November Won't Come Soon Enough

Some Bad BBQ

One of the things I miss most about Cleveland is Bubba's Q. I could eat there every day. Seriously. The BBQ is dynamite and the sides are pure south--total badass!

Because of Bubba's Q I crave quality BBQ every month, so I was delighted to see a new BBQ place in Rossford (about 20 mintues from Bowling Green) behind the Giant Eagle: Bad Bobs.

This past weekend on our date night FD and I went to Bad Bobs. And it was bad, not in the good way.

Let me begin my review by saying I have high expectations for BBQ joints; I realize this. But I know good BBQ can be done in Ohio, and I expect it. I am a food snob and I'm food conscious. I have high standards when I spend my hard-earned money on a meal I have not cooked. Maybe you aren't as particular as me, that's fine. But this is my review.

Upon walking into Bad Bobs, the first thing I noticed was how clean the joint is. It's immaculate with their practically sparkling clean tables and well-swept floors. I was happy.

The wait to be seated was about five minutes, which is pretty good for a busy Saturday night, and the place was pretty packed.

Our waitress promptly took our drink orders, which was fine. Everything was fine until I asked for a glass of wine. Then it went downhill. Bad Bobs only serves beer. If you like beer, you're in luck; it's pretty cheap and they have a good selection, according to FD. If you want anything else to drink, it's going to be pop or water. I understand liquor licenses can be tricky, so while this didn't make me especially happy it didn't ruin dinner.

Once FD got his beer and I got my water, our food came about 15-20 minutes later. The service is quick and friendly. There was no question about that.

The food is where my issues began. My beef brisket was exceptionally dry; I thought it would come with bbq sauce or I thought the waitress would tell me how it came: wet or dry. I was surprised because the waitress didn't tell me either way. The flavor of the brisket was okay. It was a little bland, but when I put bbq sauce on it, it tasted better. What was truly upsetting were the sides.

My side salad was clearly taken from a bag and plopped in a bowl, which what I expect from most BBQ places. However, at least it could have been spun a bit so it wasn't still wet from the bag. My green beans were runny and tasted metallic, which means they came from a can. That's disheartening. And my mac and cheese was runny, bland, and not cheesey at all. In fact, I told FD I would prefer to eat boxed mac and cheese over what was served. Additionally, the two plate sides were served in little plastic cups, which I didn't understand. Why not be eco-friendly and not use the cups? Just put the sides on the plate. I'm guessing because the plate would be a wet mess...Needless to say, I didn't eat my sides and only half of my brisket.

FD ordered a full slab of ribs: 1/2 wet and 1/2 dry rubbed. The dry rubbed ribs were exceptional: juicy, moist, flavorful--a real delight. His sweet potato casserole was pretty good too. Nothing special, but much better than the mac and cheese and green beans.

We walked out of Bad Bobs having spent about $48 on both meals and two beers. The prices weren't bad, but the lack of food quality (apart from the ribs) made me regret spending that much on the meal.

I would recommend Bad Bobs for those who aren't food snobby like me. It's a fine establishment. However, I won't be going back. I would rather just wait it out and go to Bubba's Q when we visit Cleveland.

FD said he would go back and get dry rubbed ribs for take-out and make his own sides. I would consider that; those dry rubbed ribs were amazing. And I bet they'd be even more so with my homemade mac & cheese and some fresh farmers market veggies.

Bad Bobs: 2.5 stars out of 5.
Bubba Q's: 4.5 out of 5.

Other Than Dog

Like many dog owners, FD & I have given Bleu various cutesy nicknames: baby dogbert, Bleu-ser, boo-boo-tron.

In addition to these nicknames, we have others. Ones that represent the various other animals Bleu embodies:

A Bear: He stands on his hind legs and tries to dance with us like a circus bear.

A Lion: Sometimes he has a mane. And his jaw is huge.

A Shark: He surfs a counter like a shark surfs a crowed beach.

A Pig: The way he eats and waddles and rolls around in mug makes us think he was a pig in a previous life.

