Showing posts with label sugar packets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sugar packets. Show all posts

Sunday, July 4, 2010

SugarPackets: The Meaning Behind The Name

((EDITED TO ADD: The blog name may have changed, but my love for Tamara hasn't. This story is still worth reading and very much worth remembering. Long live the SugarPacket!)

Did I ever tell you the meaning behind my blog name of SugarPackets?

I didn't think so. It holds a place dear to my heart. I share it now.

Tamara is one of the best friends I've ever had. I will tell you the story of how we met and became friends and you will fall in love with her and a little more deeply in love with ME (which is always important).
Years ago, I was a nail technician. I was working with a client and Tamara was having her nail appointment with the technician behind me. My client and I were chatting and laughing and having a lovely time. Tamara's tech was saying next-to-nothing and Tamara found herself eavesdropping on my conversation with my client. (This is easy to do, as my voice tends to project.)
She went home to her fiance, Kevin and told him...something.
She broke a nail two days later and came in to have it repaired...with me. Kevin came with her. In the course of our ten minute appointment, she kept looking back at Kevin and exchanging a "look" with him. I went to ring her up for her repair and when I returned I heard Kevin say, "Will you just ask her, babe?"
*serious look from Tamara*
"Erika? Will you be my friend? I think you're really awesome and funny and I'd like to hang out with you."
*jaw drop* How could anyone say no to that?! She's wonderful and she thinks I'm wonderful too!
That was...*counting*...fourteen years ago.

When Tamara and I talk, we have so much to say to each other that we have to be reminded of the stories we want to share. If we don't, our time together will come to a close and we'll have forgotten to share that super-incredible story of awesomeness and that just won't do.
We found a solution. Well, SHE did.
We were having lunch together...way back when we lived a mere twenty minutes from each other. *sigh* She lined up a few of the restaurant's sugar packets on the table in front of her. Each packet represented a tale. Sugar packets! It's ingenious!
We'd "ante" them up like poker chips when we needed to remind ourselves of a topic we wanted to discuss. It's become sort of a "thing" we do...and it's caught on here with a lot of friends. Of course, we don't always have access to ACTUAL packets of sugar at all times, so it's become a verbal placeholder over the years. My husband, my mother, friends and friends' friends as well, will now say, "Sugar packet", and when one story is finished or one topic exhausted, the Sugar Packet is retired back to the invisible caddy on the table and another "sugar packet" is ante-ed up. We don't have to interrupt or forget that we had something to say and if we happen to go off on a tangent, we come back to the Sugar Packet at hand.

And that, gentle reader, is the story of the origin of Sugar Packets.
Ooh! Sugar Packet! Remind me to tell you the one about Tamara and the garlic pizza!

Sunday, April 11, 2010

NO means "NO" - A Lesson In Self-Control

Pizza seduces me. It tempts me with its slightly browned cheese and its rich and nommable tomato sauce. It whispers, "Eat me" and without hesitation I do. I can't help myself.

I was having a(nother) piece of pizza at dinner tonight, despite the annoying little voice that said,

"No, Erika. Put that back. You don't want another slice."

I ignored that voice and went for the second helping:

"Add more crushed red pepper! Mama-Mia, I like-a the spicy pizza!"


Yes. In my fevered frenzy of seasoning, the smallest particles of (really) crushed red pepper caught the wind of the ceiling fan and...I peppered myself.


After about ten minutes of flushing my very sore, very red eyes under the bathroom faucet and cursing the employees of McCormick Spices and their offspring and their offspring's offspring and anyone who knew their offspring's offspring, I spent another ten minutes enduring watery eyes and an uncontrollably runny nose. I now understand what it is that pepper spray will do to an assailant.

I have learned my lesson. If I insist on forcing myself on the pizza, I MUST NOT ARM THE PIZZA. (Clearly, I was asking for it.) Better yet, I should steer clear of that Italian-American tease and never think of it again.

"NO" means "NO". I get that now.

I guess I didn't really want that piece of pizza after all. Now that I think about it, it probably had a parasite in its pepperoni.

(Ah-HA! Did you see what I did there? I rejected the pizza, it didn't reject me. I dumped it first, therefore I win. Humph!)

*quietly* Slut.

Some Other Stuff I Wrote