Bucket List

These days it seems like everyone has a bucket list. It's something I never really thought of until recently. Watching my mother pass away in 2019, and then being diagnosed with breast cancer and asthma in 2020, and osteoporosis & a brain malformation in 2021 (whoever said your 40s are the best days of your life is a f***king liar) made me realize that there's absolutely no time like the present to finally write down all those "someday I want to..." dreams and start crossing them off.

So, in no particular order, here it is:

• Go skydiving--accomplished 2021
• Take a hot air balloon ride
• Donate blood
• Run a mile without feeling like I'm dying
• Attend a shooting session with different types of firearms
• Ride in a helicopter
• Take guitar lessons for a year
• Visit Library of Congress
• See a wolf in the wild
• Visit the Grand Canyon
• Drive the entirety of Route 14 (Chicago to Yellowstone National Park)
• Walk to work (about 9 miles)
• Visit all 29 libraries in our consortium
• Take an Alaskan cruise
• Take a cruise to Puerto Rico
• See a play at the Globe Theater in England
• Visit the Book of Kells in Ireland
• Publish something I’ve written
• Attend a black-tie event
• Meet someone famous--accomplished 2006 (Jerry Springer, of all people)
• See the Northern Lights
• Visit all 56 Carnegie libraries in the state of Illinois that are still A) standing and B) serving as libraries today

Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for any of us. As Morgan Freeman says in The Shawshank Redemption, you either get busy living, or you get busy dying.

Here's to 2022!

Merry Christmas vs Happy Holidays

It’s an age-old debate. When I encounter strangers during the month of December, is it better to say “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas”? It’s “Merry Christmas” in my house, and it’s “Merry Christmas” with my family, friends, and colleagues. Until I was well-established in adulthood, I never thought to say anything else. Then suddenly, it was “Happy Holidays” in the stores, at the grocery, and from some patrons at my library. 

I ran into a gentleman a few years ago who had a button that said “It’s okay to wish me a Merry Christmas!” When I admired it, he took it off and gave it to me. Turns out he had a whole box of them from his church. I think I still have it somewhere…

There are people, of course, who loudly protest the idea of wishing anyone anything else besides “Merry Christmas.” 

(I just realized that reading this post would make a great drinking game--take a drink every time say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays!”)

Their argument runs along the lines of: “This is America! We are a Christian nation! We celebrate Christmas! Saying “Happy Holidays” offends us!” I think they somehow see it as another attack on American values in favor of making sure nobody’s feelings get hurt. 

And I bought into that for a while. I’d say “Merry Christmas” with the best of them, even if others said “Happy Holidays” back. There wasn’t any malice in my refusal to comply, but there was ignorance. Christmas was Christmas, and everyone deserved a merry one, right?

That’s a nice thought, as far as it goes. But I think it’s incredibly self-centered. Because by insisting on Christmas, you negate all the other holidays that take place during this time of year. Some might argue that to be wished a Happy Holiday-that-they-don’t-observe is a sign of goodwill. Like the person is reaching out to include them. And I get it. But I keep thinking, “What gives me the right to decide that my holiday matters more than someone else’s?” That just seems rude, let alone insensitive.

So, for everyone who celebrates something, have a merry/happy/peaceful:

• Bodhi Day
• Boxing Day
• Christmas
• Hanukkah
• Kwanzaa
• New Year
• Omisoka
• St. Lucia Day
• Three Kings Day
• Winter Solstice  

And all the other holidays out there. And if you don’t celebrate anything, then Happy Thursday!

Boobs and Broccoli

We all hit various milestones in our lives. First words. First steps. First day of school. First sleepover. My parents did their absolute best to prepare me for as many of these firsts as possible. 

Mom had “conversations” with my pre-verbal self to encourage the concepts of speaking and conversations (she recorded one such session. I squealed a lot as a baby…). I’m pretty sure the dog taught me to walk (in my parents’ defense, it was a lot more fun to grab Cinnamon Ann’s floofy tail and follow her around than it was to hold my parents’ hands). I ended up being the only kid in my kindergarten class who already knew how to read and knew my numbers (I did, however, have quite a bit of trouble with the Pledge of Allegiance). And I decided I was ready for a sleepover at age three, when I confronted my godmother with the fabulous idea that I would come spend the weekend at her house (my parents told her she could refuse--she didn’t. We made cookies.)

There are, however, some “firsts” that are a little more…delicate…to discuss. Like “The Talk.” Family lore has it that when I was born, my dad turned to my mom and said “Oh, thank God, you get to talk to her about that stuff.” I got The Talk when I was nine. Came home from school one day to a stack of books--some of them with quite detailed illustrations. After that particular conversation with my mom, I was equal parts fascinated and appalled. Boys had what down there?! And they stuck it where?! Wait…you mean you and Daddy…euwwwwww!!

In fifth grade, our school gave us an institutional version of The Talk. The female gym teacher gathered all the girls together and showed us a film about the various growing-up-related wonders we would experience. I remember they gave us samples of sanitary products with directions that sounded a lot like they came from an Ikea package (insert Peg A carefully into Slot B--more or less). The poor 4th grade teacher--by virtue of being the only adult male in the school besides the custodian--collected all the boys. They got to watch a different video about what they could expect. And then we swapped videos. It was brutal. At least I knew what was coming. This was the first time some of my classmates had heard it. I think one girl threw up. 

