Momnesia

Me: "Aw, so sad. Neil Armstrong died."

Emerson: "Oh, that is sad. He was one of our first moonwalkers."

Me: "Yep. Do you remember what he said on the moon?"

Emerson: "No...?"

Me: "He said, 'That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

Emerson: "Wull, that's not cool. Why couldn't he say womankind?"

LMAO!

So I tried to explain the definition of mankind, and she just shook her head.

"He could have said 'humankind,' and that would have included everybody."

There was no point in trying to explain poetic license. She was having none of that.

Let me tell you people about how annoyingly old and curmudgeonly I have become.

Emerson talked to my mom last night.

Mom: So, what did you do today?

Emerson: "Wull, I won four awards at school, because I am like a PRO at that, and then we went to tha store, then we went to tha ribber, and I climbed aaaaaalll ober da waterfalls and dunked in tha wadder, an' I fell down and made a AWESOME bruise on my knee, and now I'm lyin' on tha couch eating French cheese, naked."

Her life is EPIC.

Alice: "You doing anything tomorrow night?"

So, last night, I went to wake Emerson as part of the new no-bed-wetting ritual. It was 2 a.m., and she was like a furious bunny, hopping around in anger. That was fun.

Between her and the now-excited cat, I was wide awake. So I started to go downstairs... only to notice that the attic light was on.

I haven't been up in the attic in weeks. In fact, I've only been up there once since we moved in.

Holy shit. Someone was living in our attic.

I'd heard some weird stomping footsteps a couple of times this last week. I figured it was the cat - except earlier yesterday evening, when I heard them again and both Emerson and the cat were snugggled up against me. Then I figured it was our new neighbors.

Just then, I realized what happened. One day in December, we came home and found the back door open. I called the police, who examined the house and gave us the all clear. But someone HAD gotten into the house. And when we showed up, they hid in the only place they knew: the attic.

Since we never go up there, it's been a good hiding place for that person. A lot of little things have gone missing around the house the last couple of months. A dollar. A steak knife. A container of leftovers I could never locate. Now, it all made sense.

I was too scared to go up there, and didn't know how to call the police and say, "I'm afraid, because my attic light is on. Can you come check it?"

So I sat on the top step ALL NIGHT, with my new battery-operated weed whacker, keeping watch. You know. In case of crabgrass. Whatever. It's the only thing even close to a weapon that I own.

When it was light, and Emerson complained of a sore throat, I made a production of leaving very loudly.

"Let's go, Emerson. The doctor's office will take AT LEAST TWO HOURS!!!!! THEN WE'LL BE HOME AGAIN, AAAAALL DAY!"

Emerson winced at me. "Why you yelleeend, mama?"

I figured, if he hasn't killed us yet, he's just camping out up there. I'll give him a chance to leave, then change the locks so he can't get in again.

And when we got back (she had strep, BTW), I made a big production of putting the Christmas decorations into the attic VERY LOUDLY. "WE ONLY USE THEM ONCE A YEAR, SO THEY'RE JUST TAKING UP CLOSET SPACE, EMERSON."

Of course, Emerson totally didn't give a crap.

Finally, I opened the attic steps. The light glared down at me. But no homeless-man-smell followed. Of course, he could have been using my shower all this time... but when I peeked up over the flooring, no homeless man.

The light was still on. I couldn't find a switch.

"Emerson....? Do you remember where the light switch is for the attic....?" I yelled down to her. She was the one who had so gleefully explored the tall storage space last time.

"Oh, yeah, mama, iss right der." She pounded up the stairs from the kitchen... and flipped the switch on the plate in the hallway by her door. The one for which I could never figure out the purpose. Ugh. Must have flipped it by mistake.


I'm going to need someone to come by the house and deliver my good sense. I seem to have left it somewhere.

From: Stupid American 
To: British Beauty
Re: England is pissing me off

I do not understand how your counties and stuff are put together. What is an "ex," and why are there esses and wesses of them? And what's the difference between a shire and borough and a hampton and a cester? Which one has real hobbits? Why aren't your media outlets set up around population centers, and instead seem to report on areas based on historical borderlines long gone?

From: British Beauty 
To: Stupid American

Oh my gosh, it is so simple! The shires are all over the place, the country is overrun by hobbits and all anyone ever does is sit around, drink tea and fight the Germans. Doesn't matter what anything is called, since the Tories are making a pig's ear of it all anyhow.

