What makes a FASFA World Cup watch party at the Mosiman's so lit?!? (A soccer match)

I adore my son-in-law, Douglas.

We do struggle, thought, to find points of common interest.

For example, as most of you know, I'm a bit of a gym rat...an exercise fiend...if an occasion arises for me to work up a sweat...this girl is there. Douglas, however, is somewhat sedentary. Let's just say Douglas owns several pairs of Velcro pants to secure him to his couch. I am also very mindful of what I eat. I have enough empty protein powder barrels to accommodate my entire 4th grade's adventurous passage over Niagara Falls. Douglas, on the other hand, is one of the rare humans on the planet who has unlocked the secret to always successfully opening a Welch's fruit gummy packet (Start at the 's). I was presented with the coveted Golden Apple Teacher-of-the-Stratosphere award while Douglas has been denied (on multiple occasions despite his three-hour dissertation outlining all of the reasons why he was the ideal candidate for such an honor) access to his school's rarely-used balcony space. 

I just re-read that paragraph. I may have mixed up a few of the examples but I'm sure you got the point. To deepen our budding relationship, Douglas and I would need to bond over a shared experience.

Case-in-point: The World Cup. An event of which I am very comfortable thanks to my extensive background reading Harry Potter. Douglas, I am certain, was delighted to be at my house over the course of two very critically-important games (I forget who) rather than being back at home with his friends at the pub. I was ready to drop a LOT of pertinent talking points on my son-in-law while we enjoyed the games involving two teams from two different countries. "Like what?" my husband asked, fascinated (and equal parts sympathetic and gleeful for Douglas to be the recipient of all this attention). "Well," I drawled out, thinking, "There's David Beckham...." "Who is retired and you only know him from commercials and that he's married to a Spice Girl," Brad added unnecessarily. "Victoria," I stressed, glaring at him, "is the 19th richest woman in England, is a fashion designer who advocated for no-furs, and was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire." My husband grinned. "I bet Doug will love learning about that!" he exclaimed, "but you should probably wait for a lull in the game. Like during a penalty kick." I nodded. Duly noted. 

"What else?" Brad was practically on the edge of his seat. I bloomed beneath this rare light of attention.

"Was it Mia Hamm who made history by ripping off her shirt during a game against somebody?" "No, that was Brandi Chastain," Brad corrected gently, "but that is a key soccer-playing maneuver. Anything else?"

I clapped my hands. "I watched the first two seasons of Ted Lasso!"

"Outstanding!" my husband cheered, "You are well on your way to becoming Doug's new best friend."

"Not only that," I continued, "Dai Rojas, a character from the show, just got appointed to a team here in America!"

Brad frowned. "The character or the actor?"

"Uhhh...the actor?" I answered, unsure.

"Which team?"

"America?"

My husband took a deep breath and leaned towards me, "Amy, America has LOTS of soccer teams."

"Really?"

This conversation was the reason Brad didn't even question helping me when I landed on my "Big Plan" for making sure Douglas enjoyed watching The World Cup at my house. "Are ALL of the games called The World Cup or just the final one?" I asked as I showed Brad the soccer-vocabulary-themed BINGO boards I had purchased and downloaded for the occasion. "THE World Cup? or A World Cup?" I inquired, not wanting to look uninformed in front of my future best friend. "So...tell me about your plan," Brad suggested, slightly horrified that the BINGO cards weren't The Big Plan.

I beamed under the intensity of my husband's attention.

I showed him a picture.

He was rendered speechless with delight.

He didn't say a WORD as I spent the equivalent of a small, third world nation's GNP on the ingredients. He was fully invested and compassionately understanding as I agonized over what might be a suitable substitution for cucumber. "I imagine this is what a soccer coach feels," he said soothingly. He vowed that we would NOT exit the store until we found Slim Jims. He hugged me compassionately as I wept tears of joy when we unexpectedly discovered tiny chocolate soccer balls in the bulk section.