I couldn’t wait to grow up. Aside from obvious perks like finally being able to permanently banish broccoli from the dinner table, I would get boobs. Boobs. In an attempt to encourage Momma Nature to hurry up, I did daily bust-increasing exercises (courtesy of Ms. Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret). I closely inspected my legs (and other areas) for any hints of hair. And I drove my long suffering mother crazy asking some seriously stupid questions. For the record, no, you cannot insert anything into your lady parts and have it travel through your body and come out of your mouth. It doesn’t work in reverse, either.

I eventually grew boobs (a little on the small side). And hair (shaving is a PITA). And acquired a little monthly friend (the less said about her, the better). On the plus side, however, I definitely have curves that my BF appreciates. I’m taller than most of my friends. And--as it turns out--I rather like broccoli now.

If I could go back and tell my little-girl self something, it would be to relax! Momma Nature’s gonna do her own thing in her own time. In the meantime, enjoy not having to wear a shirt when it’s hot out. Wear white pants any day you want. Don’t worry about the little golden hairs on your legs. And eat the damn broccoli.

Dummies for a Dummy

I am a fan of Dummies. No, not those creepy dolls people use in ventriloquist acts. Or crash test dummies—although I do appreciate their sacrifices (do they ever use pet crash test dummies?). And I may have had a dummy as a child (we just called it a binky) but I’m not talking about those either.

My Dummies of choice are the wonderful “…for Dummies” books. You know the ones I mean. Those instantly recognizable black-and-yellow paperback books with the picture of the guy (who I imagine looks like something Picasso might have created during a rare brush with reality) that’s pointing or holding some sort of essential tool. Why he chooses to point is something I’ve never figured out. Is he having an ah-ha moment? Is he subtly making fun of the reader by “pointing” him/her out as a dummy? Either way, I must admit I am amused by the fact that it’s a man featured on the cover of these books. 

When a patron comes into the library looking for a basic book about a subject, I usually point to the Dummies book if we have one. I always preface such a move by saying “Now I’m not insulting your intelligence. (Whatever) for Dummies is usually a good place to start.” The vast majority of patrons usually end up taking the Dummies book (and sometimes the Complete Idiot’s Guide to (whatever) as well) with a relieved smile.

While I’m on the subject, let me just say I am not as big a fan of the Idiot books. They’re both great resources, and I’ve read my share of both. It’s not the way they treat the subject matter, or their writing style. They do a good job. It’s mostly that I object to being called an idiot. Yes, I know they aren’t really calling me an idiot anymore than the Dummies books are really calling me a dummy. To me, “idiot” sounds somewhat mean-spirited, whereas “dummy” is at least a little kinder. When given a choice between the two, I guess I’d rather be a Dummy than an Idiot.

With hundreds of titles to choose from, you can cure your dummy-ness in everything from Access 2003 All-In-One Desk Reference for Dummies to Zune for Dummies. The Dummies books are undoubtedly wonderful resources…but some of their titles can be a tad misleading. If one didn’t know any better, one might think at first glance that Boxers for Dummies was a book about underpants. And for the record, Snort for Dummies doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with bodily noises. 

On the other hand, however, sometimes they are exactly what they sound like. Elvis for Dummies anyone? How about Sex for Dummies? Picture Puzzles for Dummies,Stretching for Dummies, Vampire (the requiem) for Dummies, the list goes on and on.

Which, of course, means that I have found a plethora of Dummies books to assuage my own lack of random knowledge. If you, too, want to even out the gaps in your education, then I suggest you check out the Dummies' website and get yourself some info, Dummy-style. 

Dummies of the world, unite!

Mus Musculus Redux

Recently, I wrote a little piece on the joys of homeownership as it pertained to creepy crawlies and small rodents. Snafu and Fubar may think this is a grand old time, but this particular human is not nearly so joyful.

I was sitting on the couch a few weeks ago, minding my own business. The lights were on, the TV was going, Dan was puttering in the basement, and the cats were off doing cat things. Suddenly, mad scrabblings erupted from the vicinity of the kitchen. At first, I thought somebody’d gotten themselves stuck in the garbage can lid. I waited for a second and the scrabblings intensified, augmented by tiny little squeals and squeaks. Maybe somebody hurt himself trying to get free. I heaved my butt off the couch and went to investigate.

The mouse who’d been clever enough to escape the live trap, and eat the peanut butter off the snap trap (I know, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures)...decided to see if he could outwit two cats. Yep. Snafu had cornered a mouse in my kitchen. In broad daylight.

I started dancing around, shrieking encouragement to Snafu while looking for something to drop over the mouse to contain him. Snafu scrabbled from one end of the kitchen to the other and back again, bouncing off cabinets and table legs and the oven and the fridge, and one very confused Fubar. The mouse darted and ducked and squealed and ran over my bare foot. He ran under the fridge. The cats smacked into the fridge and frantically pawed underneath. Dan came up from the basement. And I ran upstairs to put on shoes and scrub my foot.

After we all recovered--which took a lot longer for me than it did the cats--and Dan stopped laughing at my reenactment, the cats camped out in the kitchen for the rest of the night. I brought up a small bucket and stashed it under the table, determined to be ready if the mouse decided to make another attempt.

Fubar and Snafu are on the job!

We eventually caught two mice over the next few days. I’m not going to go into details, but the kitchen is now mouse-free and bleached to within an inch of its life. The cats still hang out in the kitchen a lot more than they used to, though. Unsure if they’re reliving past glories or hoping for future conquests.

Whew.