Don't know about media outlets - historical borders still exist, so I'm not sure. Only difference is the people in chain mail and similar fighting garb tend to be there only for reenactments as opposed to actually defending the land.

From: Stupid American 
To: British Beauty

I love that phrase, "making a pig's ear!" You're the only other person I've ever known who uses it! We are meant to be bosom friends! Wait... that's Anne of Greene Gables, who is Canadian. Oh, you foreigners all look alike!

I'm working on a graphic showing how our metros dovetail with media metros there. Only I have NO IDEA. Because I don't know who is reading publications in the Lake District and the Peak Life District, since no one seems to actually live there.

From: British Beauty 
To: Stupid American

You can fit 40 UK's into the US so we don't need major "defined population centres." UK only switched entirely to digital in 2011; prior to that there were only 5 terrestrial channels. TV here is still dominated by BBC, who still dominate the radio channels, too. Of course, none of that matters now with the internet as EVERYWHERE is INSTANTLY connected on any medium.

From: Stupid American 
To: British Beauty 

That DOES help! Thank you, the size difference really puts it into perspective.

Um, also, y'all need to get some more land space. Why did you stop invading and colonizing other places? How come America has to do this for you, now?

From: British Beauty 
To: Stupid American

I think we ran out of money - and need - and tea - shortage of tea was always a problem but then India/China/Africa said they'd just sail it over, rather than us having to go to the trouble of taking it ourselves. 

From: Stupid American 
To: British Beauty

Well, that was nice of them. Let us know if they give you any trouble. We'll go free them from tyranny.

A.A.: Do you think anyone will notice if I took this can opener home for half an hour?

I think, by now, my love of the zombie genre of everything is well known. So I thoroughly enjoyed the second season of The Walking Dead - although I'd have tied Carl to his bed if I was Lori. Stop wandering off, kid!

When Emerson and I moved in with my parents in April, I knew they had a bat in the attic. No big deal, I thought. I'll get rid of it.

Andrew: "So, you need the html?"

My BDCC level (Blood Diet Coke Content) was dangerously low, so I walked down Peachtree Road to get a sammich for lunch.

I started singing Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" as I was walking - because, in a city, they only deem you crazy if you're naked and eating someone's face. Just as I reached "...like a tiger defying the laws of gravity," a cyclist in a red helmet zoomed by me on the sidewalk singing "I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva; I'm gonna go, go, go, there's no stopping meeeeeeee..."

And he cycled off down the road.

It was awesome.

I sent my friend, a family law attorney, a Fandango gift certificate. She is awesome, and she and her husband deserve some kind of date night.

• "I will Survive," Gloria Gaynor
• "Hit the Road, Jack," Ray Charles
• "Stronger," Kelly Clarkston
• "Kiss Off," Violent Femmes
• "Respect," Aretha Franklin or Otis Redding
• "Since You've Been Gone," Kelly Clarkston
• "F*** You," Cee Lo Green
• "Hate on Me," Jill Scott
• "Heartless," by The Fray
• "My Favorite Mistake," Sheryl Crow
• "These Boots are Made for Walkin'," Nancy Sinatra
• "That's Life," Frank Sinatra
• "Song for the Dumped," Ben Folds Five
• "Outta Me, Into You," Ani DiFranco
• "Go Your Own Way," Fleetwood Mac
• "Don't Stop Me Now," Queen
• "Cry Me a River," Justin Timberlake
• "Cry Me a River," Diana Krall
• "Would I Lie to You," Eurythmics
• "Goodbye Earl," Dixie Chicks
• "Bye Bye," Jo Dee Messina
• "Tyrone," Erykah Badu

"Mom?" Emerson asked one evening, just as I was drifting off to sleep. I jerked awake.

"Yes?"

"Why ders bad guys in da world?"

I really have no idea. Why ARE there bad guys in the world? We can talk about psychopathology and antisocial disorders and just plain jerks, but I honestly do not see any benefits to being "a bad guy." I think about it for a second, but as my brain is in the process of shutting down, I've got bupkis.

"I don't know, honey. That's a question for the philosophers."

"The philosophers? ... Where are dey? Can we call dem?"