Without complaint, he sprayed my nine dollar piece of two-inch thick white rectangular styrofoam green. He heroically refrained from telling me that he had approximately fifteen pieces of two-inch thick white rectangular stryrofoam pieces already stored in the garage. Douglas, once he noticed my commitment, personally oversaw the painting of white lines onto my nine dollar two-inch thick rectangular styrofoam soccer field. Armed with a ruler and circle template, I meticulously recreated a FASFA-sanctioned soccer field under Douglas's watchful eye. 

When it was time for the assembly process, I realized that I had chosen the perfect player for my team. I am the creative force but lack the drive, organization, long-term interest and follow-through to complete any project. Brad does the math. He quickly set up an assembly line that would have driven Henry Ford nuts. My husband meticulously snapped toothpicks in half to accommodate the Slim-Jim arms and legs. He carefully cut muenster and mild cheddar torsos. He designated one team to olive heads while the other sported artisanal cherry tomato heads. The cucumber soccer shorts were replaced with smoked sausage. I suppressed an immature giggle at the unintentional innuendo so as not to distract my husband from his appointed task. I admit that I almost threw in the towel when Brad informed me that a soccer team includes eleven players. "You mean we have to make twenty-two of these things?" I gasped. Brad nodded. The man was committed to accuracy.

Obviously, my family was stunned. 

I cannot imagine that Douglas anticipated the fun he would have, watching a pivotal FASFA World Cup game at his mother-in-law's house. BINGO became much more interesting when there was $100 on the line. Less so when Brad Mosiman won his own money back. Thank goodness. That would cover a bit of what we spent on the cleated kebobs.

Douglas wrestled another soccer player out of the nine dollar, two-inch thick styrofoam field and, after dodging countless wooden stakes, commented, "They must be playing for Argentina." "Why do you think that?" I asked, deftly decapitating a soccer player. My son-in-law smiled at me. "Because they're so Messi."

*Lionel Messi is a famous soccer player who was named the world's best player by FASFA eight times and was the recipient of the European Golden Shoes. "Just like your Golden Apple, Douglas!"

I just need to vent a little...I am not a big fan of driving with no air conditioning

 And here I thought, as a woman approaching her mid-fifties, that my adventures in the backseat were over...

You can deny it all you want, (Prudes) but most of us understand that one's senses are heightened in the backseat of a vehicle. You just feel more. Excited. Bold. Breathless. Rebellious. Daring.

And, in my case? This past week...these feelings have also included nausea, vertigo, and a major hit to my vanity. 

Let me just tell you...things got HOT!

What are the odds that both Sydney AND Douglas's cars would have disabled air conditioners the week I visited with temperatures refusing to budge from their refreshing 92 degrees and higher?  Some might hint that it was purposeful...a subtle inconvenience that would encourage me to limit my stay. But trust me, Douglas LOVES my little pop-ins. ("Ten days is a little pop-in?" Douglas muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter as he careened around a hair-pin turn. "What?" I shouted over the wind tunnel that was whipping me about in the backseat." "Nothing," Douglas yelled, watching as my image slid back-and-forth past his rear-view mirror as though I were the tennis ball in a Wimbledon match.)

I had requested a nice lunch with Douglas's parents. Living on opposite coasts makes getting acquainted
a little challenging. My efforts to appear as a dignified, stable, rational human-being were immediately wiped out by the hurricane-force winds that attempted to expel me from Douglas's car during the torturous thirty minute drive to the restaurant. The eyelashes on both my eyes were seared together into one sweaty spike each, erupting from my top eyelids like little unicorn horns. I made a great impression as I only ordered dessert...then diving into the Mud Pie, smearing it on my flushed face like a spa mask.

By Day Two, I decided to eschew any attempt to apply make-up or style my hair.

I would emerge, battered and bruised, at each arrival, resembling a rabid raccoon who'd stuck a stubborn paw in an electric plug. My make-up would have melted off of my face and my hair would be sticking straight up like the Bride of Frankenstein. I learned to adjust my posture accordingly. My straight spine, squared shoulders, and prim pose (Ankles together, ladies...lest you be mistaken for a trollop) evolved into a more legs-spread, welcome-to-the-party stance. I would flounder and cling to what automotive manufacturers call the "Passenger assist grip" but is more cutely, casually, and accurately referred to as "The Jesus handle." I can attest, even though the Lord and I communicate on the reg, our conversations became much more supplicative as I clung to that device as we barreled down Route 5 like hell was behind us. 

