My husband often brings home leftovers from his office. We have a bag of taco shells in our pantry that Mike brought home from the remains of a catered lunch (and that have made their way into the coming week’s meal plans). Once in a while, he ferries home a doughnut or two. On Friday, Mike brought some Greek salad and an almost empty bottle of sweet chili sauce back to our house.
I actually love sweet chili sauce, particularly the Thai kind. But this bottle of sauce (which came from a local restaurant that had catered the office meal) I did not appreciate. The contents themselves were fine. Great, even. But the labeling–which somebody at Mike’s office had attempted to cover with a sticker, but it rubbed off after getting damp–on this container sent a message that almost made my blood boil.
The name of this sauce is–brace yourself–Smack My Sweet Ass and Call Me Sally. The image depicting this moniker shows a brunette, jean-clad woman with a bright red hand print on the seat of her pants. I snapped a picture of the bottle but actually changed my mind about posting it here; if you click the link above, you can see the bottle for yourself.
We’ve had sauce before with inventive names…Bull Snort, Butt Burner, the like. But this one incensed me. Outraged me. I wouldn’t let it be on the table where my children could see it. I’d never want my boys to see this kind of indefensible behavior toward a woman treated as something funny. Because this is a demonstration of rape culture. Sounds extreme, perhaps. But casually using crass behavior toward women to sell stuff, handling unwanted physical advances toward women in such a flippant manner…that’s how the devaluing of women shows up in our culture. (And, just to reiterate, my husband’s office didn’t buy this specific bottle of sauce; it came with the meal from the restaurant that did the catering.)
The description on the label of this hot sauce bottle begins with a question: Who knew getting smacked could be so sweet? I’ve been smacked before, and I can guarantee you that it wasn’t sweet. When I lived in Romania, if I walked anywhere alone (which I frequently did; it was my home for a year) I would plaster a scowl on my face as I walked by men, any men. I would be careful to avoid eye contact, walk briskly, and scowl. I mentioned this offhandedly to my friend Jodi, who had traveled to Romania to serve as a missionary kid teacher that year, and she commented that she did the same thing. I was stunned. Other women feel this way, too–have this fear, too? We (and other women) were worried about doing anything that might be perceived as inviting unwanted attention.
I hated feeling I needed to do this. I liked being a person who smiled; I liked trying to get children in Romania to smile back at me on the tram. But even in broad daylight, even just walking to mail a postcard, I felt I constantly had to be on my guard. Sexual assault had happened to me once before, when I spent the summer in Hungary. And there were moments when I felt threatened, scared during my time in Romania by men there. The scowl became my defense, and Jodi’s, too.
So allowing my sons to be exposed to the normalizing of this kind of behavior toward women is not going to happen. Not in my house. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, nobody’s sons should be exposed to this. Nobody’s daughters, either. And that’s why I contacted the company Friday night, explaining that I would never, ever buy their product because I would never, ever buy into the concept of mocking this kind of treatment of women so they can sell a hot sauce.