Why I Don't Dress Up for Halloween

In the early '90s, for two consecutive years, my parents choreographed the MOST AMAZING Halloween parties of all time ever in the history of the world and of all time.

For weeks leading up to Halloween, my brother, sister, and I all contributed to the preparations, but on the day of the event we participated in the fun along with a huge group of our friends. Here's what it was like to be invited to the Reynolds family Halloween party.

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The littler kids -- my friends -- started arriving just after sunset, entering the two-car garage to find it completely transformed by decorations that divided the space into quadrants. We had a section for bobbing for apples (which were actually strung from rafters so nobody soaked their head in the 45-degree weather), an area where the gypsy (my sister) read fortunes, a mummy-wrapping space, snacks. That's all fine and good. Anyone could have parents who peel grapes in an attempt to make you think they're zombie eyeballs.

But when Egor, the limping, disfigured servant (my dad) called the names of a few friends, we eagerly lined up at the garage door to take a walk through the haunted yard. He gave us the preamble, describing the horrible deaths which had occurred on the premises and preparing us to meet the lingering souls.

Favoring his bad leg, Egor hunched along toward the back left corner of the yard where he pointed out a spooky graveyard, complete with headstones and GASP! THE COFFIN OPENED UP, revealing an undead neighbor boy with claws for hands who attempted to creep toward us.

Egor corralled us toward the opposite corner of the yard where a mowed path twisted into the dark recesses of a wooded area. Cackling with delight, he encouraged one of the girls to lead the group around a blind corner and EEEEK! A witch with green skin and a peaked cap leapt out from among the brambles, grasping at our clothes and laughing a mad hysterical laugh.

After recovering his rightful place at the front of the group, Egor shepherded us along the path. Our group slowly approached a small house, ablaze with fire, where gory disfigured people fell from the windows, screaming as the descended toward the ground.

At wits' end, my friends and I finally followed Egor out to the clearing of the yard, thankful to have the safety of the garage within sight once again when ZABLAM! A vampire fell foward from an upright casket cackling and threatening to suck our blood... bla ahh ahh.

As recently as my 10-year high school reunion, a childhood friend still asked if 1) I remembered these parties, and 2) if my parent were still throwing these parties. I do, and they're not... since they've been divorced for about 18 years.

Now, when my workplace holds an annual costume contest, I have to wonder if my dress-up reticence stems from having had such an exceptionally good childhood experience with Halloween.

I peaked early.

My "1"* Gray Hair

There it is. See it? I call that little hair "Judy" even though my step-brother swears up and down that stress (ie. long work hours) doesn't cause gray hair.

This is as big of a picture as Blogspot allows. Practically looking through a microscope. Allows for much longer captions.

Annoying little bugger. And also the reason I am Feria #45: French Roast.

*I actually found my first gray hair when I was 21 and promptly called my dad to whine and place blame. Since then I've wavered between letting them grown-'n'-show or coloring my hair to go with my youthful face.

Photo of the Week: October 28, 2011

This week Michael Lohan managed to get arrested not once, but TWICE. Both times he attempted to evade the arresting officers, first by jumping from a third-floor balcony and second by starting to walk out of the hospital (where he was being treated for the broken ankle he sustained in the aforementioned leap) wearing nothing but a surgical gown.

I guess "celebrity gossip" is one of my guilty pleasures.

Meanwhile, Michael's daughter Lindsey has been spending the week performing community service at the LA County Morgue where, one might argue, she's actually had a better time than her dad.

"My Rock Bottom: There Wasn't One"

After extensive research* it would appear that everyone who needs to make a lifestyle change does so only after hitting rock bottom.

Unfortunately for you, dear reader, I don't have a dramatic story for you about how I hit rock bottom and started reversing the weight-gain trend.

Nobody asked me how far along I was. 

There wasn't an "I can't zip my favorite pants" epiphany.

I didn't find myself with a fistful of nachos dripping down my chin and think, 'I've gone too far.'

Instead, my turn-around was -- much like my weight gain -- quiet and gradual. Over the last summer, every morning I would enthusiastically think, 'I'll go for a run tonight!' But, without fail, by the time I got home I was simply out of steam. Genius that I am, one day I just decided to capitalize on my morning energy and go for a sunrise run.