This is just a sampling. The list could on much longer than my lunch break.

What animals does your dog or cat remind you of?

Once Forgotten

While rocking out to my Twilight mix (of course, made for each book, chapter by chapter--in some cases paragraph by paragraph--if you want a copy, let me know!) and prepping goodies for my cook-ahead, Slow Cooker Chicken Enchilada Casserole, I heard a song I haven't really heard in ages: "Have You Forgotten" by Red House Painters.

When I first heard that song was in my in-between-years as manager of the Saks Off-Fifth Women's Department at Aurora Farms in Aurora, Ohio, when I wanted to study poetry in a MFA program but more importantly I wanted to find myself. I listened to the song many times during many late nights doing stupid shit (there's no other way to put it) with my then (and still) bestees: Gattozzi, PL, & Stokes.

My most vivid memory with "Have You Forgotten" is in Grad School, though. I had wandered down to Falstaff's on my way home from teaching one Friday evening--early on in my Grad career, my first semester. This was my fav bar which happened to be the best burger joint in town: in Grad School my two favorite things comboed in one.

The owner and cook, John, knew me by name. (Yes, it was a Cheers moment every time I walked in.) I was in there one night sipping my Jack & Coke and devouring my cheeseburger and fries after a rough week when I heard "Have You Forgotten."

John was an avid indie radio supporter, and the song was most likely playing on the college radio station. I don't remember. But what I remember was in a bar the size of any good college bar with glossed oak wood counters and four pool tables, it was just me and John listening to "Have You Forgotten."

No one else was in the bar.

That was the loneliest moment of my life.

I missed my brother, my sister, my parents, my Stokey, my Gattozzi, my PL, my Alice, my life in Kent, my job with designer clothes perks, the love of my life (wherever he was), and myself.

What's weird is I never remembered that specific emotional state until tonight. I've heard that song countless times since then, but never with any emotional potency.

What made tonight so special? The smell of onions browning in a non-stick LeCruest skillet?

Food and memory are intrinsically linked...

At first I thought to include this memory in a private letter to my friend PL with a stack of CD burns I've been promising to send him since December, but for some reason that didn't seem to be enough.

This past weekend my sister-in-law Suz told me I needed to update my blog. That she missed it. That she enjoyed reading it.

I thought to myself, "For real? My blog is a joke."

I complain. I whine. I rant.

But the smell of onions reminded me:

I share.

I remember.

I appreciate.

That's good enough by me.

What else are blogs for?

Resolutions...Then Again...

The holidays have kept me MIA.

But while the potatoes are roasting in the oven and before I stem some greens & carve up some ham, I thought I'd wish you, dear reader, a Happy 2009!

Of course, last night FD & I, joined by a fabulous couple we absolutely adore, dined at Revolver for their special 8 course celebration meal. As always, it was the best meal ever. They continually top themselves.

Which got me thinking.

This year I'm going to continually top myself. ("That's what she said.")

Seriously, this year I'm going to challenge myself--in my job AND my art. I'm going to disregard "What If"s and push myself to live without reservations or worries. I'm not going to second-guess myself; I'm going to accept humanly fallible. And most of all I'm going to embrace the facets of myself I truly love and focus on strengthening them & sharing them with others.

(Why is it so much I say can be followed with "That's what she said"?)

I'm excited to see what 2009 has in store for me as a skeptic, composition instructor, assistant director, writer, reader, doggie-mama, techie, Alicia's Voice board member, Wick Poetry Center alum, locavore, SmartWater drinker, daydreamer, & queen of typos.

Actually, I resolve to reduce my typos...

Christmas Cookies (Round 1)

FD & I frosted them tonight as we listened to Christmas music.

We had a blast.

And when we finished we realized it was snowing out. Hard.

I love winter.

Most special of the cookies: the Law & Order snowman and the red angel with star eyes.

A Kinda Christmas Story

The urge starts like the jingle of a tiny bell: Tink. Tink. Slowly, it builds like an orchestra. Strings. Horns. Percussion. All together. I have to go; there is no holding. None.

