We took the kids to the park on Sunday afternoon. It was warm and sunny, and honestly everything seemed at peace. The kids went to play, and Ethan and I sat on a bench in the sun to talk. And bask.
And I had my favorite shirt on! (My second favorite, actually. My favorite is the purple Kirby shirt.) My (second) favorite shirt has sketches of Leonardo da Vinci, Donatello, Rafael, and Michelangelo – all with colored masks on, matching their corresponding ninja turtles. Art history majors, step aside. We all know the most important contribution these fine gentlemen made to modern American culture was these pizza-loving reptiles.
For some reason, I can’t find the exact shirt, but here. You get the idea.
Anyways, while we’re sitting on the bench, this little kid comes running past us, stops short, and looks at me. He takes a second and then asks, “Is that a ninja turtle shirt?”
“Yes!” I said. He looked skeptical, so I explained, “These are the painters who the turtles are named after.”
His eyes went wide. “And they turned into turtles?!?”
“Yeah!” I said, because what else was I supposed to say?
The little dude went careening off into the sunset (i.e. the merry-go-round) shouting, “I want to play taaaag!” And I have never been prouder of that stupid t-shirt.
John and I were playing Clue the other night, and Sadie wanted to play. We said, “Sure, you can play!” and split up the cards between the two of us. There was an unspoken agreement between us that the three-year-old did not have the cognitive skills to correctly process criminal evidence – also, she can’t read. So we let her roll the die and move her purple piece every turn after mine, then John and I continued playing.
But of course, she’s three, not stupid. After a few minutes, she noticed that she didn’t have one of those fancy notepads we had. She didn’t pitch a fit; she just stood up and got herself a notepad and golf pencil. “I’m gonna color on this paper, okay?”
“Sounds great, Sadie. That can be your paper.” And the child was placated, at least for a few turns. But soon after she started scribbling notes, she realized that John and I were making accusations nearly every turn. She’s a bright girl, so she just sat and listened for a few turns. Then, on her turn, she confidently rolled the die and moved her purple piece down the corridor tiles. She stopped, grabbed the little metal wrench token, and put it next to her own piece.
“Mrs. Purple!” she shouted, “With a knife! For spreading peanut butter!!”
And John, God bless the child, immediately sifted through his cards to show her one as though she’d been playing the whole time. “See, Sadie? It wasn’t Mrs. Purple! Now you can write that down on your paper!”
“And now I know that, too!” I said. His face fell. I showed him one of my cards to even the odds.
Sadie was so proud of herself she made accusations every turn after that. Sometimes it was Mrs. Purple, sometimes Mrs. Blue. Always a knife. Usually for chopping apples. I freaking love these kids.
The weather was sunny and wonderful, and I got home from work early, so we decided to take the kids to the mall to get us all out of the house. As we got into the car, our downstairs neighbor asked us if we wanted some turkey. Weird offer, but okay. He said he had some turkey we could have, and he’s a nice guy. We brought him some bananas once, just because we had too many, maybe he’s returning the favor. We were obviously on our way out the door, but he said we could stop by later.
After we got home, Ethan took the kids upstairs while I stopped by to pick up some leftover turkey. I knocked, waited a few minutes while I heard him wrangling the kids, and then he opened the door and let me in (after removing my shoes.) I said hello to his wife and the kids, exchanged some pleasantries as he opened the fridge, and saw him remove an entire, smoked, bagged turkey.
“Oh, wow! Um… where do we cut it?” I asked as he handed me the bag.
“No, for you!” he said.
“Wait, what? …are you giving me a whole bird?” I asked, because I wanted him to understand what it sounded like. They’re from Jordan, maybe there’s a language barrier here.
“Yes! It’s for you!”
Oh. “Um, no. You are not giving me a whole bird.”
“Yes!”
“No. Absolutely not. We can’t eat that! We can’t eat a whole bird!”
He looked genuinely perplexed. “Why not?”
“Because it’s a whole bird! This thing is huge! There’s only four of us!”
“We can’t eat it either,” he said. “You take it!”
You get the idea. There was begging. There was bartering. There was – what are the five stages of refusing a ridiculous amount of food from a neighbor? Denial, explanation, negotiation, absurd laughter, and finally acceptance. After learning that he had received a smoked turkey from a friend after eating a full holiday dinner – apparently both families had prepared the entire meal – I finally told him, “This is too much!”
To which he pointed out that we had given him about 10 pounds of ripe bananas that one time.
“Yes, but that was only five dollars!”