Goes with my "just start" philosophy. Simple enough.

*I Binged it and glanced at one article.

To Be: Dead. Or Three Faces of Cringe

Mrs. Johnson, the Homestead High School AP English teacher who famously called her students "cherubs" even though the plural forms include 'cherubim' (look it up)*, taught me never to use 'to be' verbs. She considered them passive and instilled in me a decades-old fear of using words like is, are, and was. 

I guess in the heat of the Aggressive '90s, passivity went out of fashion.(Kidding about that. Remember flannels and Stone Temple Pilots? Aggressive we weren't.)

Anyhow, as a result of Mrs. Johnson's teachings, for fifteenish years I cringe anytime I can't figure out a way around using To Be verbs.

Here's the photographic evidence:

"Yes, Monkey is *cringe* a border collie."

Pretty awesome hair in this one.

"Are *cringe* they going to the bar later?"

Is that a lemon or a TO BE verb in my mouth?

"Who do you think you are *cringe* - Chuck Norris or something?"

Hey there, extra chin. How you doin'?

*I would like to thank my sister in 1995, Katie Reynolds of Cabbage Ranch (read all about her), for having this English teacher first and telling me about the cherub thing so I could snottily correct said teacher on the first day of class. Jesus I was a brat. Kinda still am. 

Pet Peeves

We all have 'em (right...?) and I hope that putting my pet peeves down on paper will help me care less about them. Here are my top ten pet peeves.

10. The Precarious Pile

I haven't had a properly functioning dishwasher for five years. In that amount of time I've become quite adept at hand-washing my dishes and, truth be told, sometimes it's just a lot easier. I have only one of most things -- like my favorite chef's knife -- so if I need it twice in one evening it's gonna get hand-washed anyhow.

Monkey and George are probably not to be blamed for this, which leaves just me to be held responsible for the never-ending backlog of dishes.

That's me washing one day's worth of dishes in my house.

They're either piling up dirty next to the sink, or they're soaking in the sink ready for a scrubbing, or they're air-drying on the rack awaiting the journey back to a cabinet. Sometimes I don't have a chance to put away the clean-and-dry ones before stacking up the next sinkful of dishes on top. And, ergo, henceforth, enter the precarious pile. It never ends.

If I won the lottery, the first thing I'd do is hire someone else to do my dishes. (In the meantime, that's my favorite part about eating in a restaurant.)

9. Women who dress like sluts on Halloween

This could actually be my number one pet peeve, but since I can pretty easily avoid it and it only comes around once a year, at number nine it shall remain.

I just did a little online browsing and found that Halloween costume categories of "Career" (slutty nurse) and "Storybook" (slutty princess) have the same costumes as the "Sexy" category.

"Can I give you a sponge bath, Mr. Jones? Tee hee."

As one wise person said, if you're gonna dress like a slut for Halloween, then leave the maids/kitties/policewomen/vampires/bumblebees alone and just go as a prostitute. Or... and this is just a suggestion... dress like an actual zombie or something that requires a real costume.

8. Pants on the Ground

I'm actually taking action on this peeve, and it feels good. When I see guys waddling down the street, their waistband somewhere just above their knees, I scream out the car window, "I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR!"

Cher Horowitz said it best: "As if!"

According to some pantsologists, sagging is thought to be a person's rejection of societal norms. I offer you this: If there's a Wikipedia page for what you're doing, you're not NOT mainstream.

I always heard that this fashion statement initiated in prison where low-slung pants were an invitation to naked time. Guys who started doing this in the '90s aren't kids anymore. And they're paying for this fashion statement with their health. Sagging is linked to hip and knee pain, posture issues, and... ahem... other more personal problems.

7. LOL and WOOT

Though both have absolutely no meaning, they're widely used in many contexts except face-to-face interactions. Until now. Instead of laughing, I'm just going to hold this up:

This is way more energy-efficient than laughing out loud.

According to my empirical evidence, WOOT is used only by sorority girls. Which I'm not. While we're on the topic, let's stop using LMAO and HAHAHA!!1!

6. Hot Dog

Monkey only breathes on me when it's hot out. She waits till it's over 80 (that's considered hot here) to climb up as close as possible to my already-sweating face and pant up a doggy lung.

