Where are you going?
The lake house. Grandma’s for Thanksgiving. The winter cabin, the family home you grew up in. Anytime you move between places, something has to be in the car — or done once you’re there — and Bring Buy Get files it under the place it belongs to, then reminds you the moment you arrive.
Pick a destination and you get the slip: what to do there, what rides in the car, what to buy, what comes home. Costco is just another place you return to.
In the car before you leave.
Bring is the verb this app was built around: the thing that has to make the car. The casserole dish going back to your mother. The returns that have ridden in the trunk for a week. The drill the lake house has been waiting on since June. They lead the freight on every slip, and the Going list puts the places with something to load the car first — because a bring errand is worthless once you’ve arrived without it.
File it the moment you think of it, from the couch, months early. It waits on the right slip until the day you actually drive.
Every place you return to keeps its own slip.
A vacation home means a second list of everything. Grandma’s collects the pie carrier and the photos you promised to print. The family home you grew up in has been waiting a year for the hand-me-downs box in your hall. Homes, cabins, in-laws, work, stores — if you return to it, it’s a place, and its errands wait on its slip.
And work counts double, because you go every day. The borrowed book and the birthday card for a desk mate ride in on the morning slip; a set-time nudge — leaving work at 4:30 — catches the gym bag and the leftovers in the office fridge before you’re on the freeway without them.
Four verbs. Every to‑do is one of them.
Not a list of nouns — a verb, aimed at a place. Three of them move something: bring it there, buy it there, get it home. The fourth moves nothing at all — do it there. And the split shapes every screen: bring is departure-side, buy and get are arrival-side, and do is the reason you walked in.
One tab asks the question; the place you are standing in is not on the list, because you are not going there.
In the car before you leave. The returns, the pie carrier, the broken hinge to match.
Purchase it while you’re there. Paper towels, coffee beans, the thing you always forget.
Pick it up, take it home. The photo order at the counter, the good knife that lives at home.
It just has to happen there. Trash night, water the plants, drain the pipes before the freeze.
Water the plants. Drain the pipes. Take out the trash.
Some to-dos move nothing at all — they just have to happen at a place. Do is for those: filed under Home or the lake house, waiting until you’re standing there, named out loud when you arrive. A to-do list that runs on where, not just when.
When one is time-shaped too, give it a schedule: a due date, a time of day, or days of the week — trash night is Tuesday and Friday, and it comes back every week without being re-added. Every-visit to-dos re-arm themselves when you leave: water the plants, every single trip.
Overdue prints in red, done is one tap, and the Do board keeps every open to-do in the household on one screen, grouped by place. Anything without a photo draws its own icon, matched from the name, so a full board still reads at a glance.
Walk in. The app already knows.
Cross the parking lot and the notification names what you’re there for — “Buy: paper towels, coffee beans — Brought? the returns.” The whole app recolors to the place while you stand in it, and a crooked rubber stamp lands on the screen.
The “Brought?” tag reckons with the departure side: tick what made the car. The rest waits for next time, no shame attached.
Drive off with an open get errand and the app taps you on the shoulder before you’re out of the lot. Standing every-visit errands — the reusable bags, the reading glasses — check off for this trip and put themselves back on the list when you leave.
The arrival stamp
It knows the store before you do.
The app opens on where you are — and when that is somewhere it has never seen, it says so instead of guessing. Then it asks Apple Maps what you are standing in and offers the answer: you might be at Target. One tap adds the store, and the same tap finds the other branches you rotate between.
Already have a Costco but never pinned this one? Same tap, one more pin, same list — the warehouse you are standing in is right at the top, marked you're here.
Anything the catalog has never heard of — a friend's house, the good hardware store two towns over — starts a place with the pin already dropped where you stand.
Bought at Costco. Bound for Big Bear.
Half of what you buy in town is for somewhere else — the water filters, the door hinge, the good coffee that never makes it up the mountain. So aim the buy at Costco for Big Bear: check it off in the warehouse and it lands on the cabin’s slip, above the tear line, waiting for the next drive up.