Usually the instance I felt a tingle in my bladder, I jumped up and ran to the bathroom. I was a bed-wetter. I couldn’t be trusted to hold, and I knew better than doing so. I had gotten too used to the hot liquid turning cold fast against my bum, the angry flick of light switches in my bedroom, the bathroom, then the laundry room, the stink of vinegar water on my mattress, the swoosh of sleeping bag against floor, and overwhelming guilt of being a bed-wetter. At home it’s one thing, but around family I never see, it’s completely different.

The Christmas Eve I was seven, my mom and I hitched a ride to Chicago with my grandpa and grandma in their Crown Victoria to visit my uncle and his family. Sure, the whole way there I had to pee, but I was with an old lady who had to pee all the time. For once it wasn’t my fault that we stopped at almost every rest area along snowy the Ohio turnpike. No adult questioned the validity of my bladder’s urge and hushed my requests to stop with “you can hold it until the next one.” Finally, there was an adult who had to go as much as me. It was the first time I had traveled in complete bladder comfort.

That night I slept on the pull-out couch with my cousin Katie and cousin Matt. I could barely sleep thinking of Santa. I tossed and turned, bumping Katie’s reindeer print flannel arm and leg while continually whispering to Matt that he was wimp for not staying up with me. The red, green, and blue outdoor Christmas lights that wrapped around the bushes in their yard and their neighbors cast a warm glow in the sunken den of our room.

Up the stairs of the sunken den was the kitchen, then the great room with the front door and chimney, then a hallway where the three bedrooms were. At the end, the bathroom. My aunt and uncle were the closest to it. I hadn’t seen their bedroom, but I imagined them sound asleep based on the contagious yawns I saw at our early evening arrival. My grandparents were second closest. I pictured them sleeping on Matt’s twin sized beds, each in a separate bed, an arm’s length away from each other. My mom was third closest. I thought I heard her loud eggnog induced snore from Katie’s room, trailing downstairs to me, the farthest person from the bathroom. I found the thought of each family member sleeping in a room much closer to the bathroom than me, not comforting but thoroughly upsetting.

Immediately, my bladder jingled its tiny bell.

I had to get up; there was little time for such a far run. Rolling over Katie, thumping on the floor, that’s exactly the moment I heard it.

Scratch. Scratch. Neigh.

I froze, crouched on the green shag carpet.

Scratch. Neigh. Scratch.

Santa was here.

My first thought was: if he sees me, I’ll scare him away before he sees the picture of Poochie I colored for him, before he eats the special sprinkle cookies, before he sets the shiny presents under the tree. Piss my pants or risk no presents. I’d be damned after how good I had been that year to not get presents. And I certainly did not want my distant relatives glaring back and forth between the present-less, brown pine needle-ridden tree skirt and me. I squeezed my thighs together, squinted my eyes shut, pressed my hands over my ears, and prayed Santa would be quick about his business.

Each second the urge to pee grew. The bell was joined by the strings, the strings joined by the horns, seconds later the percussion section took over until all I could hear under my sweaty palms was the drumming of pain in my bladder, throbbing in every nerve of my body. I tightened my vaginal muscles like the doctor told me. I counted. I breathed. Just like the doctor said. 10. Inhale. Exhale. 11. Inhale. Exhale. The burning sensation began. 12. Inhale. Exhale. I felt a little trickle escape. It was only seconds before my urine made a prison break. I looked to the stairs, consciously clutching my vaginal muscles, preparing my body for movement. I had to chance no gifts. I had to make the break.

I popped up like the little flower I was in the past spring’s play, and when I was up, I ran like never before. I jumped the stairs, my bare feet making sticky noises against the kitchen linoleum. I passed through the great room’s threshold, and zoomed passed the reflection of myself in the front door’s glass. Rounding the 8 foot glimmering Christmas tree, I tripped on the hem on my long flannel nightgown. The hardwood cold underneath me, I crouched for a moment on my palms and knees, gathering myself. So far no leakage. My thighs were still tight. I could make it. I took a deep breath and rose to a slight chuckle.