5.Sniffling

BLOW YOUR NOSE! Even worse is the people who suck snot and then cough it right back up. BARF! Now I not only have to listen to your runny nose, but have to tolerate the subsequent week-long cough. Thanks.

Here. I got you this.

At least when I was a teacher, I could not-so-subtly walk up to the offending ill child and drop a box of tissues on his or her desk. Can't really do that with grown-ups. 

4. People who drive at varying speeds

I use cruise control, so maybe I'm a little snobby about this, but pick a speed and stick with it. And preferably use the right lane unless actively passing someone.

3. "Dear ____" statements posted on Facebook or Twitter

The target of your post isn't your Facebook friend or Twitter follower, so why are you telling us this? May I suggest you get a blog? They're free.

Dear professor, airline, left knee... the list goes on. When and WHY did people start writing such formal letters in such informal media? Does this replace actual letter-writing? You know, the kind where you put pen to paper, express your thoughts, apply a stamp, and consider the issue closed? I might actually be onto something here....

2. Knuckle cracking

Oh my god I get hives just thinking about that sound. I especially, especially, hate it when people crack their little knuckles. Subjecting me to it dozens of times by several neighboring coworkers seems like borderline inhumane treatment. Every time it happens, I freeze up, cringe, cover my ears, walk away from my desk. Though I have really nice noise-cancelling ear buds, I simply can't wear them all day every day. Suffer I must.

1. Nail biting

The worst offenders are those who get so into their nail-biting zone that, despite being in a full conference room with company leadership, they have a hand twisted completely upside down with one or two fingers grinding away on their teeth. This is typically followed by wiping one's hands on a shirt or pant-leg before starting all over again. GROSS!

You don't look like this when you bite your nails. Trust me.

I know one guy personally who has bitten his nails all the way off. As in, he doesn't have fingernails anymore. I would like to point out that, though his case is admittedly pretty extreme, nail biting is an actual disorder. That probably makes me a bad person for discriminating against these people. Whatever. Freedom of speech.

This was surprisingly easy to put together. And I do feel better. Thanks.

Guilty Pleasures

Everyone has a bunch of some guilty pleasures. Chocolate, expensive shoes, Sunday morning mimosas, what have you. That's fine... for 'them.' I, however, have a different set of guilty pleasures and am here today to confess.

Ghost Adventures

When I was in my 20s, the end of the work week signaled the beginning of a two-day party. As soon as I finished walking the dog after work, I'd start getting ready to either have friends over or head to the bars downtown.

Tequila!

Now, Friday night rolls around and, after a workout, by 7:00 my ass is parked on the couch for the weekly Ghost Adventures marathon on the Travel Channel.

If you haven't watched this show, then 1) you're missing out, and 2) here's the gist.

Ghost Adventures features three main cast members who visit sites worldwide to investigate and document paranormal activity. Not something I'd typically be interested in. So what's the draw? I just... don't... know.

Perhaps taking off your shirt will draw out the poltergeists. Perhaps. Let's try.

It's tough to say.

Bad TV

We've all watched them. Shows like Tough Love Miami, The Kardashians, Bad Girls Club... and the list goes on. Turn on VH1 and you're bound to stumble upon a piece-of-crap series you'd NEVER -- not in a million, bazillion years...

DON'T PULL MY WEAVE, BITCH!

... admit to having ever seen. Your denial sounds something like this: "Flavor of Love? Haven't heard of it. Must've been on while I was busy listening to NPR."

Unless you're me. Here goes. World, I watch these shows. Sometimes I even watch these shows in lieu of going outside on a lovely day. If that's not the very definition of a guilty pleasure, then I have this whole thing wrong.

One word of caution: This kind of show is the Jose Cuervo of television: it's not very good and a little goes a long way.

Sadly, Jersey Shore's poetic storylines and massive viewership no longer allow that little gem to qualify as a guilty pleasure. Go get yer Mainstream USA on, Guidos!

Fist pump, push-ups, chap-stick. YEAH!

Miller Lite

Born, bred, and corn-fed though I may be, somehow I'm just not a beer snob. Maybe it's because
I learned how to drink beer in a place known fondly as Sloshkosh. Here is our mascot:

"But officer, I sold CUPS, not BEER!"

