The Pooploop

Real talk. Real women.

I QUIT THE DAMN BBQ. (FOR REAL THIS TIME.)

Let me open with the plot twist I somehow missed for, oh, A DECADE: my husband LOVES to BBQ. My oldest son? ALSO LOVES TO BBQ. The grill is their happy place. Their art form. Their man-cave-on-fire. They are out there bonding over brisket, talking rubs and smoke rings and “perfect sear” like it’s the Food Network. It’s their THING, and honestly? I LOVE THAT FOR THEM.

Meanwhile, I have diverticulitis and lactose intolerance. Translation: red meat wrecks my insides, dairy is a crime scene, and most classic BBQ food might as well come with a little warning label that says, “Hey girl, enjoy this, but also clear your schedule for the next 48 hours.” I don’t eat half this stuff. SOME DAYS I DON’T EAT MUCH OF ANYTHING.

So here’s the punchline that finally hit me like a greasy comet: I have been slaving in inferno heat, year after year, to make MOUNTAINS of BBQ food I CAN’T EVEN EAT, for people who ACTUALLY LOVE COOKING IT. What in the actual bull$hit was that?

The Heat Is Not “Warm.” It Is A Personal Attack.

Listen. I need everyone to stop calling it “BBQ weather.” It is not “BBQ weather.” It is I-AM-MELTING-FROM-THE-INSIDE-OUT weather. This is not cute. This is not “oh let’s just toss some burgers on the grill.” No. This is FULL-BODY SAUNA, with bonus grease and a side of “Did I just get sunburned from the refrigerator light?”

The second I open that sliding glass door, the air hits me like a wet oven. My eyebrows curl. My bra disintegrates. My diverticulitis flares just from the SMELL of burgers. My lactose intolerance is in the back, whispering, “If she even looks at the potato salad, we riot.” My internal organs are like, “We’re done here, babe. Good luck with those hot dogs.”

The Gooky Crap Parade To The Grill (Starring Food I Can’t Eat)

And what am I carrying, every single time? A tray of GRADE-A GROSSNESS that I WILL MAYBE NIBBLE ONE BITE OF, MAX. Raw meat, drowning in marinade, sloshing around in sticky little puddles. I’m talking gooky crap in every direction. My hands are slick, the tongs are slick, there’s this weird congealed blob of something on the side of the bowl and I’m pretending I don’t see it because if I think too hard about it, I will simply pass away.

I’m shuffling out there like some kind of BBQ barmaid, holding this dripping, gooky tray of raw chicken, burgers, sausage, mysterious “chef’s choice” meats that my husband “found on sale.” It’s all marinated in something sticky, sugary, and suspicious. It’s on my wrists. It’s on the door handle. It’s probably on the dog. And the cosmic joke is: MY GUT CAN’T EVEN HANDLE THIS MENU.

Meanwhile, my husband is at the grill like KING OF THE MEAT, in his happy place, doing what he genuinely LOVES. My oldest son is right there with him, learning, flipping, checking temps, being all adorable and grown and proud. And I’m over here realizing: oh, they didn’t need me to be the sacrificial BBQ goat all these years. They would have been THRILLED to own this.

The Grimy, Gooky, Congealed Aftermath

Let’s talk about AFTER. No one ever wants to talk about AFTER. They just shove their plates in the general direction of the trash and disappear, and I’m left in what looks and smells like a smokehouse crime scene.

Everything is slimy. Everything is grimy. There is congealed mystery grease on every surface. The tongs. The counter. The sink. That cute little “BBQ” platter I bought one year when I still had hope in my eyes. There are little dots of dried marinade on the cabinets like modern art. The grill brush looks like it survived a war.

And me? I’m doing all this cleanup for food that my gut has already filed a restraining order against. I’m wiping up congealed slime like, “Wow, what a beautiful spread I didn’t eat.”

The Condiments That Just Roll On Out

Oh, the condiments. As soon as people hear “BBQ,” the condiments wake up like, “IT’S OUR TIME.” They just roll on out. Mustard, ketchup, relish, mayo, barbecue sauce, hot sauce, three kinds of pickles, onions, some fancy aioli someone saw on TikTok and bought once in 2021 that now lives forever in the back of the fridge.

I am the Condiment Sherpa. I’m running in and out, arms full of sticky plastic bottles, putting them in little caddies, lining them up “so it looks nice.” For who? The same people who will leave the ketchup open, oozing down the side like it’s auditioning for a horror movie, and then abandon it on the edge of the STONE TILE TABLE in 90-degree heat.

The Sides: A Full-Time Job With Beans I Can’t Digest

And don’t even come at me with “It’s just burgers and dogs, so easy!” Oh really? Is it easy, Carol? Because last I checked, THE SIDES DO NOT MAKE THEMSELVES.

Beans. BEANS. I don’t care if they’re homemade or I lovingly opened a can and jazzed them up so people would think they were homemade — it’s effort and it’s money. Potato salad. Coleslaw. Pasta salad. Corn. All the dips, the chips, the little cut-up veggies so everyone can pretend we care about fiber. ALL OF IT has to be chopped and mixed and seasoned and then hauled outside into the seventh circle of sun.

