Ricky Ricardo was mean. If you watch a few I Love Lucy reruns in a row, you can see the pattern:
- Lucy does something elaborately sneaky
- Ricky finds out and gets mad
- Ricky schemes with Fred Mertz to do something extremely humiliating to Lucy
- When it’s over, Lucy sends the look of love to Ricky and gives him a hug and kiss
So Lucy acts goofy to achieve a positive outcome and Ricky retaliates with the intent to scare, embarrass or debase Lucy to teach her a lesson.
Well, that was the patriarchy in the 50’s, I guess. Although I must say that my father was kind of a crab and was the unquestionable authority in our household but never did anything to purposely embarrass – let alone scare! – my mother or either of his daughters. (He did unintentionally embarrass us, though and plenty. Remind to tell you sometime about how he used to manage my wardrobe choices and fix my hair everyday for elementary school. Let’s just say the priority was utility, not fashion.)
So Ricky Ricardo is a character I have come to loathe. Until yesterday morning! The usual shenanigans were going on with Ricky and Fred playing dirty and Lucy and Ethel losing a crooked bet. The penalty was to serve breakfast in bed for a month to the winners . Ricky ordered orange juice, toast, bacon and basted eggs.
Basted eggs! Did you all know about this? I never heard of it so I immediately looked it up to find out that these were the eggs of my dreams. I made them for breakfast yesterday and today and predict this is going to be my go-to for the foreseeable future.
So a reluctant thanks to you for the tip Ricky, you arrogant son of a bitch.
p.s. Apparently I am in egg mode now. I also christened the refrigerator in the new house with the first batch of pickled eggs. Believe it or not, beet-pickled eggs are a thing sold in supermarkets here. I never bought them though because I enjoy making my own.
You know, I have to learn 3 new electronic project management systems and I’m avoiding it because my head is too full of all the things that I’ve already learned in my life. I joked that if I was going to add these 3 things, I’d have to make room by forgetting how to check the air pressure in the car tires or how to mend a sock (which I actually did to one sock one time in the 90s). But now that I think about it, I can safely let go of knowing how to make beet pickled eggs since the supermarket safety net has presented itself to me.
I was out of town last week and recovering from the trip (sleeping) over the weekend. thus the scarcity of blog posts. I set to early today all filled with an idea about Sinead O’Connor most recent meltdown and the time she ripped the Pope’s picture on Saturday Night Live and tying that to the current unfathomable “Pope”. At the time of the picture rip, my feeling was whatevs, if you belong then don’t be disrespectful / if you don’t belong then your opinion is invalid. Now, with the advent of this globally politicized Pope, I’m rethinking the infallibility angle and so I am now less inclined to disapprove of a little papal photo ripping.
Lots of things happened last week but now that I’m home and recovered (no longer sleep deprived), this is the one outstanding moment:
The hotel where I usually stay has a free breakfast buffet with two stacks of newspapers at the entrance to the buffet area. The paper on the left is the Wall Street Journal and the paper on the right is USA Today. Someone had mixed up the piles and I grabbed USA Today by mistake and realized it as soon as my eyes hit the print. It wasn’t until I read the first sentence of the article that caught my eye and realized that the message in the headline was quite different. The gist of the story was that after a 2 year review of 900 separate studies on genetically engineered crops, the conclusion was that they did not cause any increase in disease or damage to the monarch butterfly population, and were safe for humans and animals to eat. But the headline blared FRANKENFOOD. Biased much?
I never realized that USA Today was such a rag.
So now there’s an undercurrent of sadness that people who read this article will only remember the word frankenfood and not get the message that there’s no such thing as frankenfood. And also that the Sinead O’Connor Pope picture incident happened almost 25 years ago and not a single person that I work with today would understand what I was talking about.
subtitle: I’m tired and in a bad mood.
OMG with the Broncos already. Before the plane even landed, the pilot started yakking about the Broncos in between his ready-to-land patter. Then every touch point from the shuttle to the baggage carousel to the taxi to the hotel check in everybody had to blab about the Broncos.
This town is crazy about their football team under any circumstantial but throw in a little Superbowl on top of that and I tell you, it doesn’t look as if your average high-powered executive woman business traveler is not going to make it until the end of the week.
Also, you can’t get regular food here. It’s all deconstructed and fusion-ed and gawd knows what else. I tried to keep it simple by ordering a burger from the hotel restaurant and the first thing they asked me was what temperature would I like it served at? What kind of question is that? I told them to burn it on one side and then turn it over and do it again. Then give me 2 beers to wash it down.
I successfully avoided conversation about the Featured Chili Style Of the Day. Why can’t people just let things alone? It’s a burger and a bowl of chili fer cryin’ out loud not a religious experience.
I’m sure they’re all gathered into a cluster over there gossiping about how does a person not have a preferred burger temperature and waiting to get a look at me. I swear to gawd if they say something to me about the Broncos, I am going to give it to them right in the kisser with my whiskey onions and house-made bacon jam.
Update: I feel much better now after eating my burger of unknown temperature. I didn’t even mind that they covered my flash fried Brussels sprouts with izakaya butter and peanut sofrito.
It’s January 17th and we’re still eating Christmas cookies. Remind me about this next year, will ya?