Beach Bound

Six years ago my friend Barb and I began a tradition of an annual girl’s weekend to Osage Beach. We stay at her parent’s condo and spend most of our time giggling like school girls. Since that time, we’ve only missed one year --when Barb so rudely decided to bear twins in favor of drinking a margarita lakeside.  To read about the first leg of our trip, click Goodwill Hunting.

As we headed southwest on Highway 54, Barb and I couldn’t help but recall happenings from getaways past.  Like the time we ignored our better judgment and allowed our stomach’s craving for Chinese food to lead us into a questionable establishment.  The name of the place, Asia Cuisine, should have tipped us off -- as anyone who starts a restaurant using a grammatically incorrect name, probably overlooks a host of FDA recommendations in the kitchen.   Upon entering the dark quarters I took note that we were the only patrons during what should have been the lunch rush.  We were greeted by a somewhat unkempt server who seemed to be sweating profusely in the air conditioned space.  Barb, never one to insult anyone, addressed him kindly as he took our drink orders and then disappeared into the kitchen.  While the minutes ticked by, I shared my concerns that based on our surroundings and server,  our cook probably resembled the one described in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.  Barb told me to RE-LAX and everything would be fine. 

When our drinks arrived Barb immediately took a big swig of her iced tea and was rewarded with a crunch and slightly chewy sensation.  “Hmm…I must have gotten a piece of lemon,” she commented.  But, when she looked more closely at her glass she spied a partially dismembered fly floating in it.  Well, no need to hit us over the head with subtleties; Barb and I jumped up from our table and made a bee line for the door.   We’ve since made a pact to steer clear from Chinese restaurants in the land of Hee Haw.  And, to the owner of Asia – a better name for your Asian restaurant might be Fly’ed Rice.

While giggling over the debacle in Asia, I noticed a piece of paper protruding from Barb’s purse.  “What’s that?” I inquired.  Barb, a planner’s planner, prior to leaving, had had the forethought to trace each of her children’s feet onto loose-leaf, whereby assuring correct-fitting shoe selections for her small army of little people.  If trapped on a deserted island, she’s the one I’d want to have with me – always prepared for an emergency.  She’s the kind of person who carries a full first-aid kit complete with scissors, 18 different sizes of band-aids and a container of neo-to-go in her bag; while my poor kids when injured get a hug and my hot breath to blow on their cuts.  I wish Monty Hall from the game show, “Let’s Make a Deal” would come to town.  “Anyone from the audience have a binder clip?” Barb’s likely reply would be, “Did you want a small, medium or large one?  I also have them in black and silver.”  Suffice to say, she’d be pocketing Benjamin Franklins left and right!

Over the years, our annual escape has taken on a familiar, yet satisfying routine.  On the ride down we always stop at Taco Bell…or Taco Hell, as Barb calls it.  We eat there because it’s quick and since our kids hate it, we rarely get the opportunity to scarf down a 3 lb. burrito.  Mostly we go as it makes us feel young and reminiscent of our college days when a midnight “run for the border” was a regular occurrence.  However, the happy trip down memory lane is usually a short one and often ends about the time our middle-aged tummies are left to cope with the grease and urban legendary grade D meat.

Other trip traditions include getting pedicures and making a trip to Randy’s Frozen Custard…not to be confused with Andy’s Frozen Custard.  If you are familiar with the Lake of the Ozarks, then you know of the two competing custard stands.  I first discovered Andy’s in Springfield, MO while a college student and have no problem slurping down an Andy’s famous Woody P. Snowmonster.  Barb, on the other hand, wouldn’t be caught dead consuming anything from the franchised business that arrived at the Lake “A.R.” (after Randy’s).  Barb has history with Randy’s as she grew up coveting the mom and pop shop’s turtle sundaes.  I have no doubt she is their number #1 fan.  If I rifled through her purse, I bet I'd discover she's a card-carrying member of the Randy’s Custard Fan Club…in fact, she’s probably the president.

Our easy flow of conversation made the ride go by quickly and before I knew it, we had arrived at our destination.  As we unloaded the trunk, I couldn’t help but sigh upon entering our quiet, spacious, sticky-free, accommodations.  We both headed to our respective bedrooms, equipped with private bathrooms nearly the size of my bedroom at home.  After settling in, we each grabbed a couch and went to work…relaxing.  Almost as if on cue, my phone rang.  It was my husband.  “What are you doing?”, inquired Steve.  “Laying on a couch and enjoying my book,” I replied.  “What?” my husband responded somewhat appalled. “You mean you traveled 200 miles to do something you can do at home?” he challenged.

"Uh, which home…our home?  You mean the one we share with two little gremlins who think of me as a 24 hour service station?”  I retorted.  “Oh, don’t worry, the night is still young...and so am I!  Well, younger than you, anyway.   Just promise me you’ll feed the kids fruits and veggies, too.  Chicken nuggets are not a stand-alone meal,” I nagged.

That evening we grudgingly left our comfy seats in search for some dinner as we do not lift even a pinky finger for our meals while on getaway.  We settled on Italian food and stopped in a busy joint decked out in the country’s traditional red, white and green.  Barb and I agreed that after Asia, we would only patron restaurants filled to the brim with customers.  Make us wait!  We have all the time in the world – no sitters to pay or pre-dawn wake up calls from our little cherubs.

Since we had Taco Hell, earlier, we decided to split a five cheese and meat calzone so that we could save our calories for dessert; never mind that our lunch probably contained a week’s worth of calories and our divided Italian delicacy added up to more points than we cared to count.  We figured it would all come out in the wash.  Tomorrow our bodies would get a serious cardiovascular workout from all the shopping and excellent resistance training from the many packages we’d be toting.  In fact, the more we shopped, the better it would be for our overall health...at least that was the story we planned to tell our husbands.

When our meal arrived, it looked and smelled amazing --savory meats and cheeses wrapped in a pillow of leaven loveliness.  We both commented to the waitress how big it was and how we just couldn’t believe the size of it.  She smiled and left us to it.  Seriously, we couldn’t seem to get over the size of the food.  Everything was huge including the rolls and our drinks.  The calzone was literally as big as your head! 

“What’s the name of this restaurant anyway?” asked Barb.  I shrugged.  Neither of us had paid any attention. “I’ve got to be sure to tell my folks about this place.  They would love it!” cheered Barb.  We then craned our necks towards the window to read the outdoor signage bearing the name, Biggies.

Now that’s a restaurant that really stands behind its name.

Click here to read about our 2012 Girls Getaway Adventure

Goodwill Hunting

Six years ago Barb and I began a tradition of an annual girl’s weekend. We stay at her parent’s condo and spend most of our time giggling like school girls. Since that time, we’ve only missed one year -- when Barb so rudely decided to bear twins in favor of drinking a margarita lakeside. The following story is taken from our last trip.


All the signs were there, a drop in humidity, a plethora of color against a clear, blue sky and an intense desire to head south. Fall had arrived and with it signaled my annual pilgrimage to Lake of the Ozarks, the land of Hee Haw and shopping at the Osage Beach Outlets.

Barb and I had been planning this trip since the day after we returned from our previous getaway. Between us, we have six kids under the age of eight. Our days, for the most part, revolve around our kids and their schedules. The term “stay at home mom” is an oxymoron for us, as we spend most of our waking hours carting kids to violin lessons, gymnastics, Brownies, Lego club, dance and swim team. We also both manage to keep one foot in the working world by holding down part-time jobs. 

Though only three miles separate our homes, our face-to-face meetings are infrequent. Our favored method of communication is by phone. With our brood, most of our “lunch dates” are made up of two parts refereeing to one part consumption. In between breaking up disagreements over Polly Pockets and doctoring scrapes incurred on the Big Wheel, we shovel in bites of chicken salad and copious amounts of chocolate. Our husbands have never understood how we can have so much to discuss on the phone even after we’ve just spent an entire day together.