By Day Three, I realized that my method of trying to adapt to this situation was NOT working. Alcohol did NOT make this scenario better. 

"What was that sound?" Douglas asked, after jerking his steering wheel left like the referee had blown
the whistle to start a tug-of-war battle. Sydney glanced back, squinting her eyes to see better in the dark. "Oh, that's my mom. Mom, why are you on the floor?"

I got used to tumble-weeding my way across the backseat of Douglas's car. Bracing my palms on the fabric-ed ceiling happily served two purposes as it kept me from face-planting (again) and provided yet another way to commune with God. Vanity is a sin and Douglas certainly helped me in that department as well.

For those of you still quietly thinking that Douglas did this on purpose, I say, "Shame on you!"  If anything else, that lack of air conditioning in the vehicles made me want to spend even more quality time with Douglas in the house. Who needs to drive to restaurants, parks, beaches...

"It's time to go to the airport," Douglas told me, sadly. Sweet honey...he'd even graciously packed my bags for me. The thought of getting in that un-air-conditioned car again made me shudder. "What do you think about my staying a few extra days?" I suggested.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Douglas lose his cool.

One man's Wednesday on a school night...Douglas gets the gold

In Wyoming County, if you have out-of-town guests, you are required, by intergalactic hosting regulations, to take them to Niagara Falls. It would be appallingly negligible to deprive these visitors exposure to one of eighth natural wonders of the world. So you ignore the over-an-hour drive, you put up with the crowds, the traffic, the bad parking, and the touristy shtick and you go to Niagara Falls...again.

And it is magical.

Every time.

In San Diego, when Douglas has out-of-town guests (much more frequently than he ever imagined), he is required, by intergalactic hosting regulations, to take them to see the seals of La Jolla. Even if it is his first full week back to school AND a Wednesday. Even if it is 90 degrees and the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. Like a seasoned hunter, Douglas searched vigilantly for a parking space...spotting his quarry and pouncing...parallel parking like it was an Olympic event. Sydney and I exited the vehicle, took three steps to the cliff rail and gasped...Douglas had somehow managed to plant us directly in front of a pod of dolphins...plowing through the Pacific, gleaning their prey from the lush kelp forest. Sydney and I delighted in this almost-spiritual spectacle...staring, unblinkingly, at this miraculous moment as Douglas stifled a yawn, staring off at the horizon, pondering the hundreds of papers he had to grade.

We meandered down the winding walk-way, following the coastline...led by the siren's song of barking seals. Pelicans punctuated the sky as the sun began its slow but steady descent. Settling on the low concrete wall, we watched the drama of multiple story-lines unfold...naughty pups wandering too far from their watchful mothers...snoozing seals rudely awakened by playmates, a raucous version of "Marco Polo" suddenly interrupted when a lifeguard spotted the presence of an unwanted interloper:  "Pervert in the pool," shouted Seal Team 6 as frantic mothers evacuated their brood from the water.

Douglas heroically endured Sydney and me completely butchering the lyrics of Kenny Chesney's song, "When the sun goes down," as that shimmering gold medal slid seamlessly into its effervescent envelope, its slender ribbon still shining upon the dark water.

We stood, an ovation to dusk's denouement.

Never anticipating an encore.

As we strolled, sated by the splendor, Sydney noticed a small pavilion so we paused for one last look at the Pacific. Windmilling from the waves, two dolphins rose, snout-to-stern, to pinwheel back into the water. 

Somehow, Douglas managed to herd us back to the car. Eventually, he would plow through his pile of papers to grade. Never...would he realize the gift he'd given to his mother-in-law.

Buy me some peanut (M&Ms) and Cracker Jacks, I don't care if I never get back (to the airport)

 I had a two hour layover in Chicago.