Well, no. We can't just call the philosophers. First, the philosophers I know of are dead. Second, most of the reading I have done about philosophy over the years has been co-opted by a single Monty Python song. Really, universities, if you could put all of your lessons to goofy lyrics, your students would remember them a lot better.



Anyway, I told her I would look into it. She's primarily interested in ethics, but she has also expressed interest in ontology - "What does it mean dat we're alibe on dis earf?" Side note: I originally typed that as "oncology." Totally different realm of study. Anyhoodle...

Y'ALL. Never tell Emerson you will do anything. She remembers it. She chronicles it. She demands daily updates. So I started googling things like "Greatest living philosophers" and "philosophy for children."

The first search term got me living theologians, which - while not unrelated - were not what I meant.

The second search term turned up a whole movement about which I had been previously unaware. Philosophy for Children ("P4C") seeks to teach children reason, logic and argumentation. This is something Emerson has already mastered because she regularly kicks my behind in casual conversation. I'm interested in learning more about this, but it still isn't what I was seeking. Again, bupkis.

I begin to consider calling an old philosophy professor - the one who called me stupid every day as some wacked-out experiment in motivation - then realize it would be tantamount to child abuse. My other philosophy professor died years ago. The closest I can get is a priest or minister, who may have the best of intentions, but who would also have a dog in this fight. Hee! I just remembered that "dog" is "god" backwards. Perhaps Freudian that I chose that particular phrase, but I'm going to let it stand. And, anyway, we're back to bupkis.

But... wait! I do not have bupkis. I have an eclectic mix of personal and professional contacts!

I was sharing the above story with my coworker, as moms do, when she lit up: "I have a son-in-law who is a professor of philosophy at Boston College."'

Shut. The. Front. Door.

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

"Nope."

We fired off an email to him right then and there.

Now, I'm not fooling myself. I sent an email to a Ph.D. professor at a major American research institution specifically requesting 10-15 minutes of time to speak with a FIRST GRADER about some questions she happened to ask me. This is probably not what he had in mind when he spent tens of thousands on private post-secondary study. So I can't say that I'm clicking through to Gmail every 15 minutes to see if he's responded.

Except I totally am.

Emerson is a happy child, who laughs a lot. But that doesn't mean that she hasn't been impacted by the changes in our lives. She sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and peppers me with questions. Sometimes it's related to court proceedings or generalized fears. But the other night, it was a question of a different sort.

"Tell me a story, mama," Emerson said.

Recently, Gawker gave us this awesome piece about small-town food journalism. The companion pieces are hysterical! It reminded me of growing up in a small town outside of Atlanta, Ga., and I thought I'd share my rambling memories.

I remember when the second McDonald's opened in Conyers, Ga. Up until that moment, kids' birthdays were backyard affairs - but a lucky few got to choose between a Burger King birthday party (with gold paper crowns) or a McDonald's birthday party (with a vastly superior playground).

Then they opened the second McDonald's, right down the street from Burger King on Hwy 138. This road was the main drag, the strip all the late-70s/early-80s teenagers cruised in their Firebirds and Mustangs and hand-me-down Lincolns. And even though most people in town had to drive right past the Burger King to get to the new McDonald's, every kid I know had their birthday party at that Mickey D's that year.

To the residents of Conyers, rating a second McDonald's was A Sign. It signified growth, change... perhaps even status. The town colloquially divided the two locations into "The Old McDonald's" and "The New McDonald's," and West Avenue's business appeal faded like the sun-bleached railroad ties that constructed the playground of The Old McDonald's.

Soon after, the Wendy's in the A&P Shopping Center moved to the same stretch of highway as its two competitors. Gone were the faux Tiffany lamps and newspaper-printed Formica tables. Blond wood and burgundy vinyl surrounded the all-you-can-eat salad bar. It was a dominating expanse of exotic vegetables like shredded carrots, pickled beets and chopped broccoli, over which spilled a splatter-pattern of salad dressing, reminiscent of the Spin Art toys that were so popular at the time. SAHMs of Rockdale County hated that toy. But they loved that salad bar.

Slowly, other restaurant signs winked on in the darkness: the "fancy" locally owned Italian place, with its overcooked rolls and pasta slick with cheap olive oil; the Greek pizza place, with the temperamental owner who hated teenagers and kicked us out more times than I can count; the Arby's that opened right beside the four-screen movie-theater-cum-arcade. I think I ate curly fries every day of 8th grade.

