Life

Official November Post

(as opposed to all those other November posts)

November is Epilepsy Awareness Month. You didn’t remember that from last year? Good thing I’m posting again.

Last weekend when we were up North, I was speaking with someone who used to keep horses, chickens, and goats. I know very little about horses, less about chickens, and less than nothing about goats that doesn’t involve curry recipes. Fainting goats came up. I had never heard of them, asked her about them. As she described how they stiffen and fall over, I thought to myself, sounds like a form of epilepsy, but didn’t say it out loud. I’m pretty sure any animal with a brain can have a seizure. But what do I know about farm animals? I’m not even sure I’ve ever been next to a goat, fainting or otherwise. She then said she believes the fainting is a form of seizure disorder.

Meet Bambi, the Pygmy Fainting Goat (Photo credit: pmarkham)

Well , now I was able to join the conversation. Turns out the woman used to have someone in her life who had epilepsy, and she made a statement to the effect of, well it isn’t like anyone can die from it.

Not true. People can and do die from seizures and epilepsy. Thousands of people. In countries with modern medicine and purple ribbons. There is SUDEP– sudden unexplained death in epilepsy, there are accidents related to seizures (drowning, falling, burning, choking, etc), there is status epilepticus (prolonged seizures that don’t end/resolve on their own), deaths due to treatment, deaths due to underlying disorders if the epilepsy isn’t idiopathic, and suicide related to comorbid conditions like depression.

This woman hadn’t known this information. She didn’t know epilepsy is actually a spectrum of neurological disorders, she didn’t know there are many types of seizures/ways seizures can present themselves. I also think she hadn’t understood that 30% of people with epilepsy are not “well controlled” on their medicines. In other words, they’re doing everything the doctors say to do, taking meds, trying to avoid triggers, and still have uncontrolled seizures.

This was a great opportunity to educate and promote epilepsy awareness. I did, and I think she and the other woman with her were listening. No ribbons (which I don’t think anyone pays attention to anymore anyway, 43,000 disorders and diseases sharing 12 ribbon colors–I made up 43,000–just in case you weren’t sure), no banners, no jazzy PSAs, not even any goats; just an opportunity taken.

*Some, even most, children and adults with epilepsy have seizures that are well controlled on their medication/treatment plan. That doesn’t mean epilepsy is “no big deal.” It can be a very big deal. And you should care, because anyone can have a seizure, anyone can develop epilepsy.

What medicine(s) works for one person doesn’t necessarily work for the next. Whether they work or not, they often have horrendous and lasting side effects. Some people are finding tremendous success right now with certain medical cannabis compounds/cannabinoid. I’m guessing it’s like the other meds/treatment options, it will work for some and won’t work for others. Of course, everyone who wants to have that shot of success will have to be belittled and inspected first, forced to fight their governments and maybe even move. Sigh.

EEG fragment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But that’s another post.

And by the way, if your dog (or your goat) has epilepsy, and you’re speaking to someone whose child has epilepsy, don’t tell them you know just what it’s like. You don’t.

Epilepsy Awareness. Epilepsy Sucks, pass it on.

Oh People, Doncha Just Hate’em?

Woods (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

You know those getting to know you/riddle questions, if you were alone on a deserted island/in the woods/lost in space what food would you want/book would you bring/who would you want with you? I hate those stupid questions.

But apparently some people love them so much, they decide to go try it. Like this guy, who went on a survival expedition in the Canadian wilderness. He planned to be gone for two months, just a man and his dog. Didn’t work out so well. When he was a month late coming home, his family alerted the authorities who found him after 8 days of searching; alive, starving, dehydrated, and alone. Attacked by a bear, his supplies and equipment were lost/ruined. His dog saved him from the bear. Sadly, he ended up killing and eating his dog to stay alive. I’m not being flippant here, it is sad, and I can only assume if there was a grove of apple trees, a field of carrots, or a stream full of fish this wouldn’t have happened.

I found out about this through a discussion in the writer’s forum. I don’t generally get involved in those discussions, but they can be fun, informative, and a good way to get to know who’s who.

I have to tell you Fringelings, if you’re a staunch PETA supporter you might want to stop reading here. I love my dogs, love my fish and sea critters, I’m a vegetarian and have been since I was a teenager. In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered if I would be able to get myself any meat/fish/flesh if I was literally starving. And yet I was shocked by the sentiment of people who not only said he shouldn’t have done it/they wouldn’t have done it, but equated it with killing and eating a human family member/loved one. Really? You’re shitting me, right? Well played, what a perfect troll session.

