’s house, under a house number which CLEARLY was not mine. But as numbers go, it was close. 

I ran out of the house. Then I remembered I was in my pajamas, with a face scrubbed clean and crazy hair. Best to get in the car. If I run through the neighborhood like this it would be no one’s fault to deem me insane, or in need of 911. Or both. 

I drove to the house I thought it might be, approximately 30 feet from the entrance of my driveway, and I was correct. I spotted my order. 

I had to be fast, because if someone accidentally dropped off dinner at my house, I’d say,

“Thank you, Universe!” and eat it. 

Then I had to run across their lawn and snatch my food from their porch. 

As I’m hustling across, head down, I hear dogs barking. Oh god. 

“Can I be arrested for stealing my own food?” I thought. 

“Is it still trespassing if my property (hamburger) is on their property?” 

“Am I hungry enough to risk an attack by viscous dogs?” 

Clearly. 

“What would I do if I saw someone I didn’t know running to my front door in their pajamas?”

The mind speeds up in an emergency. I had a lot of thoughts in very few seconds.

I snatched the bag. I ran back across their lawn and into my car, I hope without detection. 

If this isn’t sordid enough, of course I stuck my hand into the bag, because I couldn’t wait the two minutes it would take to drive home and go inside to eat a French fry. Yes, my humiliation is complete, but this should let you know how hungry I was.

The fries were cold. 

Okay, now I’m pissed. 

Without fail, I take the time to give glowing, five-star reviews to delivery people, and am a big tipper. Anything I can do to help them. I tip and review well even when things aren’t perfect. I am not forced to drive from restaurant to the houses of lazy entitled people like me for a living and appreciate these delivery people more than I can say. I spent decades as a bartender. Once you’ve worked for tips, you appreciate everyone who does.

But this? No. I’d leave the tip, but you cannot take 45 minutes to bring me cold fries at my neighbor’s house when it is obviously not the right house number. 

This is going to be a two-star review, I harrumphed. 

And it was. But don’t you know, there is no box to check under “Reasons” which states:

“Left food at wrong address.”

They only had,

“Left food in wrong place.” You can say that again.

As I am eating microwaved fries, which reduce crispiness by at least 60%, I suspect my ideas about myself are incorrect.

How did I become someone so lazy I order a hamburger from a fast-food joint, and then have someone drive their car, contributing to global warming, to my house?

How did I become someone who no longer reads novels at night, but watches Netflix?

What on earth would my parents think about ordering dinner on my phone? I know what Aunt Bev would say:

“Elizabeth, that doesn’t make a lick of sense!”

Is it possible to live like I used to live, but in this modern world as it is, chock full of temptations like delivered French fries? The answer to this is yes, because my oldest friend and neighbor Tammy does, on top of the highest-stress job in the world, teaching in an American public school.

I have no excuse for myself.

I want to be a reading, cooking, civilized person. I do not want to be a person running out of my house in pajamas, fetching their overpriced burger from the neighbor’s yard. I can’t blame Apple and Amazon for everything. I have to be more disciplined and thoughtful.

Then I turned on Netflix and watched Killing Eve, without a trace of regret.