House-parties featured kegs of the absolute worst beers ever made: Busch Light or Natty Lite. So, in my own defense, Miller Lite is technically a step up. But you go ahead and drink those pints of New Glarus.*

At-Home Mani/Pedis

Every now and then, I fill a dedicated dishpan with fancy, bubbly soap and scalding hot water to give those hard-working dogs a good soak while I file my fingernails.

These aren't my hands and feet.

A clear coat, two coats of a color of my choosing -- lacquer it on thick! -- and a top coat and VOILA! At-home mani/pedi. This probably works because I don't have children. And consider it a guilty pleasure because it's just about Siobhan-centric of an activity as you could get.

Let's do some Girl Math.

$75 for a salon mani/pedi

-$7 for a bottle of nailpolish

I saved... let's see... carry the 4... $68!

Thank you for hearing my confession.

* I obviously make an exception for the Pale Ales brewed at the Great Dane. I get my home wifi signal there. What do you want from me? #pubproximity

Photo of the Week: October 14, 2011

From MSNBC's This Week in Pictures comes a captivating image of 

a man playing guitar while his fellow countrymen take aim at the establishment in Libya.

Rebels continue fighting Gadhafi loyalists. Sirte, Libya 10 Oct 2011

This modern image reminds me of the 1960s classic image of an American woman 

offering a flower to an armed soldier.

Washington, D.C. 1967

How can so much violence and so much peace coexist in this proximity?

Ten Thousand Kisses

I didn't know I was ready, and She wasn't sure, either. But two years ago on a Wednesday afternoon -- when the doors were closed to the public -- I went in to meet her. She was skinny, barfing, shedding in clumps, and bright-eyed.

How much? She was on sale. The Dane County Humane Society puts 'adoption guarantee' dogs -- those who are cute, young, and housebroken -- on sale when the place fills up. Like all treasures, this one was on the clearance rack.

Bringing home Baby

We spent the long Labor Day weekend trying out her new crate...

... and basically reassuring me that she wouldn't pee in the house or chew up my shoes. Doggy family membership 101.

She was quick to adapt,especially when it came to learning her name, Sprite Seren Bristol Monkey.

Monkey found privacy...

"Can you even see me?"

 ... her favorite Wicked Witch-style sleeping spot under the bed...

 
... and a lifetime pass to Couch Town.

She made friends with the most hardened of criminals, Stella...

We were NOT just gossiping about boys and ordering delivery pizza. Nope.

... and was the namesake and focus of Monkey Fridays where she didn't just go to work with me -- she went to meetings and did the mail rounds!

She could jump that. Don't let the "I'm jailed" pose fool you.

Monkey even won over the heart of a very important man who now calls her his granddoggy.

And last year gained a snuggle-buddy in her new brother, George.

My kids.

Every night, when I tell Monkey I hoped she has sweet dreams, I promise her ten thousand kisses for every moment she spent alone on the street hoping for a family.

Frieday and Faturday

You may have heard, noticed, or read that I'm working on losing 2 pounds a week. During an upcoming annual check-up with my doctor, I'll determine a healthy goal weight. In the meantime, I keep truckin' along with a balanced diet and regular workout schedule.

But let's be honest. My intake goal is only 1500 calories per day. That's not very much to start with, and I "earn back" calories by burning them through exercise. As you can see in this illustration, I am pretty regularly coming in under target.

My Fitness Pal view of one week's worth of calorie consumption

There comes a time -- about once a week -- when I consider all those hard-earned, saved-up calories, I do a little Girl Math, and contemplate really fun ways to spend them. There's only one solution.

Frieday or Faturday

One day a week I indulge. I mean REALLY indulge. 1500 extra calories goes a long way to satisfying the fat kid in my soul. (Update 10/10/2011: Turns out, according to this article on MSN.com, scheduled indulgences are a key factor in long-term healthy weight maintenance. Thanks, Megan, for the hot tip!)

Nachos? Sure.

Beer? Absofreakinglutely.

Collection of bottles on display at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin, Ireland. March 2009.

French fries? Double the order and give me a side of mayo.