Except the conversation began to meander, as these things do, and there were multiple people insisting their pets really are equivalent to their children, and the death of a pet is as devastating as the death of a child. No. Just no. And then proceeded to say it was judgmental for anyone to disagree.

The Intersection of 36th and Troll (Photo credit: sea turtle)

Perhaps for a few people this might be true, but if you are a reasonably well adjusted person, no. And I don’t care if you’re young, middle aged, or Methuselah. No. And if this is being judgmental, well, okay. I’ll just confess to being a judgmental bitch right now. And more than a bit horrified that it’s so easy to find people who don’t see a difference between a beloved pet and a beloved spouse, mother, father, child, cousin, or BFF who you’ve laughed and cried with for forty years.

I’ve been very, very sad at the loss of pets. Cried. Mourned. Dogs, cat, fish, invertebrates. For the record, fish are not disposable pets, they shouldn’t die within days/weeks/months. Clownfish really have personalities similar to puppies, they come to the top of the tank once they get to know you, will eat out of your hand, and play. I’ve been riveted and excited to see coral spawning in my tank, see my clownfish do the mating dance. When the clowns then ate their eggs, I didn’t feel my world had ended. Didn’t even lose a night’s sleep. What a cold, cruel woman I am.

Yup, laid her eggs right on this soft leather coral.

(sorry for the out of focus photo, but that’s the only one I could find of her in “her” leather)

But. But, but, but. You get a dog or cat expecting it to live 10, 15, 20 years. Same for many fish and sea critters. So sad when a creature you’ve loved and cared for over many years passes. Your child? Mmm, the natural order of things is for your child to outlive you. (I do wonder if this makes a difference for people who keep parrots they expect to outlive them, but still, not a child.) And, yanno, it’s your child. If you get a new fish, and that fish dies when you get it home, or can’t adjust to the new tank and refuses to eat so it dies within days, it’s sad and aggravating and you’re glad you got the fish from somewhere that offers an “arrive alive” guarantee. Cause now you’re going to get credit, and they’ll give you/ship you a new fish. Baby? Not exactly. Not even remotely.

Regular Fringelings know I have a few friends who’ve lost children to fatal diseases. I’ve had some terrifying times with Flower Child. I have more friends whose children face horrendous diagnoses. I’ve been zombified at Husband’s bedside in the Cardiac ICU more than once. I’m not special, my family isn’t special. There are thousands of families who face these events throughout the world, every day. Many of them have pets they love and have loved. Not one will tell you the loss or imminent loss of their child/spouse/sibling/other is the same as the loss of Fido.

You love your dog/cat? That’s wonderful, me too. Swear you wouldn’t eat him no matter that you were facing certain death otherwise? OK, I tend to doubt that I would eat mine either. Can’t say for certain, seeing as I’ve never been lost and starving in the wilderness and I’m unlikely to ever be. Besides, Big Senile Dog is old and tough and scrawny. I will admit that Little Incredibly Dumb Dog’s back legs bear more than a passing resemblance to fuzzy chicken legs when she’s wet and in the bath. Plump, too.

Humans are animals too. Yes, we are. And we’re at the top of the food chain. I intend to stay there. Now I’m off to eat my pasta with meatless meatballs.

Wanna Get a Belly Fulla Beer

Ok I’m not talking about Saturday night, I’m talking about Friday Night Madness.

Generally, Husband is off on Fridays, and he orders pizza with Flower Child while I go out with Fatigue. For this month, Husband is working on Fridays. Oh NO!! I need my hour and a half of Friday Night Madness. It’s like a get out of jail free card, only it’s bitch and moan to my heart’s content, or just sit peacefully with my beer while Fatigue moans. Plus all my favorite waitresses work on Friday evening. Blargh.

The other day, on Facebook, I was in a discussion with a group of friends about soups. Try not to be jealous of my glamorous New York lifestyle. One friend mentioned onion soup made with a dark beer base, and it’s been on my mind ever since.

So, I called Fatigue and asked him if he’d like to come here instead of meeting at the bar. Flower Child was very happy. So happy she was *gasp* willing to not have pizza for dinner. On a Friday. This may not sound like much to you, Fringelings, but in our world that is huge. She adores Fatigue and hasn’t seen him in quite a while. Thumbs up. Bought beer, bought onions, Comte, baguette, all good to go.

