Thursday Overthink: FIFA World Cup 2010

Friends, the next World Cup is nearly upon us. The games don't start until next summer, but the draw to determine the groups is TOMORROW. In case you were thinking of calling me for a chat Friday night, don't. I have mixed feelings about the tournament: I am excited of course - who doesn't love a good World Cup? - but loathe to lose my crown. I have no expectation of Italy winning again. Does this make me a bad fan? Winning two times in a row is a lot to ask, and I'm not greedy. But does that mean that I will watch without my heart in my mouth? I wonder if an Italian loss could ever hurt less than Tiger Woods coming home to a scorned wife at 2AM.

In World Cup news:

• Wal-Mart is going to put special shops promoting the World Cup inside its stores. No details have been provided, unless "unique opportunity for us to leverage our global scale" means anything to you.

• FIFA and Sony have signed a deal to broadcast match highlights in 3D, and they are discussing doing the same with live matches.

I don't understand this whole 3D movement in film and now TV. Do people still have to wear those red and blue glasses? If so, those better be stocked at Wal-Mart's World Cup Shop right next to the FIFA branded floor pillows I will need to cushion my head when I faint after watching Cannavaro slide-tackle in 3D.

Don't loose the goose.

We are in Omaha for Thanksgiving, which means Sam and I are doing some serious shopping. Most girls prefer shopping alone or with girlfriends, but I always make the best purchases with my husband. I don't know how he does it, but Sam can pick out a pair of shoes from 20 yards away that, once I've tried on, I can't live without.

One of our requisite stops in Omaha is Whole Foods, one of many stores that we don't have in Fayetteville. The wine and cheese section was packed with shoppers gleefully downing free samples, and we eagerly joined in. One of the platters held "goose mousse" on a wee cracker. I have never had goose pate, but it has been on my list of things to eat if ever faced with the opportunity. I handed a cracker to to Sam and we popped it in right after the Manchego.

I offer the following taste experience as a public service announcement, in case any of you are thinking about classing up a holiday party with some pureed fowl. Imagine, if you will, a whole, unwashed goose - feathers, poop, and all - put into a blender, chilled, and spread on a triscuit. It was a real effort to get it down, and as I searched desperately for a complimentary swish of Beajoulais, Sam's pained gaze met mine. "What do you think?," he asked. "About the goose?," I replied. "I really wish that hadn't happened."

Fully and Unmistakably Two

As we pulled into the garage one sunny and warm Fall evening, Luca asked for bubbles. We had been trapped inside for what felt like weeks due to cold, rainy weather, and soon the days would be shorter, leaving no post-work opportunities to play outside. I grabbed the bubbles, Paolo grabbed his new spring-action, light-up, humming genuine Anakin Skywalker light saber, and Luca grabbed an empty bleach bottle from the trash. He casually sauntered out of the garage with his mouth around the open top. I tried to scream, but the tongue I'd just swallowed blocked the sound. I checked his skin for burns and his breath for the smell of bleach, but fortunately, the bottle had been bone dry.

I stowed the bleach bottle in the rafters of the garage and walked back outside to see Luca with a terra cotta pot raised above his head, just before smashing it into another pot. I steered him away from that game, as well, and returned to blowing bubbles for Paolo. Luca then attempted to perforate himself with a steel tomato cage, concuss himself with a heavy shovel, before flipping open the outdoor electrical outlets. Please note that our garage is lined with toys: bikes, balls, buckets, tennis rackets, dump trucks, none of which are even remotely interesting to a two-year-old.

Finally, Luca climbed into my car and began twiddling knobs and flipping light switches. Now the car is generally off-limits, but damn it, he couldn't kill himself in there. So I left well enough alone, and he honked and flashed and steered merrily in what I had decided was the safe, nonthreatening cocoon of my car. Bubble-time ended (it's actually really hard to pop bubbles with a light saber), and Paolo and I headed back into the garage. Luca opened the car door when he saw his brother, and Paolo walked over to help him climb out. As I returned the bubbles to the shelf above the washer, I heard a slam followed by a scream.

I turned in horror to see Paolo's thumb stuck in the car door. By the grace of all that is good in the universe, only the tip of Paolo's thumb was smashed. No broken bones, no blood, just a whole lot of screaming and a black fingernail that is probably not long for this world. In case you're wondering what Luca was doing while I released Paolo's hand and ascertained whether we'd be headed for the ER, he was laughing and ejecting CDs from the car stereo.

That's what I'm dealing with these days. My dad thought I was joking on the phone the other night when I admonished Luca to get out of the microwave. Folks, I have a two-year-old. It's like being at war, with an enemy who doesn't speak your language or respect the rules of combat, who is so irrational, his next move cannot be anticipated but is certain to leave you slackjawed.

There is no such thing as a free lunch.

My office is an ugly business park, but occasional tenant perks include sample sales and lunch events featuring free food. Last week my co-worker and I headed over to O.P.M. Financial for a cookout. When we saw the sad little tent and two attendees, we should have kept driving, but our hunger and poverty parked the car.

