Grocery delivery service is my idea of heaven. (That and figuring out how channel-surfing from my couch can count as exercise.)
Which is why it was fate when a woman came up to me in the meat aisle at the grocery store one day and asked, “Excuse me, are you Stacy Dymalski?”
“Yes…” I replied slowly, thinking I’d either won something or was about to be blamed for something. It was that weird dichotomy, like when you’re 10 and your mother asks “Does anyone know where the good scissors are?” but you’re afraid to answer in the affirmative, because then you might be blamed for not putting them back.