Well-versed in how to best handle my anxiety with crowds and unfamiliar places, I found a snug little hidey-hole and hunkered down, within eye-sight of my gate, and ripped open my box of Cracker Jacks. When the video I clicked on blasted, I fumbled with the side of my phone to lower the volume...somehow, initiating the accessibility feature on my device. I didn't even know that my cell phone had an accessibility feature.

I could no longer access ANYTHING on my phone. I would tap on one of those little squares for Facebook, gmail, text messages, ect and they would light up green and tell me that they were Facebook, gmail, text messages, ect. 

Naturally, I panicked. 

I clicked, poked, prodded, and punched those little boxes.

I powered up and powered down...several times. 

I couldn't contact anyone. Alone before...I was REALLY alone now.

It was then that my phone rang.

Brad Mosiman.

I shook my cell phone violently...like I was either making a margarita or erasing an Etch-a-Sketch and miraculously heard my husband's voice. 

How does he do it? Hundreds...sometimes thousands, of miles away and still...he knows.

"What's wrong?" he demanded.

Hiccuping. Gasping. Crying. I tried to explain. Somewhere in the middle of all this idiocy...I had failed to notice that I wasn't so hidden anymore in my hidey-hole. Surrounded by a mass of people, I was very aware of my language and didn't want to yell out the word "handicap" in the middle of the Midway Airport. Thank goodness for "Glee."

"I accidentally triggered the Handicapable feature on my phone and now I can't access any of the little box-y things," I whisper-shook at him.

Normally this is where Brad Mosiman utilizes his "tough-love" strategy..."Get yourself together, Woman!"...but he immediately realized that that method maybe wasn't going to work at this particular time. "I'm going to call Sydney and Doug," he told me, "They'll call you back in just a minute. Hang in there."

Sydney called back in record time and I was able to answer using my shake-a-weight strategy. I tried explaining but couldn't. "Mom, are you alone or are there people near you?" We decided that I should move. "I'll call you back in four minutes, " Sydney promised as I juggled my packed backpack, phone, book, and open box of Cracker Jacks.

I found a new hidey-hole, crawled under the seat to plug in my charger as my phone was at an alarming 17%, situated my belongings, balanced my open box of Cracker Jacks on the armrest and waited. 

With a twist and flick, I answered my phone.

It was Brad.

"You do know what the worst-case scenario is, right?" he asked me gently.

I sniffled.

"Amy..."

I hate when he calls me that.

He persisted. "What's the worst-case scenario?"

I paused to think. The only phone number I had memorized was Sydney's. I would have to write Brad's down before we hung up. What if my flight was delayed or, oh my goodness, cancelled? ("We track your flight on the app," I was informed by my daughters later. What voodoo is this?)

"I would have to ask someone to borrow their phone," I whispered, horrified.

"Worse-case scenario," my husband told me, "is that, if we can't fix this, I drive to Chicago."

My stomach unknotted. Muscles relaxed. Teeth unclenched. My brow unfurled. Suddenly, I could breathe again. My heart was full. Of course I was going to get my silly self on that plane and fly home. But knowing that my husband was willing to offer this ridiculous option calmed me.

"Thank you," I whispered. Sydney's name flashed on my screen. "Good luck," Brad said as I whipped my phone into action again.

"Doug's watching a Youtube video right now," Sydney reassured me...NOT reassuring me at all. Doug has YET to see me at my best. So far, all he has witnessed is me getting caught at the airport smuggling 20 bottles of Ice Pineapple-Coconut waters in my suitcase, me getting hopelessly lost at LAX, me insisting that I was in danger of being sex traffic-ed when a friendly man tried to engage me in conversation as I did the sting-ray shuffle in Mission Bay, and me freaking out at various semi-busy restaurants. I am NOT coming off as the strong, capable, kick-ass woman that I am. "Okay," Sydney said after a quiet, side-chat with Douglas, "Apparently this happens more often than you think..." I sighed. Sydney had her human-resources voice on (Also known as "The talk the insane person off the ledge" voice) which meant that I was, indeed, the only idiot in the world to have gotten myself into such a mess. "All you have to do," she instructed, "is press the power button on the back until it vibrates and then, tap-tap, the screen." 