As we sat down to enjoy our charred hot dogs and lukewarm sodas, the host of the gala, Topp Dahler, sat down at our card table to discuss our money management needs. It was an awkward conversation, seeing that I was in zero need of his services. Less than zero. The only way I might hit a windfall (not already earmarked for daycare tuition) was if I had the closest guess to win the cash on the money tree, and, looking around at the empty folding chairs, those odds had to be pretty good. The “money tree” was a small, potted rubber plant with dollar bills paper-clipped to the leaves. To increase the difficulty, you also had to include the spare change sitting in a coffee cup in your total. Yes, I said spare change in a coffee cup, which Topp freely admitted he had cobbled together from various places like his desk drawer, couch, pants pockets, car, etc. Yikes.

Since wealth, as a topic, wasn’t getting us far, we got an uncomfortable glimpse into Topp’s personal life. That Topp’s a good guy, but he should have known that anyone who stopped by to score a free hot dog was not sitting on a pile of money going unmanaged. My co-worker and I ate quickly and grabbed a cookie for the road, agreeing that the free lunch was not worth the painful small talk. Since we had written our money tree guesses on our business cards, I expected to hear from Topp again.

Several days later, O.P.M. Financial popped up on my Caller ID, and I let it go right to voice mail. I was headed out to work off-site, so I gathered up the supplies I’d need and went to tell the department assistant where I would be. I grabbed a handful of gumdrops from her candy dish and popped a couple in my mouth as I headed back to my desk. For kicks, I thought I’d play my voice mail message to see if I’d won the money tree. I tossed a third gumdrop into my mouth as I double-clicked on the log showing the call. “O.P.M. Financial, this is Topp.” My mind began racing:

That’s a strange message…ohhhhhhh nnnnoooooo. When will I get this stupid call tracking software right? I just CALLED him BACK! Well, that’s it, I’m stuck. He has Caller ID, too. He knows it’s me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I have to talk to him now. Wait, can’t speak, mouth too full of gumdrops. Sticky, gummy, gumdrops. What do I do now? HOW LONG HAS THIS SILENCE GONE ON?

Friends, the best solution I came up with was to slooooowly and silently replace the receiver and then burn with the shame of what I had done: I crank-called a well-meaning wealth advisor, subjected him to the sound of panicked gumdrop mastication for who knows how long, before hanging up on him.

It's About Tradition

On Saturday we went to Tontitown for the 111th Annual Grape Festival. Tontitown is a little community about 12 miles northwest of Fayetteville that was settled by Italian immigrants in the early 1900s. When I first moved to Fayetteville, everyone I met asked me if I was from Tontitown. I learned quickly that Italian last names are rare here, unless you’re a descendant of a Tontitown settler. Tontitown is very proud of its heritage and strives to keep its traditions alive, through annual events such as the fall Polenta Smear and the summer Grape Festival .

As with all local fairs, the Grape Festival features a midway of sketchy rides, a visual feast of mullets, a section of arts and crafts tents selling Confederate flag bikinis, and a string of overpriced junk food vendors. Paolo nearly broke my heart when he opted for a corn dog instead of the wildly popular spaghetti dinner, but that’s his father in him. Throughout his boyhood, Sam didn’t miss a Missouri state fair, and the smell of carnie sweat and corn dogs (to be eaten on the fourth day of the fair, never earlier, allowing the grease enough time to reach the right level of putrid) always puts a certain twinkle in his eye.

We ate over in the park so the boys could play on the multitude of playground equipment. There are half a dozen different play areas in the park, with lots of old-school gear not found in parks anymore. As we spun on the merry-go-round, I shared my story of how I got my worst scar from a merry-go-round on my elementary school playground. I was pushing it around and didn’t clear the edge when I jumped on, which left me with a two-inch long scar on my left shin. The next play area over, I described how I was nearly crippled as a child when a mean see-saw partner slid off the back of the seat, leaving me to plummet to the ground, crushing my feet under the seat. I can still feel the shock of that pain traveling like lightning from my ankles to my waist. It occurred to me there is a reason those particular playground artifacts are not in use anymore.

After last year’s Grape Festival, I decided to inquire about volunteering at the local museum because I admired the community and really missed having a museum, no matter how small, in my life. I now serve on the Board of Directors and have befriended all those wonderful people whose last names end in vowels. They believe I have a lot to offer their small museum, and I am hopeful that I can prove them right.

As we drove home, faces and fingers sticky with grape ice cream, I reflected upon past Grape Festivals we’ve attended, with Paolo growing from a toddler to a schoolboy, and Gianluca, first just a bump (of freakish proportions, due to arrive a week later), and now nearly ready for the rides. I pictured our family coming back to Tontitown year after year to enjoy their tradition, and to make it our own. I can honestly say that being a small part of this kind and welcoming Italian-American community makes it even easier to embrace a long, long stay in Northwest Arkansas.