“Are you ready?” Barb yelled out her car window as she pulled up to my house, affectionately dubbed the dollhouse by my husband who likes to joke, “It’s so small you have to go outside to change your mind.” 

Were the people living in 1929 really that much smaller than you and I? What I truly want to know is what were they wearing? I can only assume not very much as the bungalow we reside in only comes equipped with a single closet. One! And I’m not talking about one of those fancy-schmancy, souped-up closets complete with floor to ceiling shelving and hooks for everything including a mini-fridge and a twin bed. I’m talking about the kind that provides a season of clothing, a dozen shoes, and enough space to stand and consume an entire family-sized bag of peanut M&M’S (a.k.a. evils) while reflecting over the joys of motherhood. 

Barb had traded her van for her husband’s trusty, albeit slightly rusty Corolla. What it lacked in size and features it made up for in more parking choices and better gas mileage. This in turn translated to more time and more money for us to share with our friends, like Ann Taylor, Tommy Hilfiger and Calvin Klein.

I met her at the driveway with bags in tow. I packed light to conserve trunk space. But I made sure to bring along the essentials like comfortable shoes, a curling iron, a People magazine, a bottle of wine and enough chocolate to send us into a very sweet coma.

While I hoisted my things into the trunk, I spied her copy of “What Not to Wear” and a bottle of rum. I sighed as I thought, I’m so lucky to have such a level-headed friend with her priorities in order.  As I closed the passenger door, Barb threw our conservative, yet sensible wheels, into reverse and turned to me to exclaim, “We’re free!” 

Our get-out-of-jail-free card allowed us to be free of “Honey, have you seen my keys?”; pureeing vegetables in hopes of sneaking nutrition into our kids’ bellies; overflowing toilets; spelling-out words not meant for little ears; and peeing in front of an audience of pint-sized people!

In the words of Timon and Pumba, “Hakuna Matata” baby! 

Interestingly, our shopping excursion did not begin in Osage. In our futile attempts to shake our penny-pinching mom mentalities, we made a brief detour to a local Goodwill. The shop was oddly nestled in a place better known for having luxury car dealerships, high-end furniture stores and drive-thru med spas. 

Our first thought? Halloween costumes! Seriously, is buying a brand new costume the kids are only going to parade around in for a few hours – in the dark -- worth the same as say ten, family-sized bags of Reese’s peanut butter cups? I think not.

We took our job seriously and tackled each rack with intense focus. I found a pair of monarch butterfly wings for my four-year-old princess, while Barb scored a doggy pumpkin costume, complete with lid, for her fifteen-year-old pooch. My little butterfly whisperer would be ecstatic. And we both agreed Peyton (the dog) would welcome the change of style, as she seemed to be growing tired of the usual crowns and boas the kids enjoyed dressing her in. Then we split up so we could cover more ground. Barb headed to the kids aisle while I wandered over to the men’s section. As I flipped through the endless racks of size 46 x 30 khakis, I thought, it may be true that nice guys finish last, but it is also true that only short, fat ones donate their pants. 

As I was contemplating this idea, I spied a horrifying sight, dozens of ginormous, pre-owned, tighty-whiteys displayed on metal clip hangers. And like a train wreck, I couldn’t seem to look away. In fact, I had an uncontrollable need to move in for a closer look. 

Suddenly, my concentration was broken by Charlie Brown’s teacher making a public service announcement to all shoppers. I could only make out the tail end of it, something about free and a time limit. However, as I followed the stampede of sale junkies, my eyes landed on several, large shelves of unopened toys. As I began loading my cart, my inner hoarder was fast at work calculating the obscene amount of money our family would save on gift giving this year. I couldn't believe my luck, which made me consider how different men’s and women’s views of getting lucky can be.

To read Part 2: Click "Beach Bound"
To read about our 2012 Girl Getaway Adventure
To learn how Barb and I met   "The Power of One"

The Power of One

About the time Noah received his diagnosis, God answered my prayers…actually I wouldn’t really call them prayers.  My convos with the Lord were more like a two year old having a fit over not getting a Hershey bar from the display case at the grocery aisle cash wrap.  Why God?!  Why?!  I’m hungry…just one!   But, before I go further, I need to give you the back story.