The weather cooperated when the day started out. Windy, sideways rain, perfect soup for dinner day! I worked on Astonishing, added about a thousand words. This took three times as long as it should have because of the damned noise. They’re STILL working on that building across the street. It’s been over a year. To redo the front and the first floor, where the retail spaces are. I could have built an entire apartment building, complete with plumbing, out of Legos by now. By the time I finished writing for the day and had Flower Child back home from school, the rain was gone, the wind was gone, the sky was perfectly clear, and it was 70 degrees outside. Of course. Well forget it, I had the makings for soup, soup is what I was making.

Except I was looking at that beer and decided I’d rather drink it than put it in the soup. White wine base it is! Shoot, then I should put in a dollop of brandy for depth. (Mrs Fringe, Flower Child, and Fatigue are all vegetarians, so I use vegetable stock, not beef. Poor, poor flesh eating Husband.) I didn’t have any brandy. Or cognac. What the hell, I added a splash of Cabernet.

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A good time was had by all, Flower Child showed Fatigue all of her more recent sketches. A lovely Friday Night Madness indeed.

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

Things That Go Bump in the Day

Jack-o-lantern (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We love Halloween. Well, I’m not sure if Husband really loves it, but the rest of us here in Fringeland do, so he smiles along. Man Child has been Jack Skellington twice, all three of my kiddos knew all the lyrics to the soundtrack of the Nightmare Before Christmas before they knew their ABCs. This afternoon there’s going to be a party in my building for the kiddos. A nice idea, and so I went out early this morning to hit the grocery store. I saw a meme thingie on Facebook for mummy-hot dogs, what a great idea! Easy, not too pricey, something in addition to candy to eat. OK, I’m using tofu dogs, but still. My sweetie is really looking forward to this. I’m not sure why, but the Halloween oogie boogies, ghosts, vampires, and banshees don’t bother her at all. (no gore though, please)

You don’t get the house to house trooping through dusk here in the city, we do vertical trick or treating, for the most part. This has its advantages, no worries about your little superhero freezing in a costume.

I didn’t leave early enough. The train reeked of young adults on their way home (subway of shame?) with last night’s booze steaming from their pores. Cold outside, hot in the tunnels, lots of vodka sweat.

20101009 1818 – NYC – subway – tunnels – IMG_2309 (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

Then the store was packed. I was on line longer than it took me to finish my shopping–on both floors!

Fine. I get back to my neighborhood and decide to stop in to the temporary Halloween store before going home. Meant I was lugging groceries, but didn’t have Flower Child with me. Sounds mean, doesn’t it? I mean, here I am, going into the store to get make-up for her costume, but preferred to do so without her. Bad, bad mama. Practical mama, too. Flower Child cannot make decisions. I don’t know why or what misfiring synapses cause this, but she can’t decide. Ever. On anything. So something like standing in front of a wall of makeup to decide which tubes of face paint could take two hours–and result in both of us needing to go home and crash–screw the mummies, let those other kids eat candy corn. But I’m being a good mama today, damn it! Supporting creative costumes! Buying ghoulish makeup! Supplying tofu mummies! So I went without her.

Great! Except now I’m looking at a wall of theatrical makeup, trying to decide what looks easiest to apply, wash off, most versatile, trying to fit into the budget. Halloween costumes have come a LONG way since I was a kid. I know, it’s hard to believe, but I was once a kid. Wore my mother’s gold hoop earrings, red lipstick from my grandma, and a black nylon blouse from my mother’s closet–voila! A gypsy! I’m sorry, it was long before the idea of gypsies being politically incorrect for a Halloween costume hit Brooklyn. Anyway, here I was and somehow, I ended up one too-rapid breath from a full blown panic attack in the store. What. The. Fuck.

I’ve had panic attacks before, but not in years. Years and years. Multiple children and lifetimes ago. A tube of gray face paint had caught my eye. The exact shade of gray I’ve seen on Flower Child too many times during seizures. I don’t know what happened, I really don’t. I mean, I know, it’s scary shit watching your kiddo turn colors human beings were never meant to be, hearing a shriek like no other as the air is pushed out of their lungs, watching them stop breathing, feeling completely powerless, wondering if this will end quickly or be one of the ones that goes on and on until you’re in the ER reporting the sequence of events to the 18th doctor. But it’s Halloween! Fun scary, not mama’s flipping her lid for absolutely no reason whatsoever scary.