As long as I stay within my budget, on Frieday or Faturday I simply don't overthink my meal planning and this actually helps me stay on track. Conveniently, my Faturday falls on the weekend which is when I take time for more intensive workouts anyhow. So, after doing more girl math, I still come out ahead.

The message is this: don't deprive yourself. 

For me, my weight loss is definitely the result of a lifestyle change and not a diet. By allowing regularly scheduled indulgences that remain within bounds, I'm guaranteeing my own continued success and vastly reducing the risk of falling off the wagon.

Stay on the wagon.

The Enchilada Papa

We all know I invented Onion Goggles...

This is a really, really good look for me

... and wrote about them in my Dinner Over Easy article entitled On Vital Kitchen Equipment.

The Onion Goggles made an encore appearance in My Blogging Avatars, where I insinuated that perhaps sometimes my self-portraits are less than flattering. Whatever.

Last night Chris Cosentino, who I think we can agree is extremely hot (CALL ME!) ...

... Tweeted a picture of his colleague -- wait for it -- WEARING ONION GOGGLES!

This is Lardo, The Enchilada Papa

I'm pretty much a big deal now, I guess.

A Date with John Doe

On a recent rainy Sunday I went on a date with John Doe.*

John and I met online, because my profile is beguiling. (His words, not mine.) We exchanged a number of emails via said dating site and eventually graduated to a couple phone calls and a few text messages.

One of these communiques contained an invitation for a first date.We ironed out the details and, though the Saturday turned out downright blustery (as you will... it's autumn in Wisconsin), I looked forward to meeting someone new, seeing something new, and -- let's be honest -- leaving the house on the weekend. He suggested we go museuming.

Skinny jeans, check. Tall boots and suitably insulated socks, check. Hair down and curly, check. Short-sleeved sweater which SCREAMS Siobhan, check.

When I got downtown, I struggled to find a parking spot. Apparently the Overture had an event and my truck is too tall to fit in the other parking garages. A couple circles around the Kohl Center and BINGO. Free street parking.

alarm #1

We connected on the corner of University and Lake. He had said he was 5'8", but in reality he was 5'7" which makes him noticeably shorter than me. Doesn't that qualify as LYING? Well, whatever. I don't discriminate (against college-educated, unmarried men with straight teeth living in Madison...).

John and I walked a couple blocks to the Chazen Museum of Art, which, I'm now convinced, is the most underrated gem in the Madison area. He and I were off to a good start: John was a complete gentleman who let me set the pace (very, very slow in museums) and we politely chit-chatted about the exhibits until I turned a corner on the third floor and saw THIS...

Untitled 1968 by Mark Rothko

... a painting which rendered me speechless. Since 2002, when I received a calendar featuring 12 of his prints as a Christmas gift, Mark Rothko has been my favorite painter. I mean FAVORITE. As in, you can take the rest of your visual artists and shove 'em.As in, I have 13 of his prints hanging prominently in my living room and about a dozen more of my own pieces inspired by Rothko's style.

'Take Me to the River' by Siobhan Reynolds

Well played, John Doe. Well played. You may not have planned for my reaction -- unless you are a very clever stalker -- but it was a good one.

After a quick stroll through the scant exhibits in the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, we decided on an early dinner at a Thai restaurant. The shabbiest, musty-smellingest restaurant possibly ever allowed in Madison, a true foodie city.

Never go to

Vientiane Palace Restaurant II

The lemonade was disease-my-pancreas sweet, the floor was sticky, and the food was forgettable. Nevertheless, John and I had a nice conversation about our families and hobbies.

Alarm #2 

John mentioned having in the past enjoyed dinner parties with friends who have all since gotten married and had children. I casually suggested he host the party. He reacted strongly: "Nooooo. No. No way. Nuh uh." Turns out he shares a house with a friend who happens to be a hoarder. 

I spent $500 on  invested in  named my vacuum Tyson the own a Dyson and pride myself on keeping an orderly home. How could he stand living with a hoarder? I filed this fact about him under 'things to remember when declining a second date.'

After dinner, John walked me back to my free parking spot, gave me a hug, and said he would call. Which he did. And texted. And after four days of not hearing from me he finally broke up with me (huh?) via email. Somehow I just don't feel like I got dumped.

Dude, I'm just not that into you.

*More or less not his real name.