When I got pregnant I knew life would be different, but I wasn’t prepared for the sadness I would feel in losing my social circle of co-workers when I chose to work part-time from home versus full time in an office.  The difficulty was compounded by the fact that Steve’s car had lost the will to live and our mechanic had recommended a do-not-resuscitate order.  Noah, was just 6 weeks old, and since I had had an emergency c-section,  I wasn’t scheduled to start back for two more weeks.  Then came the call that my job was no longer secure…that is if I didn’t plan to haul my entire family on down to Sarasota, FL.  In the end I was able to work out a deal that allowed me to return to my post, but I would get to work from home and for only 20 hours a week.  The only catch was that this situation was temporary.  I had bought myself and the company, three months to find my replacement.

Our situation was aggravated further by the fact that 18 months before, my husband of good intentions, had tried to strengthen our portfolio by purchasing a rental property.  Unfortunately, we bought high, and soon after the bubble burst, and we were left with a second home that drained us and our bank account . I rationalized that since I was only going to be working 20 hours a week from home, I wouldn’t need a car because I'd be tied up with nursing and trying to fit in four hours of work each day.  Steve used my car to commute back and forth to work, and to school, and to the second job he’d taken to help us make ends meet. 

I was then left to cope with walking a line of having one foot in the working world and one in the SAHM world.  I didn’t have a solid footing in either place.  What I really needed was to create a new circle of friends and support which was no easy task without wheels.  I logged a lot of miles with my stroller and visited every park within safe walking distance from my home.  Every day I’d ask God…ok, I guess I should be honest here, I didn’t really ask – I pretty much demanded and swore and had a Super Size tantrum for him to give me one girlfriend who would listen and commiserate with me.  I was lonely dammit.

Enter…God’s perfect time line:

October 2004 – Steve and I joined a church (I had spent more than 15 years trying to convince myself I didn’t need one – I was spiritual.  That was enough, right?)  Though I was born and raised Catholic, we settled on attending services in a contemporary, Methodist one. 

December 2004 - Noah began having seizures.  A blessing in disguise, because it fast-tracked us to seeing a specialist.

January – March 2005

• We bought a second car!
• I am given the opportunity to work again with my former boss and forever friend, Ellen Rohr. 
• A space opens up in a Mom’s Day Out program allowing me to work without a toddler under foot, one day a week. 

May 2005 – Noah begins receiving therapy through First Steps and I begin my education in Sensory Integration Dysfunction and managing a very intense “sensory diet” with our son.

June 2005 – While taking a class at church, I meet a new mom.  Her name is Barb, but I’m so sleep-deprived and overwhelmed by Noah’s health issues, I don’t recall much passed her name.

August 2005 – I learn through the church bulletin that Barb’s family had experienced a death in the family.  Though I don’t know her well, I feel compelled to send a sympathy card.  A day or so after I sent the card, she called to thank me!  Who does that?  By this time, I wasn’t sure I wanted a friend as Noah’s behaviors and tantrums were growing as fast as he was and I was busy with work and working the “sensory diet plan” which involved:

·         Brushing and joint compressions -  10 times a day

·         Listening therapy  - twice a day, 20 minutes increments

·         Swinging therapy – twice a day,  15 minute increments

·         Systematic desensitization program –  twice a day, between meals

I wasn’t embarrassed by my son or his diagnosis, I told myself.  That’s because somewhere deep down (I don’t even think I consciously thought it) there was a part of me that felt if I just worked the plan, followed the therapist’s instructions, I’d get his issues licked and our lives back on track. 

What I thought would be a short, five-minute call, turned into a two hour therapy session.  I couldn’t believe my luck when Barb told me she was an occupational therapist.  What were the odds?  Our daily phone calls turned into frequent play dates and a sweet babysitting swap set-up.  It was amazing how easily the words passed between us and she cared for my kid like he was her own.  It was as if God had hand-picked her to drop in on my life when I needed her support the most…oh, yea.  Duh.