Oh, for pete's sake. I rolled my eyes (proving that I was still in the game, somewhat). I had already done that. Several times. I am the wife of a man who trouble-shoots for a LIVING. I hear ALL the stories of the doofuses (doofusi?) who don't try powering down first or the super-doofuses (super-doofusi?) who aren't even PLUGGED in...Can you imagine? 

"Mom, repeat it back to me."

Ugh. That's the latest Mosiman strategy to deal with me during panic attacks. All it succeeds in doing, however, is to add an extra layer of emotion to my already-exploding lava cake. This is called the "I want to punch you in the face" layer. 

Through clenched teeth, I repeated her instructions back. 

"I'll call you back in five minutes. Good luck." (This message will detonate in seven seconds.)

I tried.

Failed.

My phone was now at 14%.

WTF

Wait. Maybe the Youtube video was confusing the power button on the back with the sound buttons on the side. The sound buttons that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

Holding my breath, I held them both down and was pleasantly surprised by a vibration. (Rarely does a vibration NOT make me feel pleasantly surprised...wink, wink). No tap-tap needed because suddenly, thankfully, the green light surrounding my box-y screen things disappeared. I gasped and flung my arms wide in joy, knocking my full box of Cracker Jacks to the ground.

Oh no.

I sank to my knees and attempted to gather them up like a mother hen...lamenting their too-short lives...mortified that I had made a mess at the airport. 

The phone rang.

"And...???" Sydney cautiously asked.

"I....spu....spuh...I spu...illed," I sputtered, crouched on the floor, pulling in Cracker Jacks like a Black Jack dealer racking in chips.

"Mom, are you okay?" Her voice faded as she turned to Douglas. "I can't understand her. It must not have worked."

"It worked," I managed as I lunged after the caramel-coated marbles shooting all across the airport floor. "I spilled my Cracker Jacks..."

Sydney was the perfect Mosiman on this particular call.

"Oh Mom, I'm so sorry." 

I could hear Douglas's baffled voice in the background. I imagined Sydney waving him off. He wouldn't be able to relate. He has protein containers the size of my cheese ball barrels on top of his fridge. 

"I have to go," I said suddenly, "I see a custodial worker."

I raced over to her as she rolled her cleaning cart along. Gesturing madly (with my still 1/3 full box of Cracker Jacks) and apologizing profusely, I explained my predicament. I pleaded for a broom so I could clean it up myself. Naturally, she was stunned. She stared at me, speechless. So I gestured some more with my still 1/3 full box. 

Things came to a head when she reached out and snatched my still 1/3 full box of Cracker Jacks out of my hand and dumped it into her waste receptacle before trundling away, leaving me, shocked and speechless.

I returned to my hidey-hole, sulkily kicking Cracker Jacks out of my way, and picked up the phone to call Brad. It was now at 12%.

WTF.

I dropped to the floor again to check the outlet...and watched my charger swinging lifelessly on the end of its hangman's noose. Oh my gosh...I am such a doofus.

"Go buy yourself another snack," Brad urged but I was tapped out for the day. "I think I may have some M&Ms left over from my flight to San Diego," I said. "Good luck finding those," Sydney said after I'd checked in with her quick. She wasn't a fan of my carry-on packing style.

When I'd settled down a bit, I began the journey to the bottom of my backpack. Past the tightly rolled blanket. Brushing against my warm, fuzzy zip-up. Past Book #1. Past Book #2 (In case I finished Book #1). Between my journals and notebooks. Ah-ha! I felt something smooth. Nope. That was my Bible. There! At the bottom! Happily, I grabbed the bag and pulled...realizing, too late, that my package of M&Ms was upside down. "No!" I wailed, as the candy poured out and the bag deflated...my mood right along with it.

I looked around.

To hell with it. 

Shoulder-deep, I monkey-fisted small handfuls of M&Ms...fishing them out from the depths of my backpack and then consumed them like a hungry chipmunk...deftly...daintily.

As I squirreled away my treat, a text came in:

What sort of nut comes in a Cracker Jack Box?

I texted back:  Peanut

No. Walnut. Because Amy walnut fail in her quest to get home.

That's nut funny.