But for a "real" dining out experience, Rockdalians still had to travel to the culinary cluster surrounding the two closest malls, South Lake Mall in Jonesboro and North Lake Mall in Tucker. Y'all. We put the full weight of our proud Southern literary tradition to bear on those mall names.

At either mall-adjacent development, we could enjoy any culinary offering that mid-market suburbanites could imagine - from the exotic fried-with-sauce offerings of Main Chow Mein in the mall food court to the full 38-page menu and hanging-fern treatment at Bennigan's.

But it wasn't until I was in high school that it happened. You heard the whispers. You couldn't believe it. But then site prep started and suddenly it was real. It was The Great Coming of The Applebee's. A real Applebee's in our town! Y'all. It was a bar and a grill. The importance of this combination could not be understated. It was like the virgin run of the Reese's cup. Who put their peanut butter in my chocolate?! Doesn't matter. We're getting The Applebee's. Lo, how its light shine in the darkness. And it was good.

I'll admit that The Applebee's Bar and Grill had its naysayers. "It'll never last," they said. But it did. In fact, it thrived. And there were The Mozzarella Sticks. And though The Mozzarella Sticks were but few, a miracle occurred, and The Mozzarella Sticks did multiply and feed the masses. And the people rejoiced.

Tragically, I never ate there. I was very busy being a Sort-of Socially Conscious Person who hung out in Little Five Points, signed a lot of petitions I never read, and refused to eat meat. Dropping in on philosophy classes at New Acropolis didn't leave much time to spend money with the Proletariat. As a result, I missed a Rockdale High School Rite of Passage: That Applebee's Date Where You Tricked the Waitress Into Selling You Alcohol.

And the one time I intended to eat there - at the cast party after our high school Spring Musical - I totaled my parents' Oldsmobile on Salem Road with four other people in the car. Yea, though I walked through the scene changes of the musical with the wholesome religious message hidden amidst debauchery and gambling, I will fear no dark blue or maybe black pick-up truck that turns left in front of me when I have the light. A-hole.

I went off to college and the Conyers haute cuisine scene kept growing. Other restaurants joined The Applebee's. There was the short-lived Boston Market and some other small chains, and then the one-off local eateries that people referred to colloquially by location: That Thai Place in the Kroger Shopping Center; The Sushi Place Over By the Publix, and The Sushi Place Over On the Access Road. Finally, there was The Great Hooters Controversy. And rebels did protest the addition of The Restaurant of Sodom. But the zoning commission found no legal reason to refuse it. And the complimentary hot wings did grace the zoning commission's meetings for eons.

About 10 years ago, they opened Stonecrest Mall two exits away from the main highway. There is yet a third McDonald's across from the mall - in addition to various Darden and Brinker corporate restaurant offerings that are packed out every night. In about 20 years, Conyers/Rockdale County will probably serve as another cautionary tale of unregulated growth, a la Jonesboro/Clayton County. Though, technically, the mall is in Lithonia, but no one seems to realize that.

"The Old McDonald's" was torn down decades ago, and a Longhorne Steakhouse was built in its place. That Longhorne Steakhouse was then replaced by another Longhorne Steakhouse. In the future, aliens will visit the site and some extraterrestrial archaeology grad student will excavate the layers of construction and then write a thesis about how we built monuments to honor cows (Here's a secret: Egyptians just thought cats were just really tasty).

In time, the small town I grew up in was replaced by a traffic-choked suburban strip mall collective that is almost indistinguishable from any other of the small municipalities that surround Atlanta and transition commuters from urban center (Fulton County) to suburbia (Rockdale County) to Piedmont forestland (Newton County).

But there is a movement to preserve the "historic" Old Town Conyers, the four-block radius of two-story storefronts that adjoin the old railroad depot. There's a Thai Palace in an old historic house on Railroad Street. There's a homemade ice cream store called Creamberry's just a couple of blocks over. The old Evan's Pharmacy still offers lunch counter service and fresh lemonade.

Things are moving along in Conyers. You can get almost any cuisine you'd like. And they even have a tourist trap. The Whistle Post Tavern gives out free drinks whenever the train rumbles through Old Town. Y'all... it's a bar and a grill.