They wouldn’t have it. I thanked them, called them ridiculous, and finally went home defeated, carrying a comically large bird in a bag. I had been gone probably ten minutes by this time. The kids were settled, Ethan was busy doing something on the computer. I pulled my head in the doorway and said, “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Ethan turned, expecting to see me holding a plate of turkey breast. I held up the entire smoked bird. I assured him that I said no – multiple times. “Why do you think I was gone so long? I have spent this entire time negotiating!” Now we have an entire smoked turkey in the fridge, and a (welcome) obligation to babysit their kids when she has a baby in February. I suppose they had a similar conundrum when we foisted ten pounds of ripe bananas on them.
We took the kids on a road trip over Thanksgiving weekend. Just some fairly local sites – we drove south a few hours and stopped off at small Utah towns along the way. We checked out the Krishna Temple in Spanish Fork, had lunch at the Nebo Queen in Nephi, went and looked at the Sanpitch Dragon in Gunnison, stopped by the Fremont Indian State Park and museum, and eventually ended up in Beaver, where we went to the Creamery and bought some local cheese. We stayed a night in a hotel, and the kids were thrilled to sleep in hotel beds and swim in the pool – although the pool wasn’t quite as indoor as advertised, so the swim was short-lived. On the way back, we toured Cove Fort, ate at the Burger Barn in Delta, and explored the charcoal kilns in Leamington. It was a grand adventure, and the kids loved it.
But that’s not what this story is about. This story is about confusion. About betrayal. About unprofessionalism. About salsa.
While passing through Salina (home of Some Really Big Soda Cans Behind A Gas Station,) we stopped at El Mexicano Restaurant. My mom had raved to us about their enchiladas, and Ethan was still hungry from our stop at the Nebo Queen, so he went in to order some enchiladas to go. While he was in there, we texted my mom and she asked us to buy her some of their salsa. Apparently, it left an impression. So Ethan bought some salsa for my mom and some for us – 32 ounces each. Which I thought was a lot, but hey – how often do you drive all the way to Salina just for salsa?
I stayed in the car with the kids, blasting the heat and playing Pokemon Go. Eventually, Ethan came back out to the car, looking annoyed. He put a few things on the roof of the car, opened the car door, and handed two drinks in to me. “Here. Please take these. Please do not spill these.” I didn’t know why he had ordered drinks, but okay. I grabbed the drinks, which were very heavy, and put them in the cupholders, while Ethan just looked at me all flustered and said, “That’s what they put the salsa in.”
“Wait, what?”
“That’s what they put the salsa in. Drink cups. Paper drink cups.”
I looked down at the drinks in the center console again, and realized why they were so heavy. They were full to the brim – pressing up against the thin, plastic lids – with restaurant salsa. Thick, red, delicious-smelling salsa. The smell permeated through the car, and it smelled amazing. But what on earth was that smell doing in the center console?
Ethan had ordered two large bottles of salsa, and they had filled two fountain drinks full of the stuff. Apparently, the woman who gave it to him had told him to be careful and hold it from the bottom, so it didn’t spill – and then casually handed him two Big Gulps full of salsa roja.
But what were we going to do? Go in and demand a jar? They clearly didn’t have any to spare. Pour it into the empty Gatorade bottles in the backseat? We drove for hours with the salsa in the front seat cupholders, carefully avoiding putting our elbows near them, for fear of upsetting half a gallon of thick, red liquid. We laughed until we cried, imaging what would happen if we were in an accident. “No, officer, we don’t need an ambulance – just some chips.”
After driving all the way to the hotel, we got the salsa into the mini-fridge. In the morning, Ethan went to a nearby grocery store and explained his predicament as he bought an entire case of mason jars. The people in line next to him were like, “Oh, yeah, El Mexicano is a great restaurant!” He told the cashier, and she just said, “Oh, that was nice!” He then came home and asked me, “Why does nobody think this is weird?!“
So that is why we now have four mason jars full of delicious salsa in our fridge, another eight empty jars on the kitchen counter, and the car may smell like Mexican food for the next week.
Our church is having a chili cookoff soon. Actually, I’m kind of in charge of making this happen. Because I’m so passionate about good chili that I refused to allow another year to pass without some stiff competition. Anyway, we went ingredient shopping recently – not for the cookoff, for the practice. We’re passionate about good chili.
So anyways, we brought back our small mountain of tomato paste and various beans. We put away all the groceries, and kept the chili stuff separate, because… reasons. I assumed Ethan didn’t put it with the other canned goods because he was going to use it soon, and maybe he wanted to keep them separate. And maybe he was waiting for me to put them away. Or maybe we just decided we were too lazy to put them in the cupboard. Given that I need a stepladder (not a stepstool, a full stepladder) to reach the canned goods shelf, I feel like I have a solid excuse for that laziness.
What I’m getting at is, we have a massive stack of beans in the living room. Maybe not massive – probably about two dozen cans of various beans and bean-related canned goods. Black beans, pinto beans, petite diced tomatoes… it’s a small pyramid. Or it would be, if it ever stayed the same shape for more than two hours.
On the very first day, the kids realized they could stack them into a pyramid. Awesome. Then they figured out some more shapes. Even better. By the end of that day, I came into the room to hear Sadie screaming enthusiastically as her bean tower toppled. (Ethan was the one who started that one, I believe.) Soon bean towers were the new thing. Sadie has built towers as tall as she is. John has built towers …as tall as Sadie is. That’s usually when the structural stability goes out. (The bean supply isn’t actually unlimited.)
It’s accelerated. There was one evening when the kids were disappointed they had to stop playing Super Smash Bros, so Ethan said, “Play Super Smash with these cans!” and flew a can of black beans around shouting, “pew, pew, pew!” Surprisingly, both kids were one hundred percent on board with this. Super Smash Beans lasted another half an hour at least, interrupted only by bedtime. I heard them shouting things like, “Kidney bean punch!” at each other when they were supposed to be sleeping.
The other day, Ethan turned on PBS Kids for Sadie, and she ran excitedly toward the couch. But then she hesitated, turned around, and grabbed a can of black beans. Ran back toward the couch, then looked down at the beans. Hesitated again, went to put them back. Thought about it, looked back and forth for a moment, as though unsure whether beans were allowed on the couch. She looked torn, until Ethan told her, “It’s okay, you can hold the beans.” She was delighted. Grabbed the beans again, took them to the couch, and sat happily on the couch, watching Work It Out Wombats with her can of black beans.
I love beans. But… what exactly is going on with my children?
Go on a journey with me, friends… the year is 2021, I’ve just finished shopping, and my children are given a sticker to reward their good behavior in the checkout line. They’re standard brand propaganda for the store – they say “Smith’s Future Shopper” and have pictures of hot air balloons or kites. “You know, stuff kids like,” you can just hear some childless CEO throw out at the marketing meeting. But hey, my kids really like them, so maybe it’s good advertising after all.
Well, one of these stickers is not a thing kids like. I think. I’m really not sure what it is. It’s mostly just a…red blob. I bring it back home, and ask Ethan, “What’s this?” and then we puzzle over it for hours. It’s a red swoosh, with a single black dot (eye?) and the word “HEGIE” written underneath. This doesn’t match any other sticker we’ve ever gotten at this Smith’s. Like, not even in style. The font that “HEGIE” is written in doesn’t seem to match anything either. We eventually decide this has to be some horrible formatting mistake that happened on the way to the printer. We’re not even sure of the pronunciation of “HEGIE,” although we eventually settle on a hard G.
So fast-forward a few months. We’ve forgotten this little escapade, when it happens again. The Hegie strikes – and this time, I confiscate the sticker. I’m taking pictures, looking online, asking Smith’s employees every time I go to to the grocery store; nobody knows what this thing is. Answers vary between red flag, whale, hedgehog, Nike swoosh reject… it’s all over the place. And eventually, I find one more post on the internet. It’s a Kroger employee, wondering what this thing is. And when the store employees don’t have any idea, I decide it’s time to get to the bottom of this thing.
I emailed corporate. It was the only contact information I could find online that wasn’t just another store manager – and they had already come up all shrugs. I needed answers. And, miracle of miracles, they answered!
I received the following email from the Vice President of Store Operations:
Good afternoon, Rachel Unklesbay,
My name is Stacy [redacted] from the Smith’s Division of Stores. Thank you for reaching out regarding the “HEGIE” Future Shopper kids’ sticker. This is actually a very old kids sticker program that is no longer in production. HEGIE stands for Hegie the Hedgehog and the red shape was supposed to resemble a Hedgehog. This sticker was part of a collection of stickers which featured a variety of characters such as; a crab, a donut, an elephant a cowboy rabbit and a cherry! It took us a little to locate this sticker as they no longer exist in our inventory. It is possible that some store’s may have left over inventory that they have recently found and are using them up. I hope this answers your questions regarding the sticker. It does appear that Hegie will be retiring as the only inventory left is what remains in stores now. May I inquire what location you received the sticker from? Again, thank you for reaching out to us with your question and for being a loyal customer with us here at Smith’s! Should you need anything else or have further questions please do not hesitate in reaching out!
It’s a hedgehog! Its name is Hegie! (and changing that pronunciation is more difficult than I’d like to admit.) I had never actually thought I would get a response; I just wanted to shoot my shot. Say I tried. So I was absolutely thrilled just to get the attention. I responded:
Stacy,
I honestly didn’t expect anyone to read this email, let alone hunt down an answer for me. Thank you so much! My entire family (and several of my coworkers) were taking bets on whether the sticker was a hedgehog or an elephant, and you’ve settled the matter for us. I am honored to be one of the last recipients of Hegie the Hedgehog, and my only regret is that I don’t have the complete set! I definitely want to know what a cowboy rabbit looks like.
I got this sticker from a store in Provo, Utah – where they weren’t sure what it was, either. You said this was a very old program – may I ask how old? My kids will flip out if they find out they have a sticker older than they are.
Again – thank you for taking the time to reply.
I’ll admit, I had some ulterior motives in mentioning how much I wanted the full collection. I had beautiful dreams of being shipped the entire collection, in some kind of marketing gesture. But it seems these are hard to pin down, even for those in the higher echelons of Kroger sticker availability:
Hi Rachel,
As far as we can tell the stickers ordinated somewhere between 15-20 years ago.
I’ll keep a look out while I’m in stores and collect characters as I see them. I’ll reach out if I can find the cowboy rabbit!
It’s been a bit of fun trying to track these down.
Have a great week!
Now, I got this answer back in June of this year. Evidently, Stacy has not found a cowboy rabbit during the past six months. But a few days ago, we were in the checkout line, with a gazillion groceries, Ethan was unloading the cart and bagging the groceries, and Sadie was on my shoulders. I was on keep-Sadie-on-my-shoulders-and-not-destroying-things duty. So, just kind of bouncing around, making small talk with the cashier. She very sweetly offers Sadie some stickers, then rips off a few. Sadie puts one on her cheek immediately, then reaches down and says, “Mom, do you want a sticker?”
“Oh, no thanks, sweetie. I’m all right,” I say, just before seeing the stickers she’s waving in front of my eyes. There’s a cherry, and a donut with eyes. I immediately lose my mind. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! It’s the donut! It’s the sentient donut and the cherry! Ethan! It’s the donut and the cherry! It’s the sentient donut! It’s the Hegie collection! It’s the rest of the Hegies, we have the sentient donut now!” I sounded insane. And I could tell I sounded insane, but I was so excited I couldn’t stop. I don’t even know why I was saying the donut was sentient. It just came out that way the first time, and that’s what it was in my brain from then on.
I don’t really fangirl over anything. But apparently, the Hegie collection has achieved legendary status in my mind.
The poor cashier finally just said, “Wait, what?” and my husband had to translate for me…by telling a very quick version of the entire story. Fortunately, there was nobody in line behind us, so we could do this while we finished bagging up the groceries. I just shut my malfunctioning mouth and let him do the talking (most of it. I might have had a few glitches.)
And so, ladies and gentlemen, let me proudly introduce, the entire Hegie collection, of which my water bottle is about to be the lucky recipient:
I have just rung the bell of Notre Dame. I can afford to marvel at the casual insanity a ray of pure sunshine. a full moon, and the view
When I was a child, so many times I’ve indulged in reasonably good spirits. discovering what’s possible for yourself our map marked by a skull and crossbones. his bones are actually elbow grease and a strong stomach The correct answer is Indiana Jones. Welcome to the other half of my life. The sunshine expands throughout one of the huge ornamental stained-glass skylights, fullness in my lower abdomen, three-sizes-too-big a time to explore and a time to nest.
marriage is a short break in traffic, a child with Down’s syndrome enjoying the best black beans Adrenaline and the obvious nutty idea, an impromptu adventure, complete with tuxedo, something about a “fat Greek kid.”
you were married to find a new love, consider abandoning perspective, a few generic words with peace offerings of pastries to put the kids to bed They take everything out of my pockets We run out of food, and water, and dry socks, limestone, dirt, bad-hip days, Tylenol PM and a cat my roommate smuggled back from Mexico.
Don’t go the tourist way.
The reason people die is not because they are where you’re most likely to see a six-year-old riding backward fifteen thousand feet in the air, still limping.
It was pointed out to me a while ago that while everybody knows who Helen Keller was, nobody actually knows anything about her. They know she was Deaf and Blind, and they know she learned to talk and communicate regardless. And while I don’t remember which book or blog or podcast first pointed this out to me, it’s been driven home to me that the first word Helen Keller ever spoke was the last anyone ever heard.
I’ve told a handful of people I was reading a book by Helen Keller, and they always respond with, “Oh, I loved that movie! Is there a book?” or “Oh, what a wonderful teacher she had!” or “Oh, wasn’t that miraculous?” They know all about the obstacles Keller faced up until age 9, and nothing since then.
I’ve heard this chalked up to a kind of “disability porn” before—the tendency to get “high” off the celebration of disabled people’s successes, without actually acknowledging them as individuals with personalities. The same way porn “celebrates” the body without the person, there’s a tendency to focus on the disability (or overcoming the disability) without recognizing the human being you’re looking at.
I don’t think this is the case with Helen Keller, however. Maybe it’s part of it, but Helen Keller had a pretty wide audience when she was alive. I think the reason we don’t study her writing anymore was because she was a raging socialist. And if I’ve learned one thing about socialism in public school… it will be the only thing I’ve ever learned about socialism in public school, because it only gets about a one-paragraph mention in one history class ever. American politicians have been deeply distrustful of socialism for decades, and it shows in our textbooks. So Helen Keller’s essays got the kibosh, and we got a really touching story about some kid learning to talk with her hands.
So now you have my conspiracy theory—on to the book. Out of the Dark is a collection of essays and letters, written about “physical and social vision.” That means about half of the writing is about physical vision, the education of the blind, and prevention of blindness. Keller has a very clear, concise logic, and I found myself wanting to lobby for silver nitrate solution treatment in infants’ eyes. (And then realizing it’s been a hundred years, and medicine is much better now.) The other half of the writing is about social vision—mostly feminism, with a touch of socialist rhetoric here and there. But let me tell you, every feminist out there who hasn’t read Helen Keller, should go read Helen Keller. Right now. This woman has no chill, and I love it. She’s bitingly sarcastic, and inescapably logical. She will quote the opposition’s viewpoint, and then meticulously tear it to bits in front of you. And then point out that, despite having just made some of the best points you’ve ever read, she can’t vote because she’s “only a woman.”
Thankfully, women can vote now, but I still found myself cheering every few pages, and some of the stereotypes she addresses are still very prevalent. She’s a wonderful writer, and I would have hated to be on a debate team against this woman. She’s freaking brilliant. So go find something written by Helen Keller, and I promise you, it will be fantastic.
I work in construction – I’m a building inspector. Yesterday, I mentioned something sexist a contractor had said to me once. My coworker Dennis suddenly paused and said, “Oh yeah, I guess you probably do have to deal with that a lot in this field.”
“Actually, no,” I told him. “I don’t deal with it much at all. That’s why this instance stood out. It’s 2023, man – nobody thinks women belong in the kitchen anymore. I mean, I don’t know what people are thinking, but everybody just says, ‘oh, are you the inspector? Let me show you the job site!’ There’s very little sexism in this field, honestly.”
Well, if I understand Murphy’s law correctly, that meant I had just set myself up. (Who am I kidding? This isn’t my fault.) Because less than two hours later, I was getting along just great with a contractor, swapping bad construction stories, when he said, “Okay, nothing against the female gender…”
“That is a dangerous way to start a sentence, friend,” I said while he paused for effect.
He didn’t take the hint warning. “The thing is – and it’s not their fault – women just don’t see things the same way men do. I can tell a man what his finished product is going to look like, and he’s totally on board. I tell a woman the same thing, and she’s on board until it’s finished. Then she’s like, ‘No, that’s not what I wanted at all! I need you to move that wall!’ Men can visualize things inside their brain. Women just can’t do that.”
“Umm, women can do that.”
“No! It’s not the same. It’s like imagining what it’s going to look like, not what it looks like now.”
“Yes. Women can do that. I am a woman. I can do that.”
“Well, I mean…” he kind of laughed. “I’m sure you can do it, but most women…”
What am I, a freak of nature? “No, I’m pretty sure all women can do that, man.”
“Okay well… ” he just chuckled and moved on to another story. I stood there confused, then finished his inspection report and left. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? I was so perplexed. I’m not sure what’s most confusing to me – a man trying to tell me how my own brain worked, the oddly specific stereotype I’ve never heard of (I think he might have made it up himself), or the refusal to recognize that I had given him a very clear signal to reconsider what he was about to say.
My husband’s take on it was “Women are wrong because they tell me I’m wrong. Men never correct me because they’re smart. Women correct me because they’re dumb.” He then followed that text with “Like, buddy. Maybe sit down, because I have bad news for you.”
It’s one of the weirder encounters I’ve had, and I’m not sure how much more aggressive I could have been without cussing him out. But he still laughed through the whole thing. What is going on here?
Remember my conversation that morning with Dennis? I texted him, “Hey, remember when I said I never have to deal with sexist comments? I have a story for you.”
He just replied, “Uh oh. I look forward to hearing this one.” And then looked just as confused as me when I told him that afternoon.
the sandguppy 