Christmas on the Half-Shell

I received one of the best gifts ever this year.

I must be living fearlessly to embrace such a thing. Embrace it I did, squealing joyfully as I peeled away the protective tissue - an oxymoron of sorts - carefully unwrapping it. As I held it aloft for all those gathered around the tree to see, I admitted that it was rivaled only by the Baby Alive I received when I was 7 and possibly the Big Wheel I got when I was 8, maybe even the BB Gun placed in my hands on my 9th Christmas. Otherwise, I couldn't think of many more gifts that ever came close to bringing me the same glee, the same awe, that the spectacle raised above my head did at that very moment.

An armadillo. A stuffed armadillo. Not a plush armadillo, but a taxidermied armadillo mounted on a board. Its shell, sleek and shiny, reflected the light from the chandelier. Its segmented tail curved around in front of its hind legs, and its head tilted slightly to the right with its tiny black eyes staring fixedly. And it had a wonderful color, like deep, rich brown leather. Had anything so perfect ever entered my hands before this? It was hard to say.

Like the dad in A Christmas Story I knew the ideal place for it - atop the rabbit pelt on the sofa table behind the loveseat in the den, where its presence alone will prickle the hairs on the backs of necks and upper arms.

Perhaps you squirm at the thought of this animal gracing my decor, but I tell you no southern girl should ever be without at least one taxidermied specimen. For certain, my admiration of preserved animals, all within earshot of my husband, plus my demand that he fill my need for collecting them, keeps my hunting husband home on a lot of Saturdays: 1) Why go if I'm urging him out to the woods, and 2) The pressure to bring home a trophy is paralyzing.

But that's not why I love my armadillo. You may not realize this, but it is in mint condition, bearing not a ding nor a dent. And someone went to a great deal of trouble to find me an armadillo that doesn't sport tire tread imprints and isn't squished on one side, the other, or straight down the middle. I've been given something rare and irreplaceable indeed. I can buy another Big Wheel. I can feed my daughter's Baby Alive. My sons will let me shoot their BB Guns. But how many more times in life would one perchance to happen upon preserved roadkill of these proportions and think to give it to me?

As with every gift, it's the thought that counts.

Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Day 31

Expect good things to happen.

It's an emotional risk to always expect the best. I risk being let down. I risk other people calling me naive. I risk getting less than what I'd hoped for. I risk having to cope with disappointment.

It's an even greater gamble, however, to expect the worst. When I expect the worst, then I look for the worst. Naturally, I seek to confirm my expectations. And more than likely, the worst, in some form or another, will occur. If I expect my children to misbehave, then I begin to look for all the things they are doing wrong instead of appreciating what they are doing right.

Likewise, when I expect the best, I'm primed to notice good things in a situation. If I expect my husband to come home from work in a good mood, I'll notice how he didn't slam the door, or how he greeted the kids, or how he tossed his keys into the basket. If I expect a party to be fun, I'll mingle more, I'll engage in lively conversations, I'll compliment the hostess. In essence, I will ensure that I attribute my husband's behaviors to a good mood. I'll go to the party intending to have a good time.

Will there be times when I expect good things to happen and they don't? Of course. But living fearlessly means that I am willing to take that risk and to accept (which is very, very different from expect) that bad things will happen, too. And when they do, I deal with them without ever giving up on the expectation of better things to come.

TODAY'S ASSIGNMENT: In your BOOK OF LISTS write down three good things that you expect to happen in the coming week. Fearlessly believe that they will. At the end of the week examine whether or not they happened, how they happened, and how your expectations influenced those good things.

"You're completely alliterate."

I'm in a marathon of editing one of the final proofs of If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny. This morning, I sat at one end of the kitchen table and my husband sat at the other. We both, with red pens in hand, marked up copies of the proof.



He broke my deep concentration with a low chuckle. I looked up to see if he needed my attention or wanted clarification on something. He stared at the pages, however, feverishly (a little too feverishly for my personal comfort), working his pen across the page.



Minutes passed. Again, my helpmate laughed out loud. This time I looked up to see him shaking his head back and forth. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I decided that for the sake of our marriage we may need to conduct these sessions in individual privacy. But for the time, I said nothing and continued with my work.



Suddenly, he belted out guffaws that brought the children running to see what was so funny. Knowing I had given him strict instructions to carefully search the manuscript for typos, misspellings, and other errors, and not to read the stories, I became very self-conscious. I bore my eyes into him until he raised his head to return my glare.



"What?" he asked.



"What are you laughing at?"



"Nothing. It's just that you're completely illiterate," he replied.



"Well, thanks a lot," I huffed, slamming shut my copy of If Mama Don't Laugh. "If that's what you really think, you can stop right there!"



Baffled at my intense irritation, he stammered and muttered a few unintelligible syllables. Then his eyes lit up with amusement (which, quite naturally, miffed me more). "No, no, no. I said alliterate, as in alliteration. You know. Lucy laughs long. Mama makes muffins. You have a knack for creative alliteration. It makes your stories so interesting."



Okay. Give me a compliment and all is forgiven. I didn't even fuss at him for indulging himself in reading the manuscript while he edited. I'll save that for later, when I need him to butter me up again.