Looking up, I saw a round belly jiggling slightly, shiny black buttons, a white beard twitching. I literally had stumbled upon Santa, who was looking at our pictures and chewing on a cookie. When we made contact, he winked at me. I know it sounds cliché like something from a holiday movie scene, but I swear he was before me in all his magical flesh. This Santa was not some dude at the mall or my grandpa dressed up. He was the real deal. I could tell by his wink. My grandpa couldn’t wink without closing both eyes. I gave Santa a smile and a curtsey. He motioned his head towards the bathroom. The pain returned swiftly, and again I was racing down the hallway. I flung open the door, slammed it shut. I danced my panties off. I sat on the rim without putting the seat down. I didn’t care. The rush of liquid was exhilarating. It wasn’t until my first orgasm that I realized pissing after holding for a long time feels almost exactly the same.

Of course, Santa was gone when I reentered the great room. Crumbs from his cookies rested on the plate and on the chair. I had triumphantly seen Santa. A tale to tell to make all kids jealous. I was proud tiptoeing my way back to bed, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep after glimpsing the stacks of shimmering paper and perfectly puffed fabric bows. Christmas would happen after all. I wouldn’t be blamed for scaring off Santa, but soon I realized I would never be believed for seeing him.

(Thanks to Ray Ray for helping this essay come to fruition.)

During My Research

This article says everything I've been thinking about.

I wish I had written it.

Yes, I'm This Obsessed

Just So You Know, I'm Totally Kidding

Another obsession: telling cute kids under the age of 3 and my dog that I want to "eat them" and pretending their limbs are corn on the cob.

Bon Appetite: mon Bleu de chien! (Who, apparently would be quite tasty!)

Why on earth would one want to eat their children and/or dog?

For now, I (among others) speculate it may have something to do with the only way to truly consume something is to eat it, ingest it, let it become part of our own bodies. Or maybe those scary European bedtime stories are to blame; you know the ones where two kids are plumped up with candy and then shoved into an oven for a witch's dindin? Or maybe it's because we watch too much FoodTV, which tells that food equals love?

I'm determined to get to the bottom of this sometime soon.

I need to for my own mental and legal safety and the safety of my dog as well as all the cute children in the world with chubby, edible cheeks, legs, and arms.

What Goes Around...: A Yoga Reflection

Today I endured countless gripping from students: "Do we have to peer review?" "I don't have a peer review copy. That means I can't peer review."

My responses: "Peer review is good for you. Do it." And "Run. Right now. Find the closest lab and print out a peer review copy if you want to be considered present today. Do it!"

All the while I kept thinking to myself, "If I was a student, I wouldn't be so whiny and reluctant."

Once again, I eat my words.

During yoga class tonight, I whined and pleaded with my yoga teacher to "please not make me do that pose again." I dished out all the rations of shit I got from my kids today.

The exception is I feel horrible about it. (But, for the record, my teacher handled it with much grace & encouragement.)

I find, though, that the poses I'm most reluctant with are the ones that I feel the most and are the ones that, in the best of ways, challenge me the most. I need a good challenge. Always. For example, Crane & Handstand.

Three notes to self: 1.) Press down in my hands for a sturdy handstand.

2.) In Warrior I & II tuck the pelvis to open up the kidneys. Practice Warrior III more intently for handstand practice, according to Yoga Journal.

3.) Stop being such a wimp about Crane Pose (photo cred: Yoga Journal). Widen the hands, creep up on the toes, tuck the knees deep into back of the armpits, place head on the floor, and press up--pump up through the hands.

I'm noticing a hand theme emerging.

Another challenge lies ahead.

I promise that's NOT a gripe but rather a positive statement.

I Haven't Been This Crazed in a Long While...

Confession: I once sent Josh Hartnett a care package with a mix tape & handmade friendship bracelet after seeing him in The Faculty. If you ever ask me about this, I'll deny it.

