Setting a Toaster on Fire

And other things the Internet made me do.

Down HOW many holes?

The Internet is a dangerous place.

I’d like to provide some context for that statement by telling you about something that happened when I was in sixth grade.

Sixth grade is a horrible time/age/existential black hole for a girl. This may be because there are still playgrounds and recess. Or because friendships are starting to shake loose, but you still long for the times you’d go over to a friend’s house on a Saturday morning and watch cartoons. That was a special type of intimacy. To lose it was to fall into a place where you wore the same buttoned-up sweater every day until the teacher you had a crush on stopped by your desk and said, “Aren’t you hot in that sweater?” and you were exposed. You’d lost your armor, your security blanket, and the belief that you were special and smart. You had to take off the sweater and, when you got home, shred it and stuff it in the trash. But the worst thing was this: people would now know you had breasts. They might even guess that you’d gotten your period.

And the three girls who were previously your Saturday morning cereal-and-cartoons friends were no longer your friends. They were a tight group of three, with no room for a fourth.

So when Girl #1 walked up and asked you to say to Girl #2, “Can’t you take a joke?” you agreed. You walked eagerly into the classroom where Girl #2 was crying, and a different teacher everyone called Himalayas because she really did have breasts was comforting her, and you said “Girl #1 told me to tell you that you can’t take a joke,” and the look you got was what you deserved. Then you went back to report on the successful completion of your mission, and the response you got from Girl #1 was the one you deserved.

“You said that? In front of Himalayas? Are you out of your mind?”

Girl #3 opened her mouth but was speechless with indignation, and the two of them walked away, soon to be joined by Girl #2. The three whispered among themselves, then turned to look at you with utter contempt. They started laughing. They were laughing at you. They are laughing at you still.

I wish I had a strikethrough icon in my head.

I think of that incident when I post something idiotic, hurtful, or tone-deaf on the web. If I’m made aware of it — and that’s the worst part, that I have to be made aware of it — my immediate response is to edit, explain, backpedal, delete, do as much damage control as possible, and then look for a bucket of wet cement to stick my head into.

So, for anyone who was paying attention recently, I would just like to say that I’ve managed to pull most of the concrete pieces out of my hair, look in the mirror and say, You are human. And to say to everyone to whom I was a dumbass: I’m sorry I was a dumbass.

Not part of a healthy diet. So what makes them irresistible?

Once or twice, I’ve been banned removed myself from Internet forums. Back in the days before Facebook, I was part of a group on Yahoo — remember Yahoo? — and got deeply involved in bombastic soliloquies fascinating, elevating, scintillating discussion threads. It was a private group of self-preening snobs intellectuals, who were interested in the arts, literature, psychology and bragging about our I.Q. scores sharing our half-baked ideas hard-earned wisdom. I was addicted.

At the time, I had a job that made me hate myself and most of humanity was not fulfilling to anyone with a pulse someone with my particular set of skills and qualifications. I started work at five-thirty a.m. But because I was cycling into a manic state brimming with ideas I was anxious to shout into the void share with other sensitive souls, I got up four hours earlier. I set my alarm to exactly one-eighteen a.m., because that was the time I was born and so had mystical significance it was an ironic wink at the absurdity of keeping a strict sleep schedule.

After starting to brew a full twelve-cup carafe of burr-ground in the Krups coffeemaker, I’d lower two slices of whole-grain bread into the slim, single-slot Cuisinart toaster, go to my study, and log into the Mac. I was very brand-loyal and design-conscious in those days. While deeply involved in a full-blown rant lively interaction on some relevant topic, Krups vs. Braun or, more likely, Apple vs. the Antichrist Microsoft, I smelled burning toast.

Flames. Smoke. Melted plastic.

No one died. The fire was contained.

Form ceased to be the determining factor in my small-appliance purchases. I paid more attention — no matter how much it pained me — to function, reliability, and UL approval tags.

And because my husband threatened to leave me if I didn’t it sounded like just what I needed, I signed up for a program of sleep hygiene offered by our HMO. Sleep Hygiene protocol browbeat patients recommended avoidance of slamming, flaming, and trolling all Internet activities between the hours of ten p.m. and eight a.m., unless required by one’s career.

I didn’t have a career. I just had to be at work by five-thirty a.m. Sleep made that life goal more attainable.

I followed the White Rabbit and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.

And now, some questions for you:

Let’s talk more in the Comments.

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