August 2, 2006 by Amy

Beach Hut, Ecks Os, and a Birfday Song for Stef

All is right in the world once again. Meaning: Stef is back where I can harass her on a daily basis (sometimes more), Saara is back where she’s communicatable again (is that even a word? I almost used communicable, but the only way I’ve ever heard that used is partnered with disease, as in communicable disease, and I certainly don’t want to imply that she is that when she’s anything but), and I’m back to doing lame-brained idiotic things.

For instance, last night I stopped at Shop ‘n Save on the way home. Sole purpose: pick up food for Zozo. As in, if I don’t buy food for my child, she will go hungry. I’ve never done that in the 11 months she’s been around, but I’m assuming that would be a bad thing and therefore don’t want to try it out. So I stop at the ol’ SnS and shop away. Mind you, I had to purchase food for me and M as well, as we had to recently throw the entire contents of our fridge away, so it wasn’t like I was popping in only for Beach Hut food (that’s what M calls it after having glanced at the Beech-Nut label, and I think it’s adorable so that’s what I call it now, too).

So I shop, and browse, and peruse, and compare, and do all those lovely little grocery things, being sure to be extra courteous to everyone I encounter because I am indeed wearing one of my nifty spa shirts and am therefore still representing the company while I pick out my frozen Chinese dinners. I pay and bag, because at SnS you must bag your own groceries (bastards), and walk out into the blast furnace and start loading the car. That’s when it hits me. I forgot the baby food. %$&*#@. It’s not like I can just run back in, either, because it’s 104 degrees and I have perishables that are already screaming in protest. So I finish loading and drive home, grumbling to myself and kicking my own proverbial ass the entire way. M said, “No problem! When we put Zozo down, one of us will just run back up there!” Cool.

I ran back out while M cleaned up dinner (he made this awesome salmon with a salsa/olive oil/spicy mustard concoction and it rocked). On the way to the baby food aisle I see an end cap I had missed on my previous visit, with Ecks O’s. Ecks O’s are a special little promotional cereal thingy (remember Warner’s Crunch Time Flakes?) with David Eckstein on the box. We have the Crunch Time Flakes, and McGwire’s Wheaties box, and Ozzie’s Wheaties box, so I decide that M simply must have Ecks O’s for his burgeoning sports-cereal collection (see previous post on the utter shit we collect), and toss a box into the cart. Proceed to the baby food aisle and load up on Beach Hut food and head for the checkout for the second time in a matter of hours.

I got all the Beach Hut bagged and had put the Ecks O’s in a bag when the cashier started harassing me to sign the damn electronic thingy I had already swiped my card through. You can see where this is going. Yes, I’m going to blame the damn cashier for leaving my Ecks O’s in the bag on the bag rack.

Halfway home I started thinking, “You know, I don’t remember putting the Ecks O’s in the trunk with the baby food…” Get home and confirm it. $%&*@# x 2. I wanted to scream in frustration. I called SnS and sure enough, they had my Ecks O’s. Since I didn’t really want to go to SnS three times in one day, I asked if I could pick them up this morning. So, I went on the way to work and picked up my Ecks O’s and returned a frozen Chinese thingy (I believe it was chicken flied lice, as Dad Z would say) because I hadn’t read the label and it had 19 grams of fat and heaven knows it’s not good enough to warrant ingesting that amount of fat.

Sigh. Ever have one of those days? And to top it all off, on my many trips to and from SnS, I’m listening to my Customer training CD like a good employee, and there’s good ol’ Ron Willingham, with his southern drawl, telling me how unique I am. Yeah, I’m unique in that I’m a total bonehead when it comes to simple grocery shopping. Seriously, a trained monkey could’ve done better than me yesterday afternoon. Hell, an untrained monkey could’ve done better than me yesterday.

So, because I’ve been a total slacker photographer lately and not shooting any of my own pics, I will post three of Stef’s from her voyage overseas. They are totally great shots, and I hope to see more, but these are the only ones she sent me.

Steffi is actually on a mountain here, with actual mountains behind her. This isn’t one of those green-screen shots. She hiked her ass to this point. I’m quite impressed, and am contemplating what it would take to Photoshop myself in beside her.This is a postcard if I ever saw one. Holy cow. What a great scene. Too bad her hiking companion was busy text-messaging while Stef took it all in…oh well, her loss.Here is Stef partaking of a beer, which, if you know Stef, is a feat in and of itself. Stef doesn’t like beer, she likes foo-foo drinks, preferably with little umbrellas. So the fact that she not only has a beer in this image, but is also smiling and the beer is half gone, is quite impressive. Sniff, sniff. My little Stefster is growing up.Today is Stef’s birfday!!!! Yay!!!! Her motto today is, “I’m divisible by 11,” which totally cracks me up. In honor of her birfday, I will sing one of her favorite songs, Easy Like Sunday Morning, with a few changes (of course):Queasy Like Sunday MorningKnow it sounds funny but I just can’t stand the booze, Girl,
I’m sleepin’ on an inflatable raft,
Seems to me girl you know I’ve done all I can,
You see I’ve drunk, chugged and I’ve hurled.

Chorus: S’why I’m queasy ….. queasy like Sunday mornin’,
It’s why I’m queasy ….. queasy like Sunday mornin’.

Why in the world would anybody lock the bathroom door, yeah,
I’ve paid my dues to make it,
Everybody wants me to be the life of the party,
I’m so happy when I try to chug it, oooh.

Chorus: …..Bridge: I wanna be high ….. so drunk,
I wanna be free to know the things I drink are right,
I wanna be free ….. just me, oh foo-foo drink.

Chorus: ….. (repeat the chorus with “cause I’m queasy”)Okay, that was bad. Just as bad as the pun “queasy like Sunday morning,” which, I must argue, is the poorest pun I’ve ever heard but which Stef thinks is the greatest thing since sliced bread, probably simply because she came up with it. Stef: I hope you have a rockin’ birfday, dear friend, and may you not sleep on an inflatable pool raft tonight or have to eat a hamburger bun for breakfast, after worship the porcelain god (drive the porcelein bus…however you want to phrase it) early on in the party.