I fell hard for New Kids on the Block in 6th grade. So hard I blew probably the equivalent in cash of my whole college education on Big Bopper magazines & tape for plastering my walls. (Not to mention, actual plaster & paint after having to take them all down when we moved.)

Now, as a woman in my 30's, I have a totally new obsession: the movie Twilight. I admit I am/was obsessed with the book series first, but the writing never really made me love them like I love Pride & Prejudice. What made me love them was the plot & drama of it all. What's fantastic about the movie is I get to bypass the long tedious passages for the quick visual & mindlessness of watching hot boys on the big screen. Normally, I prefer the books, but in this case, NO WAY!

I haven't done anything obsessive as send Robert Pattinson a care package or carve a Twilight pumpkin (as found on a Twilight fan page on Facebook). However, I have seen the movie twice, and I can't stop thinking about Edward Cullen, which I consider a bit obsessive at my age.

Of course, all this seems quite innocent, but for some reason I have to turn it into some big deal. I know a lot of popular culture appeals to teens, and I've always been proud of my involvement & support of teen culture and pop culture. I realize that media is valuable mindless pleasure that helps us escape from bills, work, & seemingly trivial life bullshit. And I realize most times my most brilliant writing ideas come after giving myself a break with this mindless pleasure. All of this I'm cool with.

What bothers me most is that I was a Jacob fan while reading the books, and now after seeing the movie, I adore Edward. I was skeptical of Robert Pattinson as Edward, but the more I see the movie, the more I firmly believe he was the perfect choice. He captured the essence of Edward while being extremely easy on the eyes. I was dissatisfied with my poor Jacob. He was cool & friendly, but not what I expected from Jacob. Of course, in Twilight the book, Jacob hasn't really "matured" yet, but still...I'm upset to be swooning so hard for Edward.

And I'm happily married & I realize Edward isn't real, but I care enough about this to blog about it. I find that weird.

Just as NKOTB made a comeback & their sold out shows were mostly packed with 30 year-old fans who never stopped loving them, I think the same, in a sense, is why so many adult fans are in love with Twilight & Edward. The feeling of the book & the movie reminds me of those awkward days when I was 17--unsure I'd meet my soul mate and, more importantly, unsure about myself while being extremely cocky and maybe a bit whiny at the same time. Perhaps it's the ignorance of those days I miss. Or that surprise element of angst-ridden drama. (Though, Lord knows I NEVER want to experience that drama again. But it's cathartic/rewarding watching Bella & the not-so-17 Edward going through it...)

And seeing a movie like Twilight is inspiring, in the sense that, I'm lucky to be married to my own version of Edward & to know that romanticism isn't dead after all--that it just takes hard to work to make a life with your unconditional love and, above all, that movies with bathroom humor can be beat out by a love story, no matter how cheesy that story might be at times.

One Part of a Weekend That Made Me Extremely Happy

Jane Mead reading.

Photo cred: Karen Babine.

Happy Day #2

I've been getting periodic phone calls from the Hubs making sure I'm feeling okay after I told him this morning, "I feel like someone has tipped me over and stomped all over my body."

I'm grateful for those phone calls & all his love.

Happy Day #1

As motivation to blog more often and appreciate the happy moments of each day, I'm beginning a "Happy Day" series. (Viva La Fonz!) I'm not going to commit to a year of these posts or anything, but I really believe posting a few would help my morale & blogging frequency.

To kick off the series I have two happy moments to share:

1.) To calm my not-so-bad-but-normal nerves today before my interview for the job I already have (just go with it!), I remembered my lovely dinner date at Revolver with my totally awesome hubby. The food & the love made me feel giddy, which I believe came across fully in my interview.

2.) This morning Babine & I went for an hour long walk. Talking and laughing made my cardio workout fun and made me love Babine even more.

Happy Day Yay!

Happy 1st Birthday, Levon Hubert Bleu McGuire Rzicznek!

Then...

















Now...At one year old...