Flower Child was fine when I left, fine when I got home. She’s happily playing with the makeup I grabbed. I didn’t buy the gray.

Carb Coma

Breakfast for lunch!!! Mangu, queso frito, salchichon, y juevos #dominican #breakfast #lunch #foodporn -www.remolacha.net (Photo credit: Remolacha.net pics)

Husband and I went out for breakfast this morning. There’s a local Dominican restaurant with the best (and best priced) coffee in the city a few blocks away, and there’s nothing like a big plate of yuca con cebolla–cassava with sweet red onions and vinegar–for comfort food. It won’t even hit my large intestine until tomorrow, but hey.

Now I feel physically the way I’ve been feeling mentally; overly stuffed, and unable to even look at more food or another word of fiction, until I can process what I’ve already taken in.

Husband asked if I got a lot of writing done yesterday. Nope, not a word. Not the day before or the week before either. I’m in overload, not to be confused with overdrive. Not writer’s block, just a pause.

Ink (Photo credit: heidarewitsch)

Sure, there’s that little voice in my head telling me I should be writing. I’m telling that little voice to shut up. There are certain perks to being forty thousand years old and having written off and on for much of that time. I know better, know when to stop giving the voice an ear. Uncertainty about what I’ve produced? That’s forever. But I know I will write again, taking a break can be a break without the ceremonial gnashing of teeth and wailing that I’ll never write again .

Six weeks ago I was bemoaning the fact that I couldn’t retreat from the world and do nothing but write for a month. I was on a roll, and knew that inevitably real life would interfere. And so it did. Cycles. Life will settle again, I will settle again, and then I’ll find myself muttering and clicking over Astonishing again.

Today

I went here

and my head exploded at seeing the ride on mower in the quiet zone.

and my head exploded at seeing the mower in the quiet zone.

And I wore this

Turtle.

And I brought these

Green for turtles, green for mitochondrial disorders.

And then I did this

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When I arrived, there was a homeless man playing guitar next to the Imagine mosaic. There’s always someone there singing and or playing. But usually, they’re singing Imagine. Today, as I walked past, he was playing and singing Let It Be, the song Nerd Child played and sang at my mother’s funeral.

I did this in honor of an exceptionally brave little warrior. Friends across the country released balloons or planted bulbs to show support, respect, love, and mourn with a friend when we couldn’t be with her in person.

While I was in Strawberry Fields releasing balloons; a friend, along with her husband and her daughter, was laying her six year old son to rest many miles away. Too soon, too short, too heartbreaking. Mitochondrial disease is something that most people have never heard of, but those who know it, know it all too well. It’s an umbrella term, the name covering many sub-disorders, but all affect multiple systems of the body. The mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cells, bringing oxygen, converting food to fuel and energy. Some forms of mito disease are more aggressive than others, and different people are affected to varying degrees. There is no cure, not much in the way of treatment, and understanding of mito diseases is really in its infancy.

I’ve never met this friend in person, never met her son, but I know her, knew him, wept for every setback and cheered for every discharge from the hospital. I’ve already blogged about online friendships, how very real many of them are. But some have a depth I have no words for. Medical needs moms, special needs moms, the communities and friendships developed are invaluable and indescribable.

Mito sucks, epilepsy sucks, cystic fibrosis sucks, cancer sucks, neuro-transmitter disorders suck, von willebrand’s disease sucks, CDKL 5 sucks, all the assorted disorders rare and otherwise that most-people-can’t-even-name-the-color-of-the-ribbon suck. But the friendships, the support? Beautiful, pure, sometimes gut wrenching and always filled with love.

Rest in peace, sweet boy.

Let’s Make a Deal

Publicity photo of Carol Merrill, Monty Hall and Jay Stewart from the television program Let’s Make a Deal. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You don’t call me a Feminazi, and I won’t call you a misogynistic asshole, okay?