One intention, two places, nothing re-typed. The cabin’s list quietly collects all season.
Water filters ×2
Big Bear
One Costco. Five geofences.
A place is an idea, not an address. Your “Costco” can carry every warehouse you rotate between — one slip, one list, many pins — and walking into any of them counts as arriving.
Pick a chain from the catalog and the app finds the branches near you on Apple Maps. Tick the ones that are yours; they all become pins on the same place.
Twenty chains plus Amazon, each dressed in its own hue with a monogram. No retailer logos — just ink and color, the same way the app treats everything else.
Found it somewhere? It files itself.
Share a product from any store’s app or site and it lands on the right list — a samsclub.com link knows it belongs to Sam’s Club, even if you never added the store. The app reads the page, names the errand, and keeps the photo.
Or copy any product link and press Paste on the Buy board. Same result: filed, named, pictured.
The Buy board is the whole shopping trip in one view — every open buy in the household, grouped by the store you’ll buy it at. Found it cheaper at Sam’s? Swipe it onto the other slip.
One board for the whole household.
Bring Buy Get syncs through iCloud — nothing to sign up for, no account but the one your phone already has. Share once with your household and every place, pin, and errand lives on both phones.
Each phone gets its own arrival ping: whoever walks into Costco first sees the list. The other one watches it shrink from the couch.
Your lists live in your iCloud.
Not on our servers — we don’t have any. There is no account to create and no backend of ours behind the app: everything you write down syncs between your devices through Apple’s CloudKit, inside the iCloud account your phone already has — encrypted in transit and at rest, and openable only by you and the people you invite.
Every place, pin and errand is stored on your iPhone and iPad first. The app works in a dead-zone parking garage.
Sync and the household share run through your own iCloud account, encrypted the whole way. Sharing goes member to member; nothing detours through us.
No analytics, no ads, no tracking. We can’t read your lists — there’s nothing of yours on our side to lose or sell.
Android would mean holding your data.
Everything on this page works because we never touch any of it. Apple’s CloudKit hands an app a private store inside your own iCloud account — encrypted in transit and at rest, shared straight from your account to the people you invite, and free for us because the storage is yours rather than ours. No sign-up, no server of ours, no database anywhere with your name in it.
Android has nothing that does that job. The nearest thing — a hidden folder in your Google Drive — cannot be shared with another person at all; Google’s own API refuses it. So the household board, which is most of what this app is for, could not exist.
Every other route on Android runs through a server belonging to whoever made the app, and that would be us: an account for you to create, a database of ours holding your places and the people you share them with, and a bill that something has to pay. That is a different product wearing the same name. We would rather ship one platform honestly than two with an asterisk — and the day Android grows the piece that is missing, we will build it.
And a board for the kitchen counter.
On iPad the household’s whole backlog is the first tab: every open errand, grouped by place, two columns, tick-off in place. Prop it on the counter and “anything for Costco?” answers itself.
On your home screen. On your wrist.
Most of the time you don’t need the app — you need one glance. A widget puts the place you’re standing in on your home screen: its band, its color, and how many things are waiting under each verb. It follows you. Pull into Costco and the widget stops saying “next run” and starts saying you are at.
On Apple Watch, the same list becomes cards you turn with the crown — the item’s photo if it has one, its icon if it doesn’t, then the name and the verb in that place’s color. Raise your wrist in the aisle instead of digging out your phone.
The watch never opens your iCloud itself: your phone hands it a small parcel over the wrist connection, and it keeps the last one. So it still works at the back of the warehouse where there’s no signal at all.
One email, the day it’s out.
Bring Buy Get isn’t on the App Store yet. Leave your address and you’ll hear the day it is — one note, the day it lands.
After that it settles into about one email a month: what changed in the app, what we are building next, and the odd word about the places it is for. No tracking, nothing shared, and a one-click unsubscribe that keeps working forever.
