True Story

Lately Ari has begun to say cute little phrases. I forget what you call them. Idioms? Anyway, the first one he said was "I'll take that as a yes." I was sitting in a chair, as I get to do for approximately five minutes every two years. He was playing with something, and I wasn't paying attention to him. He said, "Raise your hand if you wanna watch a magic show!" Since we were alone with the cat, I think he meant me. I was too tired to raise my hand, and I didn't really want to see a magic show. So I just sat there, hoping he'd move on. Instead he looked at me and said, "I'll take that as a yes." Then he did his show.

It's funny how the 4-5 year-old set loves to arrange things via hand raising. Ari is forever wanting me to raise my hand. No matter if I am driving or carrying a pot of boiling water (or him). "Raise your hand if you want a cookie!" And here I am stuck because, like any sane human, I always want a cookie.

They want you to raise your hand for everything. Raise your hand if you're Irish. Raise your hand if you have to go potty. Raise your hand if you want to play Candy-land for the 7,000th time. (Ugh.) Times like that I wish I didn't have hands. Also would be nice because then I couldn't do as many chores and could finally get some sleep.

The other thing Ari says is "true story." The other day he told me "Mommy, dinosaurs went extinct because volcanoes erupted all over the world, and the dinosaurs got burned to death." "Oh, yeah?" I said. "True story," said Ari. Because he knows this.

This has nothing to do with my topic, of course, which is neighborhood list servs. So, we will call it An Unrelated Introduction. Rebel English teacher --> me. B is on the listserv for our neighborhood, even though we don't own our home. (Do not start, people. I never wanna have to fix shit. Even if I rent forever.) Like any neighborhood list serv, ours is full of lunatics. They write to complain that the blade of grass on the corner of Ding Dong Street and Dumb Ass Avenue (made up names) is one millimeter longer than the allowable Grass Blade Length Limit passed in 1946 by the homeowner's association. Then! Here is the fun part: twenty-six thousand people immediately respond to argue about whose fault it is. This happens very quickly. Faster than a refresh. Faster than a speeding bullet. Seriously, if we could harness the speed of bitchy posts on a neighborhood list serv we could go to Saturn and back in seven seconds.

So Petunia Snarkle-Nutjob (made up name) and Thomas Freak (made up name) get into it over the blade of grass, and for some reason everyone on the list serv goes absolutely bonkers. They all choose a side and go googling for data to back it up. They usually bring some numbers into it, sometimes charts and graphs and ancient historical documents. There is talk of hiring an expert on grass blade height control, and more talk about getting a mediator. There is a massive amount of brain power from people who seem dumb as stumps used to argue over this. They can talk Grass Blade like geniuses. It is a serious, bad-ass throw-down. Everyone is suddenly obsessed with whose fault it is and what the rule actually says, and they are like, quoting Shakespeare (That, I don't mind, because hello: English teacher.) and threatening to beat up each other's relatives and shit. Anyway, right before I turn to B and suggest perhaps we call the police, somebody for some reason regains sanity and shuts it all down. This person is named Margaret (actual name), and I love her.

Actually Margaret is the name of the person who filled this purpose on the mom list serv I used to be on. But there is always a Margaret. And she (It is usually a she.) says (writes) something so profound, so pithy and simple and true, that everyone comes to their senses. It is lovely to watch: sense returning to the masses.

The other thing about list servs (and here I guess I'm straying from the neighborhood list serv and moving on to the list serv in general) is that they make the people on them believe that the topic of the list is THE ONLY THING IN THE WHOLE GODDAMNED WORLD THAT ANYONE WANTS TO TALK ABOUT. And also: that everyone everywhere will understand the minutiae of the topic, even if they are not on the list serv. Seriously, I was on one when I pumped for Ari--pump moms or something, it was called--and I believed at that time that it was perfectly appropriate to discuss pump horns or mastitis with the guy at the deli counter. At the deli. Where people eat. Yo.