If you absolutely can’t give up the term, just know you’re aligning yourself with Rush Limbaugh. I’m not certain that he is the originator of the term, but he is the one who popularized it in the ’90’s. I know, I know, you’re really in favor of equality, might even be someone who self-identifies as liberal, it’s just “those women” who you’re referring to. I understand, it’s only the emasculating ones; who have the audacity to want equal pay, respect, control over their bodies, and access to quality, affordable childcare. The right to not be strip searched and molested on the side of a highway. The right to not be under continual assault for appearance, or choices in love, work, or dress.

Lest I be accused of a man bashing post, let me stop and be clear. I’m also speaking to women who use this term. I know, I know, there’s nothing wrong with being a woman who embraces being a woman, meets Daddy at the door with a martini and a smile, ready to make that deal…blow job and meatloaf in exchange for an allowance. Because, yanno, if you’re an at home mom, taking care of the house and children isn’t really work. And if you work outside the home, you’re still the one primarily responsible for the house and children. Because, yanno, wimmenz work. What? That isn’t what you meant?

I wonder what you did mean, then. You, a modern American woman. Perhaps you don’t enjoy the right to own property, a right secured by earlier generations of feminists. How about the right to not be property? Or the right to vote. That must be it. Maybe you should share that info with the other women in the world who are still trying to secure those rights. Or the right to call the police if you’re assaulted, regardless of what length your skirt was, or if your assailant was your husband, your father, brother, or uncle.

I have a daughter, I’d like her to be safe. I have two sons, I’d like them to be safe. Silly me, I’d like to be safe. No one should have to live within a “rape culture,” yet we still do. Tremendous strides have been made, but no, it isn’t finished. Our society is a work in progress, and will be until every individual’s humanity is recognized and respected.

Feminazi. Really? Fighting for women’s rights is on par with the slaughter of sixteen million people. How silly of me not to make the connection myself.

Sorry Fringelings. This rant was brought to you by some disturbing comments seen on Facebook today. Not on my page, so I didn’t want to rant there. Now Mrs Fringe will go back to her thoroughly subversive, militant feminist crochet work.

Tangled up in Blue (Photo credit: chickeninthewoods)

Sleep, You Fickle Tramp

Sleeping, relaxing (Photo credit: Pascal Maramis)

Husband and I have been together a long time, but I have two relationships that are considerably longer. One is with writing, the other is with Insomnia.

Oh, Insomnia. The bitch who won’t let go. Sure there’ve been a few times in my life when I’ve managed to kick her out, but sooner or later she always worms her way back into my bed. We reached an uneasy agreement six or seven years ago. She let me fall asleep as soon as I wasn’t upright, but in exchange she’d snuggle in and slap me awake by five AM. Or four. Or three. Not fun, but doable.

Lately she’s decided she’s no longer satisfied with this arrangement. I might or might not fall asleep within an hour of lying down, but then she gives me sneaky pinches just before I ease into sleep deeper than a light snooze. This cycle repeats, over and over, until at least 3AM.

Diagram of a pinch in progress (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I get up at 5:30. This isn’t working for me. Please, I know we’ve been together forever, but would you get the fuck out? I promise not to badmouth you to our children, Anxiety and Caffeine.

Today I overslept. Really overslept.

At 7:30 Husband nudged me, “Don’t you have to get up?”

WTF? Why is he waking me up on Sunday?

“Oh shit, it’s Monday!”

I flew off the bed, woke the girl up, and got ready in record time.

Husband thinks this is a good thing, extra sleep. Not a good thing for me when this is how I get it. Yes, I need sleep, but I also need my alone time in the morning. Peaceful on my terrace with my coffee, checking emails, FB, planning my day.

Now I’m crankier than I would be on two hours of sleep, migraine starting to nibble at my temporal lobe, can’t focus enough to tell myself to settle down and focus on Astonishing, and I’m pretty sure there just isn’t enough coffee to make up for this.

So you see, Insomnia, no matter how many times we try to work out an agreement that makes both of us happy, it just never works. My Grandmother warned me about you, told me to to get involved with Money, instead, but with all the arrogance of youth, I didn’t listen.

Hippo yawn hippopotamus (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Shhh, Chasing Sanity

English: Hide an seek Spotted amongst the hedgerow beside a footpath (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Well here we are. Fall, again. Nerd Child is back to school, Flower Child goes back on Monday, and Man Child is fully immersed in his year up North. Yeah, yeah, technically the season doesn’t begin until the 21st, but I needed a jacket when I walked the beasts last night, and it isn’t much warmer this morning.

