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"