(image courtesy of Webweaver)Apparently bucket lists are all the rage, as it seems every third blog I read includes some comment about the blogger's bucket list.

I don't really have a bucket list.

There are things I want to do, goals I have, places I plan to visit and reams of ideas on ways I plan to embarrass myself. I've just never thought to call it my bucket list.

I have done some of the big things on my non-list, such as learning to swim as I approached the age of 40, taking piano lessons after the age of 40 and jumping out of an airplane -- which I did way before the age of 40 and am sure I couldn't/wouldn't do it now as I inch frightfully close to the 50 mark!.

But I'd never visited a haunted house (the Haunted Mansion in Disney World doesn't count!). In fact, neither had Jim. Until last night.

Last night, Jim and I joined up with two of my sisters and their partners and we visited the Haunted Mines.

Now, I like scary -- not bloody/gory/disgusting -- movies. I sort of like scary books -- as long as the reason for the suspense doesn't involve aliens or gargantuan spiders (because that's just stupid, not scary!). And I did kind of like the fact that we had some sort of paranormal activity going on in our house when we first moved in ... until I got too scared and in a fit of fright asked the spirits or whatever they were to please leave us the hell alone -- and they did.

But I don't like the idea of being touched by demon actors in a haunted house or chased by a chainsaw-wielding volunteer maniac. Luckily it's illegal in our state for haunted house staff to touch the visitors. The chainsaw guy I'd just have to deal with. Which scared me.

So several times yesterday, out of the blue I'd tell Jim, "I really hope I don't get so scared I wet my pants." After the third time of saying something along those lines, he said, in all seriousness, "You're really scared, aren't you?" Well, yeah. (Of course, he decided to turn it into something related to control issues, saying it's really just the not being in control and not knowing what'll happen that scares me. To which I say, Well, yeah!)

But I went anyway. My sisters and their significant others had been to haunted houses several times, so I assumed they'd be relatively calm and cool once we passed through the gate, loaded the old-time elevator to the bottom of the mine, and embarked on the trip of terror.

Not the case! They screamed and jumped and ran and hid their faces and squealed like a little girl (even the guys!) just as much as I did -- which I did more often than I ever thought I would. But I also did parts of the tour I never thought I would, the parts that I'd read about and planned to use the "go-around" route, such as taking the spooky, curvy slide instead of the stairs and crawling through the tiny, TINY hole to reach the scariest features of all.

And I was chased by a chainsaw-wielding volunteer maniac. And I screamed and ran and hid my face.

But ... I didn't get so scared I wet my pants!

Which is a very good thing, because after last night's fun, my sisters and I have planned an annual Scare-The-Hell-Out-Of-Ourselves trip. Next year: The 13th Floor Haunted House in Denver (yeah, the one the Denver Bronco players couldn't make it through!). The following year: Knott's Berry Scary Farm Haunt. Who knows after that.

So instead of a bucket list, I'm creating a list of scary places to visit. Got suggestions? Send them my way. As long as no aliens or gargantuan spiders are involved, I'm there!