Today was my last day to sleep in. Luckily, Big Senile Dog was on the case and woke me up early. Just because. Fine. Got up, made coffee, went to sit on my terrace with my WIP, and he began barking again. This time to let me know Little Incredibly Stupid Dog had peed all over the floor. Out of paper towels. FYI for the fringelings, it takes an entire box of tissues to clean up the pee of an 11 pound dog.

I’d like to say my posts have been sporadic over the past couple of months because I’ve been busy having a fabulous time and upgrading my life. Nope.

I’d like to say posts will be more regular now that it’s back to school season in Fringeland. Probably not.

The WIP I’ve been talking about, Astonishing? To work on it, I have to tap into my inner muck. The stuff I like to stomp down and pretend isn’t there. You know, so I get out of bed in the morning and do things like make coffee and clean up dog pee. Despite the slow progress, I think I’ve got the bones of a good book. Honest. Distorted for maximum impact, wrapped up in fiction, and tied with the bow of story, of course.

Amuse Bouche (Photo credit: ulterior epicure)

Honest in a different way than Mrs Fringe, where I try to serve each platter of honesty spiced with enough humor to make it palatable for the amuse-bouches that equal blog reading.

Switching gears between the two is hard as hell.

When this summer began I was feeling, dare I say it? hopeful. This was not going to be a summer of death, I was going to relax, destress, and take concrete steps to make changes in my life. Let myself feel and plan. What the fuck was I thinking? I want my layer of numb back, please.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been poked by that little thing I like to call reality. I’ve been grateful to have Astonishing. For me, it is a refuge, my pretend world where I can take the shit that is too often life and manipulate it, tweak the character’s actions, reactions, and responses until I get a result I’m ok with. Something satisfying.

Tricky, this. This tapping into enough real to create honest fiction, while trying to get back a nice fat layer of numb.

Maybe tonight while I’m out at Friday Night Madness they’ll have some numb on tap.

Guilty Pleasures

We all have them. The nice part of being old? I don’t actually feel guilty anymore. Maybe just mildly embarrassed.

English: Bates Motel Set at Universal Studio Hollywood CA. Source: Taken by User:Ipsingh (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We used to vacation on a semi regular basis, once every couple of years or so. We usually took the car, Husband driving until he couldn’t pretend his eyes were open, and then stayed overnight in inexpensive motels (upgraded once we reached our destination).

There’s something fun about a basic motel. The ice chest down at the end of the hall, pulling the car into a spot right outside your room, free continental breakfast! Lucky Charms in the morning! I would get suckered every time, “magically delicious.” Eww. But then you could change your mind and stick with Rice Krispies. When I was a kid, those were the only motels we ever stayed in, and I don’t think I understood the difference between the Super 8 and the Four Seasons. True, there was that one time my mother got fleas from the room we stayed in, but that didn’t dim the glory of the ice bucket for me. You know what? Cheap motels still fit the bill when you’re just passing through, and they’re still fun.

The other part of a road trip. Road food. And here we reach the guilty pleasure portion of today’s post. Road food should be quick if you’re behind schedule, slow if you need a break, it should be cheap, have something for everyone. For people who haven’t done a lot of vacationing, we’ve eaten a lot of road food, especially when you add in the road trips that weren’t overnight, touring boarding schools and colleges for the boys.

Brings to mind cute little hole in the wall places, right? With the tough talking but spunky waitress serving the best. pies. in. America.

No. Cause that might be what you get. Or you might find yourself starving at a table and there’s nothing for half of your family to eat. Or it might be so tiny that there’s no table for a family of five. The food could just plain suck. Or, nightmare of nightmares, you could find yourself on the road with food poisoning. The solution?

Cracker Barrel, road food extraordinaire. Rockers on every front porch, all for sitting and for sale.

The food is reliable, they serve breakfast all day (important when you’re a traveling vegetarian), sure it’s kind of cheesy, but it’s also cheap and charming and very clean.

They have big checkers tables set up on the front porch and inside the restaurant, great for waiting with kids. Even better, there’s one of these for playing with on every table.

The peg game. How many will you be left with?

The food? Country/home cookin’ style. Don’t ask more than that, I think it’s a mix of southern, midwest, new england, or other. And it isn’t just food and games. Ye Old Country Store is attached to each one, selling inexpensive toys/games, old fashioned candy, blankets, candles, t-shirts, sweaters, and countrified nicknacks.