Guess Who's Visiting BGSU today?

If only it was the Tina Fey version of Palin...

Then I'd be excited, not fearful.












Picture courtesy of FoxNews.

Teaser

The Why & Later Readers at the KBG Bar.

More on my AWESOME trip to NY coming very soon.

Thanks to Carly, Erin, & Kiely for making it extremely special.

When The Cow Came Home

While obsessing over food this year, I decided to take my meat-buying by the horns. (Lame pun intended.)

I could bore you with the facts about grass-fed beef and its health benefits and supporting local farms and the slow food movement, but I don't have enough time at the moment. (I'm heading off to Detroit then NYC for another soon-to-be-blogged adventure...)

I do, however, have a moment to welcome home Rudy, our grass-fed quarter of beef from Luginbill Family Farms.

As you can see, Bleu was just as excited as us to have many cuts of beef to choose from.

One of the happiest moments I've had in a long time was picking up our meat from the processor. As geeky as it sounds, I'm beyond ecstatic to know where our cow was raised and slaughtered. I still can't stop smiling at the fact that every cut of meat in our deep freezer bears my name.

How cool is that?

I Really Need to Stop Thinking So Much

Normally on Twitter my 140 character updates come pretty easily.

Today it was different. I had several different things I wanted to say and they all got jumbled so I just said I had several things to say and I figured I post them here because I don't have a character limit.

Being that I have such a rich online life is a blessing. I'm keeping in touch with old friends I dearly love who live far, far away from me. (The fabulous picture was taken by my great friend E.Waters who posted it to Facebook today! How rad to be able to keep in touch with her!) I get to meet new friends from all around the globe. And I get to feel pretty smart being in the know about all the new techy stuff. And Web 2.0 has several important education benefits that have enriched my teaching career.

With that said, the downside is sometimes my online life makes me feel like a huge loser. I thinking about the times I write on a friend's Facebook wall & he/she doesn't respond to me but he/she responds to all these other people & I have to see how much he/she loves his/her other friends on my News Feed. Or when I try to reach out & respond to a Tweet, I get silence in return. Or worst is seeing how awesomely exciting and action-packed everyone else's lives are & all the cool shit I'm missing out on.

I think the reason I felt so jumbled on Twitter is because if I Twitter what I love about the internets, then I come across as a loving, normal person, which is exactly what I want to portray to the online community. However, if I tweet about feeling like a loser, I come across as a whiny, sad, lonely, unhappy hermit. Which is NOT the case. It's just that internets sometimes brings out my self-conscious side, and I want to be able to express that feeling without feeling like even more of a loser.

(But I'm probably looking more like a loser by talking about how I sometimes feel like a loser but I don't want peeps to think I'm a loser.)

For the most part, I don't care what people think. But then again I must if I'm thinking about all the unanswered wall writings, unanswered tweets, unanswered phone calls, unanswered blog posts, etc. etc. etc.

But the other side of the coin is this: we're all freaking crazy busy. How on earth could we respond to every little internet interaction?! If we did we'd go bonkers! And what about all the wall posts, blog comments, tweets, etc. I've left unanswered? Did I cause someone to feel like a loser? Like I don't have time for them? Like I don't care about them?

Now I'm a happy, go-lucky, loser asshole.

In other words, I've been over-thinking the internets and internet friends way too much, and this little psychotic rant is just a taste of a few minutes inside my head. NOT fun.

But let me be clear, I LOVE my online life and my actual life. In fact, I find my actual life quite rich and beyond satisfying. I'm not convinced I'm an all-out loser. I just can see why so many creative-minded people I know avoid having an online life; obviously, they don't want to feel all this rush of crazies every few days (or few minutes).

I wonder how you cope with your online life vs your actual life. Does any one else feel this discord? If you do, how do you avoid it?

It's very possible starting the new semester has awoken by brain a little too much.

In other acutal life news, my students are great, teaching is going well, Bleu is doing well, and I'm seriously considering applying for the reality tv show Big Brother.