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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Foreskin and several years from now
My husband has dedicated himself to the proposition that he can form a more perfect penis.
By Kim Lane
[12/17/99]

O Tin-nenbaum
This year, we welded our holiday totem; maybe next year we'll get it chromed.
By Gayle Brandeis
[12/16/99]

Die Santa! Die!
As I see it, lying about Santa is like covering for a friend who's having an affair with a jerk.
By Elizabeth Bobrick
[12/16/99]

A swine in Harvard Yard
David Mamet's children's book puts Ivy League angst in the heads of babes.
By Alexandra Jacobs
[12/15/99]

Jack and Baby Vicky sittin' in a tree
A gender-bending love story about a boy and his toy.
By Virginia Gilbert
[12/14/99]

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For years, the members of my extended family have been relentless in their attempts to stay in touch with me. They’ve tried calling, writing, passing messages to me through each other; but it’s a losing proposition. When my workday ends and the kid’s in bed, I’m exhausted. What I really want to do is sit and breathe in front of my television, not string together cogent thoughts for a phone call or letter.

At the office, however, when I’ve had enough coffee and the day’s problems are keeping me alert, I can zip off half a dozen quick e-mails while I bolt my lunch. Not only is e-mail cheaper than long-distance calls, but I’m a writer, after all. I’m happier talking with my fingers than with my mouth.

Clearly, it’s the best way to reach me, which is why I get over 300 e-mail messages a day. Adding a few more from my family wouldn’t be so tough, I thought. So I patiently explained to them the mysteries of ISPs and POPs, addresses and attachments, killfiles and sig files. "Trust me," I promised. "It’s easy."

Apparently, e-mail is too easy. When they got wired, my family members started forwarding me every single e-mail they saw, swamping my system. You know what I’m talking about -- an in-box overflowing with forwarded jokes, gentle paeans to motherhood, fake virus alerts, and that damned Neiman-Marcus cookie recipe. My family got online and I couldn’t get rid of them. But what can you do when it’s your own mother spamming you?

Mom certainly is not the only offender, but she’s the most prolific. She started out tentatively, sending a message every few weeks, most of them personal, actually written by herself. Then she started forwarding a few inspirational homilies, the happy little message buried beneath a long list of previous addresses and routing directions.

As the volume grew, my sister got online too, forwarding me lots of urban legends about how to keep from being kidnapped or drugged. They quickly ganged up on me, working a sophisticated spam triangulation system in which Mom would e-mail me (and a dozen other people), then five minutes later my sister would send me the same message. Several times a day.

I finally snapped when somebody in my family -- I’ve blocked out who -- sent me the infamous kidney-harvest-gang warning. That thing has been chasing me around the Internet for years, relentlessly haunting my newsgroups and listservs. It’s a great story: The lone, hungover traveler waking up aching in the hotel bathtub full of ice, tubes snaking mysteriously out of his back. But really, you don’t have to be a doctor to realize just how unlikely the whole prospect is. When that arrived in my in-box, I decided that my delete key just wasn’t solving my problem.

It’s not enough that I already get spammed by dozens of public relations flacks and industry gurus with vanity newsletters. My favorite Web sites spam me too. In an in-box cluttered with messages from editors, co-workers and professional contacts, my mother’s name naturally leaps out at me, holding the promise of something truly personal. I’m drawn to it, compelled to open that message first to find out what family gossip or emergency she’s got on her mind. And then what happens? I’m rewarded with some generic plea to send copies of this message to 10 friends for good luck.

I ranted to my pals. They were unanimously sympathetic, sighing, "Oh yeah, I’ve got one of those." Their stories rang familiar. "When they first got an e-mail account, the notes were reasonable enough," a woman on one of my mailing lists commiserated. "An update on family happenings, a new grandchild. But then the inspirational messages started, the 'funny' jokes, and the warnings for nonexistent viruses. Ugh."

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