We had planned a little get-away with some good friends last weekend. As it turned out, it came at a much, much-needed time, though we didn’t know it when we planned it. This week has been incredibly rough and probably one of the most stressful of my life. Thursday evening we hit the road, headed for the Ozarks and some much-needed decompression.
There were three couples and two toddlers between us, so we split the cars between boys and girls, with a baby in each. I felt a little sorry that we had to subject Jake and Christy to two little boys who thought screaming at each in greeting and about every 12 seconds after that was fun, but they acted like they didn’t care.
Friday evening my friend dragged us to what he promised would be good food and a fun time. Only after we drove for more than 30 minutes to get there did they admit it was actually just fried everything. Still, we elbowed in the crowd of suspender-wearing, old ladies with tinted hair and extra, extra-large American good old boys for a taste of Lambert’s throwed rolls. Yes, the grammar bothers me. But that’s their tag line.
Catch a little piece of the action for yourself: