Fred Meyer Responds Again: Family Friendly Check-Out

I reviewed Fred Meyer’s bathroom a long time ago. When I sent that review to their corporate office, I received a stock reply. Recently, my review of their “Family Friendly” check-out earned a more personal reply.

Here’s the reply:

Dear Mrs ————-

Thank you for taking the time to contact Fred Meyer regarding the Family Friendly checkstands in our stores.

A checkstand with no tabloids was determined to be the most appropriate way to introduce the Family Friendly checkstand. It is widely accepted that the tabloids were something that many found to be the most inappropriate for children.

This is a relatively new program and like all new programs is subject to review going forward. We are listening to our Customers opinions on the Family Friendly checkstands. Based on feedback, we will determine if there any modifications that might be made or if this is something that should be expanded. The opinions we have received so far are very diverse.

We certainly appreciate and will consider your comments in our review of this program going forward.

Sincerely,

Candice K——–
Consumer Affairs

I appreciated her response, but I question the idea that it is a “relatively new” program. I remember the “Family Friendly” check-out being around before Cedar was born. She’s about to turn three.

Here’s what I wrote back:

Dear Ms. K———-,

Thank you so much for responding to my concerns about the availability of candy in your Family Friendly checkstands. I appreciate your quick reply.

I hope in future discussions about the Family Friendly checkstands at the corporate office Fred Meyer will consider removing the candy in addition to the magazines.

Yours truly,
Nicole ——————

Subarctic mamas, and anyone else living in Fred Meyer territory, this is our chance. One of my readers, Karen, commented that the grocery stores where she lives offer candy free check-outs. We can have that too. Fred Meyer is listening. Go to their online comment form now and tell them you want the candy out of the “Family Friendly” checkout. If enough of us take action, the day may come when an outnumbered mom or dad will be spared hearing, “Pleeeease. I neeeeed candy” at the check-out.

Remember, while you’re there, thank them for supporting the use of canvas bags too.

Fashion in Alaska: Deliberately Disheveled

When I was in my twenties I had the grungy, but carefully constructed, Fairbanks Cabin-Dwelling look I now call Deliberately Disheveled. I wasn’t unique. Deliberately Disheveled was the school uniform for the UAF graduate student. There were a lot of us. We drank beer. We had dogs. We went to bonfires. We drove ancient Subarus and trucks. In my Deliberately Disheveled period, I cared deeply about my appearance, but worked hard to look like I didn’t care.

In the morning, after much consideration, I’d settle on a fifteen-year-old pair of Calvin Klein’s I found at Value Village for five dollars, and pair them with a baggy paint-splattered t-shirt, tan construction worker boots, vintage metal black glasses, and a bracelet made of beans. I’d then cover the ensemble with a dirty Carhartt Arctic parka and walk out into the ice fog, feeling sexy.

The idea behind Deliberately Disheveled was to give the impression that fashion followed function. Add no running water to artistic poverty and men’s V-Neck undershirts become the foundation of a wardrobe. Ironic second-hand clothing provided accents. The 25 year old “Prudhoe Bay Keeping America Independent” baseball hat or the t-shirt that said “I love Milk, Cow Milk” in Korean were treasures from the thrift store.

There were a few rules. Dirt and paint stains were acceptable. They gave an artistic outdoorsy impression. Food stains were forbidden. I wanted to look as if I was painting all morning and then decided to do a day hike at Angel Rocks, not as if I had just dropped a bucket of fried chicken in my lap.

As crazy as it seems in retrospect, I see that the Deliberately Disheveled period was borne of luxury. I had time to try on thirty pairs of thrift store jeans. Now with two daughters under three years old, I have no time at all. Although my house has a shower, I have no time to take one. I used to think it was cool to look like I just rolled out of bed. Now, I have just rolled out of bed, that is if I’m lucky enough to have gotten any sleep. I’m no longer Deliberately Disheveled. I’m just plain disheveled.

Now the stains on my clothes are a catalog of my day—a tiny oatmeal handprint on my left arm, Play Doh ground into the knees of my jeans, a trail of white spit up down my left shoulder blade.

No longer do I spend hours looking for old jeans or the t-shirt with just the right hint of irony. Instead I pull on the two-sizes-larger-than-normal stretch denim Gap monstrosities that I bought in desperation several months after the baby was born. A year later they sag, making me look like a wannabe mama gangsta, but I can’t get to the store to buy new jeans, let alone a belt.

Other things have changed as well. Laced boots would prolong trying to leave the house with two screaming children. Necklaces require time to make decisions. Earrings attract tiny vice-like grips.

When I met my husband back in my Deliberately Disheveled days, I came up with a brilliant outfit. An outfit any man would love. A flower-patterned dress with spaghetti straps over a bright red union suit. Yes, union suit, the kind with a butt flap.

Now, I can’t wear anything that doesn’t allow nursing access, so both spaghetti strap zip in the back dresses and union suits are out. Thinking back on that outfit, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. It may be less fashionable, but the just plain disheveled look, might be an improvement for me.

This essay aired on AK. If you want to listen, visit the archives and click on 6/23/2007. Here’s a picture of us in with our ancient Subaru back in the Deliberately Disheveled days (note the men’s v-neck undershirt). The yellow dog is Cashew. The other dog is Roger, a neighborhood roamer.

Subarctic News Flash

Two news items on the subarctic front:

Tomorrow AK will feature pieces by my friends Theresa and Libby as well as a commentary of mine about dishevelment as a fashion statement. If you’re in Fairbanks, listen at 10 am Alaska Standard Time on KUAC 89.9. If you’re elsewhere in Alaska check for AK on your NPR affiliate. If you’re far away you can stream it at KUAC. I’ll post the text of my piece and a link to the archives tomorrow.

Shelly at This Eclectic Life is looking for people who can crochet to help out with a project. She’s putting together blankets for kids with cancer. Each blanket will have  blocks made from people in different states. She’s looking for folks from Alaska in particular. Click here if you can help out.

Review: Family Friendly Check-Out at Fred Meyer

At our local Fred Meyer, the place on earth I spend the most time besides my own bedroom, there’s a check-out aisle labeled “Family Friendly.” Before I had kids I avoided it. It seemed creepy. Just what made it family friendly? Mickey Mouse tap dancing down the conveyor belt, Jesus scanning your groceries, maybe a clown handing out balloons? I preferred to take child-free groceries to a more sinful cashier–one that might be handing out condoms or Jell-O shots.

Now that I have two girls I decided to wheel my cumbersome race cart into “Family Friendly” territory. I was just curious. What was different? Only one thing. The “Family Friendly” checkout offers no magazines. No People, no Star, no Teen People, no O, no National Enquirer. That’s it. Apparently, in Fred Meyer’s world magazines are an affront to the Family.

Candy, on the other hand, is as “Family Friendly” as the maternity leave policies of Scandinavian countries. There’s everything from the traditional peanut butter cup to the plastic baby bottles with lollipop nipples filled with dyed powdered sugar. The candy is placed low, the baby bottles are at toddler eye height, and the display is situated so that a parent’s back is to it while the debit card is being swiped.

I’m confused. The magazines are the same magazines lying around waiting rooms. They don’t hurt kids. Yes, they’re gossipy rags. Granted, a recent cover featuring anonymous bikini-bottomed butts of various celebrities and entreating the reader to match the cellulite to the star was tacky, but my toddler is nonplussed by butts. Among the recently potty trained set using the bathroom is a communal event.

Trashy magazines don’t disturb me. Right now my kids can’t read, and once they can, we’ll talk about what they see. The headlines could lead to teachable moments. Ten years from now I might say “Look girls, Angelina Jolie’s new baby is from Lichtenstein. When we get home I’ll show you on a map.”

The impact candy has does disturb me. In our house we cannot speak of candy. It’s among the words that must be spelled, like i-c-e c-r-e-a-m or a-s-s-h-o-l-e. Candy is toddler crack. In a country with an obesity problem, putting the it down low is the equivalent of handing out meth on the playground.

Fred Meyer knows kids will whine. They know stuffing their mouths with candy shuts them up. To them, our children are as good as the PIN numbers to our debit cards. In the “Family Friendly” check-out reading is bad and candy is good. Nutrition, dental hygiene, fiscal responsibility? It seems that to Fred Meyer, they’re like magazines–family unfriendly.

Other parents I’ve talked to about this are equally annoyed. So let’s do something. Tell Fred Meyer. Use this online form to ask them to remove the candy and replace it with things parents might need: teething gel, sippy cups, wipes, spoons, bibs, notebooks, pencils and school supplies. If they’re not willing to do that, they should at least take down the sign. Sarcasm doesn’t go over well at the check-out.

While you’re sending Fred Meyer your feedback about the candy be sure to compliment them on their canvas bag policy. Even I will admit that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

The Weather in Fairbanks Alaska: No Complaints

I have complained about the weather in the past. Not today. A perfect sunny Solstice in Fairbanks, Alaska. It’s still sunny at midnight (not so hot though). Happy solstice everyone. Enjoy a few moments from our trip to the Solstice festival downtown and a picture from our garden.

Happy Father’s Day: The Moment You Became a Dad

When was it? Was it the moment you learned about the plus sign on the test? When you felt the baby kick your hand? The fiftieth time someone said, “You’ll see, a baby really changes things.” Was it when you first held the squirmy little girl?

I think it was the moment the ambulance left. I didn’t see you change. I was strapped onto a stretcher watching my heart rate spike on a monitor. With a post-partum hemorrhage, the scariest of homebirth complications threatening, I was nervous. One of the paramedics said, “Talk to her. Get her to calm down.” And the other asked, “So how much did your baby weigh?” I answered and tried to breathe slowly. The midwife sat next to me and held my hand.

You stood with your new daughter wrapped in a blanket as you watched the gurney roll out the front door of the house. At that moment our stories diverged. You missed the ambulance ride because someone had to take care of the baby. She was fine, pink, sleeping. She was entirely yours. I didn’t see you looking around the house for a jammie to put on your seven pound four ounce, three-hour-old daughter. I didn’t see you and the midwife’s assistant install the car seat we didn’t think we’d need so immediately.

As the ambulance passed through intersections and the paramedics kept talking, I wondered what would happen to me at the hospital. Would I be sedated and wheeled to an operating table? I wondered how I could do this to someone. Have a baby and then die. It seemed both tragic and horribly rude.

I didn’t know what you were thinking on your silent ride to the hospital, your new daughter sleeping in the car seat, the midwife’s assistant driving. I didn’t see any of it. We had only three hours as a family of three before you two had to try it alone. I did know that whatever happened to me, you would become whatever that little girl needed.

And you did. That was the moment you became a father, carrying what you had to in your arms and following through that front door into an unknown future. Facing it, taking steps, even if they led somewhere scary. Good fathers go where they have to go whether they want to or not.

Luck, Pitocin, Methergine, maybe a combination of all three. In the emergency room, I relaxed. They parked me in a room and told me the OB would be there in forty-five minutes. That I could wait forty-five minutes meant I would be ok. I breathed easier.

You didn’t. Driving still, wondering where I was, what they were doing, you didn’t know I was fine. You knew the the closing front door, the last sliver of early morning light, the flash of ambulance lights in the driveway.

And at the hospital, when they looked at you, ashen, exhausted, with the newborn sleeping in the crook of your arm, her little duckie hat crooked on her head, and said, “No, you can’t go back there,” you did exactly what any father would do. You made them let you in.

Happy Father’s Day: Chicago White Sox

I was planning to post this around the time of the World Series this fall, but I had a special request from my dad. This is all he wants for Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Being White Sox fans is our family tradition. The essay was originally broadcast as a commentary KUAC and on Alaska News Nightly while the Sox were getting close to making it to the 2005 World Series. Sorry, I don’t have a link to the recording anymore. I hope that reprinting the essay here will bring my dad back to the joy of the 2005 season (and help him forget how terribly the Sox are playing this year). Enjoy.

After the Sox swept Boston to win their first playoff series since 1917, I find myself in a very Alaskan dilemma. If they make the series, do I fly home? We Alaskans fly great distances for all kinds of reasons—weddings, new babies, funerals—does a White Sox World series warrant the huge expense of a last minute airfare? Is this a family emergency?

It may well be. I remember my father saying so many times as the Sox blew late season games, “I’d just die happy if they’d win the World Series.” In 1983, at twelve, I was torn between rooting for the Sox and wishing my dad into an early grave.

After living in Alaska for 11 years, I’ve cast off most of the Chicagoan I used to be. I don’t have a “da bears” accent or use “yous” as a plural form of you. I can no longer handle Dan Ryan Expressway traffic, and huge crowds exasperate me. Every time I return to Fairbanks from Chicago, I experience a kiss-the-ground wave of relief. I don’t even care if my lips would freeze to it.

But one aspect of my Southsider-self keeps me tethered to the city. I am still a White Sox fan. It manifests itself in the way I bristle every time I have to sit through another story about the Red Sox/Yankee rivalry. Somehow, the rosier sox get all the press. If New York and Boston have a rivalry, the White Sox fans have a blood vendetta for the Cubs. Rivalry Chicago style, the city that made gangland violence a world renowned spectacle, would never involve anything as silly as a supposed curse, a sunken piano, and an unfortunate trade.

In Chicago, it’s flat out class warfare. Southsiders, Sox fans, the have-nots, versus the northsider, Cubs fans, the haves. What’s particularly sad is that the haves have it so good, they only notice the have-nots’ distaste when die-hard Sox fans hold up signs at sold out home games demanding “Yuppie scum go back to Wrigley.”

My father is a die-hard Sox fan. He grew up in the have-not neighborhood just outside Comiskey Park. Of course, there was no money for him to go to games. The best he and my uncles could do was wait outside a back entrance and hope that some kind person would let a crowd of kids in after the 7th. He was freshman in high school during the 1959 World Series when the Sox played the LA Dodgers. To get to school, he had to change busses at 35th and Wentworth, just outside the park, so he watched all the lucky people with tickets going in. During those games, his teachers brought televisions into the classroom to let the boys from the neighborhood watch the game too. The Sox’s loss that year set him up for a lifetime of wishing.

When I was growing up, he took us to every home game he possibly could, the old Comiskey Park is the landscape of my childhood. I knew where the cracks in the pavement left the best puddles for splashing, spent time sneaking down into the gold box seats, checked out the view of the game from every row and section, and ate at the mom-and-pop owned Mexican food stand on the lower level.

I was at the last game played in Comiskey before they tore it down. The new park was ominously gleaming right beside it. After the game, as the crowd filed out we sang the Sox anthem (usually reserved for when the opposing teams change pitchers, when the Sox hit a home run, or at the end of a winning game) again and again. Na na na na, na na na na hey hey hey, goodbye, For once, it was a dirge. I cried.

I went to opening day at the new park, but everything that was Comiskey was gone, the Mexican food stand, the chipped green wood slatted seats, the feeling that the ghosts of old fans were watching along with you. Everything was corporate and neon, and I thought I was done with the Sox.

Shortly after that I moved to Alaska, and I haven’t been to a Sox game since. I’ve tried, but the Sox haven’t been home during any of my two-week visits. Just when it seemed the mountains of Alaska had replaced the crumbling old park in my imagination, just when I thought that last tether to home was breaking, they pull it out, White Sox style, and start pulling me home again.

So if it comes to it, and my dad asks, “So do you want me to get you a World Series ticket?” I’m going to say yes and I’ll let the plane ticket sort itself out. This is a family emergency. My dad may not have been able to get into the series in 1959, but we’re all going this time.

Yes, they won. Yes, we flew home. Here we are after their spectacular win of game 2. People were still singing “Na Na Na Na” when this picture was taken. It was Cedar’s first White Sox game. As a fan she’s off to a good start.

I entered this post in Scribbit’s Write Away Contest. Visit Scribbit. She’s great and she just won the Anchorage Daily News creative writing contest for best blog.

Tips for Camping with Kids: The Overnight Trip

After a spectacular failed trial run, we did it. We managed to go camping with our ten-month-old and two-year-old. Yes, it is possible to camp with babies and toddlers.

The planning for our one night trip to Chena Lakes surpassed any trip planning I had ever done. It was more complicated than packing for a remote canoeing trip down the Fortymile River, a backpacking trip up Kesugi Ridge, or a month long backpack through Italy. Adding a baby and a toddler to the baggage makes a trip twenty minutes from home feel like an expedition to Antarctica. Here’s what I learned.

1. Choose the right location. Wilderness backpacking with the wee ones could be a living hell. The prospect of carrying diapers, wipes, toys, and the baby in addition to all the usual gear is frightening, but a family friendly campground with lots of options can be heavenly. We chose Chena Lakes Recreation Area which offers bike trails, swimming, sandy beaches, canoeing, and even a playground with swings and a slide. One of the beaches is even designed for small kids. The roped off area is no more than two feet at its deepest. Cedar could walk out to the rope and back on her own. It wasn’t a remote wilderness experience, but it’s perfect for the toddler set.

2. Go on a weekday. This is probably difficult for most folks, but getting little ones to sleep in a crowded campground is difficult enough without the almost twenty-four hour daylight that we enjoy in Interior Alaska. Late night generators, shouting kids, and slamming outhouse doors can make it even harder. On weekdays campgrounds feature less of all three. At Chena Lakes on a Thursday night, we had the beach to ourselves all evening, and there wasn’t noise to distract anyone at bedtime. We also didn’t have to feel guilty about being those people—the ones with a crying baby and a toddler who always talks at volume eleven.

3. Bring absolutely everything. Seriously. Everything from our living room came along. We had sand buckets, shovels, books, teddy bears, and favorite blankets. We had a tricycle, a bike and trailer, and camp chairs. We even brought a potty. Helping a 24 pound two-year-old, who has occasionally fallen into the toilet at home, use an outhouse is a little nerve wracking. Back in our days as cabin dwellers we used to have hypothetical discussions of what one might retrieve if it fell down the outhouse–five dollars? twenty dollars? a wallet? jewelry? Parenthood has introduced a new option–your firstborn?

4. Buy the huge cheap tent. The tent isn’t for sleeping. When you’re introducing a crawling ten month old to camping, stopping her from eating rocks and dirt is a major consideration. We treated the tent as a giant play pen. It was only the place she could crawl without us constantly having to say, “No” and “Yucky.” In our backpacker past we used an expensive super lightweight two-person tent. For our current purposes we bought the cheap Coleman six person monster. It was perfect. Coral could push her Little Tikes truck around, roll her ball, and play with her sister without being eaten by mosquitoes or being tempted to eat baby-choking rocks.

5. Run no errands the morning of the camping trip. I should have known this. I went to fill the propane tank in the van’s kitchen the morning of the trip. It had a leak. I waited three hours as it sat hissing in the propane dealer’s parking lot before I could drive it home. In the future, if the thing we’re planning to pick up the morning of departure is something we can go without, we will go without it.

6. Pre-pack and label meals. Usually, we pack all the ingredients and cook on the trail. On this trip we learned that little ones make any kind of food preparation difficult. I thought I made it simple enough by planning on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, but after running around all afternoon and swimming in the cold water Cedar was hungry and bordering on tantrum. I couldn’t spread the jelly fast enough. Next time I’ll make the sandwiches in advance use gallon sized Zip Locks to sort breakfast dinner and snacks. Everything will be in there—food, utensils, drinks. When someone says, “I’m hungry,” all I’ll have to do is pull out the bag and hand over the food.

7. Divide and conquer at bedtime. TJ slept in the tent with Cedar and I slept in the van with Coral. Since they couldn’t see each other, they didn’t get each other riled up. Cedar listened to her bedtime story and passed out. Coral nursed and was out cold on the pull-out bed after twenty minutes.

8. Let them wear themselves out. Usually bedtime for Coral is 6:45. She went to sleep at 9:30. It was better than struggling to get her to relax at her normal bedtime. They just played and played and when they looked like they were going to fall over we stuffed them into their jammies and put them to bed.

9. Try just one night. It’s difficult to put so much planning into just one night, but for the first trip one night is enough. No matter how smoothly it all goes, as parents camping with babies is going to tire you out. We’re going to build up to two nights.

Was it fun? Cedar and Coral had a fabulous time. Did TJ and I have a good time? Hmmmm. At the end we were exhausted. It didn’t help that we forgot sugar for the coffee. Looking at the bright blue sky of a 9:00 pm Alaskan evening from the campground at Chena Lakes, I remembered the camping trips of our pre-kid life, quiet, full of long hikes, and views from high places. With kids it’s a different kind of camping, but everything else has been different so far too. I think we need to keep practicing and think about the fun question later.

Ban Plastic Grocery Bags: Even Fred Meyer Agrees

With its lack of zoning, obnoxious cyclone fenced frontage roads, and absent landscaping laws, Fairbanks is ugly enough. We don’t need thirty thousand plastic grocery bags floating around town like an errant flock of toxic plastic pigeons.

With the crowding of children’s toys, books, laundry, dishes, bills, and magazines, my house doesn’t need anything else in it. I didn’t need the mob of a thousand plastic grocery bags that had accumulated in the crawl space under the stairs. They had begun to function as insulation.

So this winter, I got rid of them. All of them. I walked into the foyer at Fred Meyer and stuffed them all into the receptacle marked, “Bag Recycling.” It was empty when I walked in and bursting when I walked out. I then went to Value Village and bought five excellent large canvas bags. I had been feeling guilty about it for years and finally I no longer take plastic bags.

On the days I forget my canvas bags, I have the cashier set all the items back into my cart after they’ve been scanned. I load them in the back of the car loose. Sometimes I do this even with the bags, so I can pack the items to my exacting specifications. Granted, I’ll make more of an effort to remember the bags when it’s -30 and I don’t want to spend any extra time out in the parking lot.

I feel good about the canvas bags. I’m doing something, small, but something. I feel free. I’m dragging less garbage into my house. Fred Meyer even gives me a little pat on the back. They offer a five cent per bag refund off your total when you bring your own bags.

Our great state has even begun to discuss doing something about the bags. Senator Kim Elton introduced SB 118 to institute a fee for plastic bags. I support the bill, but wish it would go further and ban them outright. It’s not just Alaska. There’s a growing movement to get rid of the disposable plastic shopping bag.

With the political pressure, our friends over at Fred Meyer have decided to do a little more to encourage reusable bags. Recently, a cashier ringing me up and packing my canvas bags mentioned that they had placed a display of canvas bags in front of the U-Scan check out. She said the pending legislation had inspired the management to offer them. She also shared statistics about how much the bags cost the store, leading me to believe the cashiers have recently been subjected to some training in corporate environmentalism.

A friend, and regular Fred’s shopper, who has been bringing her own bags for years told me that she sometimes feels like the cashiers groan when they see her–a baby-sling wearing, bandana-headed, organic-buying hippie mom with all her bags. In the last month that’s starting to change. Lately, the cashiers have been grimace-free and supportive of me and my bags.

My husband, who likes to leave the bags in car and pack them himself to avoid, as he puts it, “looking like a kook,” might feel like less of a kook in the current Fred Meyer political climate. Perhaps we can help him out. Please, Fairbanksans, turn down the bags. Bring your own. Thank Fred Meyer for the five cent bonuses. Contact your senator and ask him or her to support SB 118.

If enough of us do it, canvas bags will become the norm and we can all self-righteously glare at people carrying plastic bags. Let’s make them the pariah smokers of the future! Yes! We can do it if we all work together.

Review: Sportsman’s Warehouse, Fairbanks, Alaska

Sportsman’s Warehouse, 423 Merhar Ave. Fairbanks, Alaska 99701

A friend once described Field & Stream magazine as “porn for hunters.” If that’s so, then The Sportsman’s Warehouse is a hunting sex shop with every gadget imaginable and taxidermied animals providing a store-wide peep show. One musk ox is even in a big glass box like hairy, stuffed, dead go-go dancer.

It is a spectacle. The store is filled with everything anyone might need to hunt any animal in the entire world, from guns, to jon boats, to home tanning kits for hides, to pink fishing vests in toddler sizes (Cedar said, “I want that girl vest!”). We staggered through the aisles followed by the eyes in the animal heads adorning every wall. Cedar happily pointed at dead ducks, caribou, and moose as if we were visiting the zoo cemetery. Staring at an arrangement of a wolverine and a bear she exclaimed, “Look a bear family.” I took it to be a teachable moment and introduced her to a new species. Wolverines don’t appear often in children’s literature.

It was all too much for us. Too many choices. Too much pressure to buy. Too many little shopping carts lined up with little flags saying, “Customer in Training.” At two the only training I believe my child should be subjected to is potty training and I don’t appreciate corporate interests trying to teach her to buy before she has had the chance to learn to read. Overwhelmed by the overt corporate creepiness of the place, we left empty handed even though we were in need of a tent.

But not before visiting the bathroom, of course. During a potty emergency alarm, TJ tried to take Cedar to the men’s room. He ran out with her tucked under his arm like a football, and handed her to me saying, “You try it.” He wouldn’t tell me what happened.

I went into the women’s room and was stunned to find the best changing table in all of Fairbanks. It was immaculate. The belt was functional.

It even was fully stocked with changing table liners. I have never actually seen a changing table liner. They’re mythic, like unicorns. So many times when faced with a table covered with another baby’s explosive poop, I was sad to find the plastic dispensers empty. Although they’re plain white instead of cammo, at Sportsman’s Warehouse they’re available. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised though. I never saw a wolverine until I came to Sportsman’s Warehouse either.

In the spirit of packing every moment of your shopping experience with the opportunity to spend, Sportsman’s Warehouse has decorated the bathroom with priced, framed pieces of artwork depicting various animals in their natural settings. A magestic group of elk graces the wall above the handicapped toilet. A family of ducks swims above the changing table. If you decide to buy one of these, please wash your hands before asking a salesclerk to help you take it off the wall.

Moms, if you’re in the parking lot at the Lowe’s/Barnes & Noble/Old Navy complex and you need to change a diaper, or if you’re planning to take your infant gun shopping, Sportsman’s Warehouse is the place to go. The women’s bathroom is pristine. While you’re changing a diaper, you just might find the perfect piece of art for the living room.