Everything’s in nice bowls so it looks pretty, and within ten minutes the ranch dip has a weird warm skin on it, the pasta salad is sweating, the coleslaw is weeping, and the beans are basically lava. Also, reminder: I can barely eat any of this without my intestines filing a formal complaint. But sure, let me just risk my colon for Aunt Brenda’s third scoop of beans.

Napkins, Plates, and The Existential Crisis Over Plastic Forks

Then there’s the tableware. Do we do nice heavy-duty plates so Aunt Brenda doesn’t complain her plate “flopped” under the weight of her third burger? Or do we save money and do the meh plates that bend if you even THINK about baked beans?

Either way, I HAVE AGONIZED OVER IT. I have stood in Target staring at plastic cutlery like I am choosing medical equipment. White forks? Clear forks? Are we doing matching napkins? Do the napkins have a cute little flag on them? Is this the moment my children remember me as “the mom who didn’t try” because I bought the wrong paper plates? This is the mental load no one talks about, while my gut is whispering, “Sis, you know you’re not even eating the potato salad, right?”

Inside Clean, Outside Cute: The Double Life of a BBQ Host

I am decorating the outside table like it’s a magazine spread — tablecloth, centerpiece, coordinated napkins, all of it — while also sprinting inside to make sure the bathroom is sparkling and there isn’t a rogue sock in the hallway. I’m lighting candles and fluffing pillows like people are even going to NOTICE, when really all they care about is if we have more chips.

So now I’m sweating in two zones. Indoor sweat and outdoor sweat. I am doing cardio with a side of emotional damage and a bonus round of “Will this coleslaw land me in the ER?”

The STONE TILE TABLE FROM HELL

And let me tell you about my outside table. It is STONE TILE. You know what stone tile becomes in the summer heat? A GRIDDLE. A literal griddle. You could cook the burgers directly on that thing. It absorbs the sun and then radiates Satan’s breath directly up into your face while you’re trying to place the potato salad “just so.”

You set your forearm down for one second to reach for the mustard? SIZZLE. You go to wipe up a little spot of spilled dip? Congratulations, you just volunteered for a second-degree burn. The stone tile table is not furniture. It is an appliance of torture. It is the official altar of the Hell BBQ Realm.

The Hell BBQ Realm

Welcome, ladies, to the Hell BBQ Realm. Population: us. Not our husbands who love playing Grill King. Not our sons who are thrilled to flip burgers like they’re auditioning for their own cooking show. US. The ones sweating, hauling, cleaning, and apparently running a full-service restaurant for fun.

In the Hell BBQ Realm, the air is thick and sticky, and you are permanently one step away from fainting into the baked beans. You are carrying out trays of raw meat, each piece coated in some glistening, gooky marinade that drips between the grill grates and immediately transforms into blackened, congealed slime.

The grill is belching heat directly into your face, while the sun bakes you from above and the stone tile table roasts you from below. You are being cooked from every direction like a rotisserie chicken in capri pants.

Everything you touch is slimy or sticky or grimy. The marinade bowl: gooky. The tongs: greasy. The counter: a film of something that used to be sauce and is now a hardened mystery substance. The plates on the stone tile: fusing to the surface like they’re part of a permanent exhibit called “Suburban Sacrifice.”

Condiments sweat little greasy tears down their sides. The relish is gummy. The ketchup has that horrifying dried ring around the opening that looks like a crime. The mustard bottle falls over in the heat and rolls slowly toward the edge of the table like it too is trying to escape.

The sides sit out there in the humidity, slowly transforming into different life forms. The coleslaw is turning into some kind of cabbage soup situation. The potato salad is one hour away from becoming a CDC issue. The dips have that oily little puddle forming on top, but we all just stir it back in and pretend we don’t see it. The beans? BUBBLING. ACTUALLY BUBBLING. Mini volcanoes of hot, sugary lava.

Meanwhile, you’re half inside, half outside, cleaning, serving, smiling, answering questions like, “Do we have more napkins?” while your soul quietly packs a suitcase and your gut is like, “If you eat one more spoon of that mac ‘n’ cheese, I’m calling 911 myself.”

This is the Hell BBQ Realm. And I finally realized: the ENEMIES are not my husband and son. They are THE HEAT. THE GOOKY GRIMY SLIMY CONGEALED MESS. And my own rebellious, high-maintenance gut.

Every Holiday. Every Year. All The Years.

I have hosted EVERY HOLIDAY. EVERY. ONE. If there was a reason to fire up the grill, guess whose house it was at? Mine. Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, random “Let’s kick off summer” weekends, end-of-summer, cousin-in-town, neighbor’s birthday, you name it. My front yard might as well have a sign that says: “WELCOME TO THE BBQ. SHE’LL BE RIGHT WITH YOU (AND HER HEATING PAD).”

Years of planning, shopping, chopping, marinating, hauling, cleaning, smiling, “No, it’s fine, I’m happy to host!” while my inner voice is like, “Actually, I would like to lie down in a dark room, drink water, and not gamble with my colon for three days.” I am played out. I am DONE. The BBQ well is DRY. And ALSO: my intestines have entered their boundaries era.

This Year: NO BBQ. BOYS, IT’S YOURS.

This year, for the first time EVER, I said it. Out loud. With my whole chest, and honestly probably a little vein popping in my forehead.

“We are NOT doing a BBQ. It’s too hot. I feel sick. YOU BOYS HANDLE IT.”

The silence. You would have thought I said, “I’m canceling Christmas and also the dog.” My husband looked at me like I had personally insulted George Washington. My son blinked. The grill outside probably felt a disturbance in the force.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t mad at them. I love these men. DEEPLY. I’m mad at THE HEAT. I’m mad at THE GOOKY SLIME. I’m mad at my digestive system, which has the personality of a Victorian fainting couch. I was just finally honest: “I cannot stand in volcanic temperatures cooking vats of food I cannot safely eat. I feel sick. I’m out.”

The Hero(ES) Era

So you know what happened?

My husband — my sweet, grill-loving, sandwich-artist husband — made HEROES instead. Literal heroes and emotional hero. Big, beautiful, messy subs. Cold cuts, cheese (for those whose guts cooperate), lettuce, tomato, oil and vinegar, some peppers, some chips. Laid them out on the counter like we were at a deli.

NO GRILL. NO GOOK. No outside stone-tile inferno. No congealed bean lava. No dairy-heavy side buffet trying to assassinate my intestines. Just simple, delicious, inside-the-air-conditioning food. He handled it. My son pitched in. My boys stepped UP.

And you know what? It was WONDERFUL. People still ate. People still laughed. We still celebrated. The country did not crumble because I didn’t put beans in a crockpot. Nobody left saying, “Wow, that was a nice day, but I really missed sweating through my outfit near an open flame.” My husband looked like a total STAR, because he IS ONE. My son? Also a freaking gem. 10/10 men, zero notes.

What I Actually Did On The 4th

Here’s the thing: it wasn’t even some glamorous self-care spa day for me. I felt sick to my stomach all day. Diverticulitis doing its thing. Lactose intolerance lurking like a hall monitor. I still did TWO loads of laundry. Made the bed. Hosted my son and his wife. Smiled, chatted, made sure everyone was okay. I got in the pool ONCE. ONCE. On the 4th of July.

I was still tired. I was still managing the vibes. I was still the mom. But even feeling like hot garbage, even with laundry, even with the constant mental load of “Is everyone happy?” — it was a thousand times better than running a full-scale Hell BBQ operation for a menu that might send me straight to the bathroom.

No trays of gooky raw meat. No volcanic stone tile table. No marathon of condiments and sides slowly transforming into biohazards in the sun. My boys handled the food. I handled being a human with limits. It was different. And it was GLORIOUS.

The Ultimate Irony (And My Official Retirement)

Let’s just say it plain: I spent YEARS killing myself over BBQ spreads I COULDN’T EVEN EAT. Years in the Hell BBQ Realm, sweating, hauling, scrubbing gooky grime off every surface, while my gut was in the background like, “Babe, we literally hate beans and mayo, what are we doing here?”

All while married to a man who LOVES to grill. Raising a son who now ALSO LOVES to grill. Two men who are happiest with tongs in their hands and smoke in their faces. Two men who happily stepped up the second I said, “I can’t do this anymore.” They were never the problem. The problem was me swallowing my discomfort, my pain, my health, and my common sense, because I thought “good wife/good mom” meant “human sacrifice in an apron.”

The BBQ Stops HERE.

So here it is, on the record, published on The Pooploop for all eternity:

The BBQ stops HERE. With me. In this house. On this stone tile table that will never again fry my forearms while I arrange coleslaw in a decorative bowl I can’t safely eat from. The Hell BBQ Realm can kiss my lactose-intolerant, diverticulitis-having butt.

No more gooky crap parade to the grill for me. No more grimy, congealed slime cleanup at 10 p.m. No more inside-out melting heat while I pretend this is “fun.” I’m allowed to love my husband and my son AND say, “I’m not doing this anymore.” Both things can be true. They can flip the burgers. I can cheer from the shade with my safe little plate of whatever won’t destroy my intestines.

Will we still eat? Absolutely. Will we still celebrate? Of course. Will I still show up for my people with food and hugs and too many bags of chips? You bet. But the era of me personally running the Hell BBQ Realm, in full sun, for food I can barely eat? OVER. RETIRED. HUNG UP THE APRON.

No regrets. ZERO.

To every woman out there quietly dying in the heat over a grill she didn’t even ask for, scraping congealed gook off a stone tile table while her stomach begs for mercy: you are allowed to say no. You are allowed to retire. You are allowed to sit down with your sandwich, listen to your body, and GET IN THE POOL.

Love you, love your life, love your people — just maybe love them from the shade with a cold drink, a hero on your plate, and your gut not screaming at you this time.