Archive: Free Time

The schedule of television airings on every NBC channel is on the coffee table for reference.

Primetime coverage will trump our typical no-TV Wednesday night.

We are almost at the point of identifying commercials merely from the sounds or background music.

JG watches as much curling as possible, enabled by twelve hours of coverage on an affiliate channel.

I ask questions about curling, get confused when JG tries to answer them, regret I ever asked in the first place, selectively forget I shouldn’t ask, get confused when I watch curling, ask questions about it, etc.

Mary Carillo and Cris Collinsworth have reawakened my deep hatred of emotional montages about polar bears and Netherland speed skating.

JG knows a fluff piece is about to start when I shout, “Just show us the athletes!”

Every time a skier looks unsteady or a skater takes off for a jump, I clutch at the couch cushions and draw in my breath so sharply that JG thinks I’m in pain.

I begin to wish I was a better skater, by which I mean I could go without my traditional hour of clinging to the side rail or grabbing on to whoever is unfortunate enough to be nearest to me at the point of my flailing.

Scary speeds and falling confirms my disinclination to ski, and JG reminds me that thinking regular skiing resembles an alpine event is like believing driving is like NASCAR racing.

JG flies through crossword puzzles and word games as the foofy, subjectively-judged events trudge by.

I make good progress on off-season volleyball scarves during curling and luge.

We remember the thrill of speedskating and aerials.

We lose a lot of sleep.

We yell a lot, for the first time since college football season. (Exception: me, during Project Runway.)

Almost four years ago, I was in a DSW when I found a pair of black, pointy-toed boots on super clearance. They were nothing special, but the price was right — did they have my size? Only the display pair, a size 5, was anywhere close, so I squeezed my foot in and hoped for the best, tiptoeing down the aisle. I checked my reflection in the foot-mirrors and asked fellow shoppers for opinions, and the consensus was clear: buy them right now! I wore those boots past the point when the heel ground down to the metal post, resulting in embarrassing almost-spills on slick floors. Last spring, when it was way too late in the season to be wearing boots, the zipper in the left boot broke with what I can only guess was its dying gasp.

I could no longer deny that I needed a new pair, so I’ve been on the prowl for black boots this fall, as I’ve mentioned before. My qualifications for the elusive pair were as follows:

• Black
• Knee-high
• Not slouchy
• Leather preferred
• 3-inch heel, at least
• Pointy toe
• As plain as possible: no buckles or straps or other such hoopla
• Under $100

I constrained my online shopping venues to those with free shipping and returns and went on the hunt with a vengeance. The first pair I ordered was too loose in the ankles, but I liked the style, so I exchanged it for a smaller size. Nope, still wobbly. Then I decided to go for the bottom end of the spectrum and ordered one of the cheapest pairs I could find to test for quality, only to confirm that you get what you pay for when it comes to boots. Back they went.

After three failed online purchases, I took a trip to DSW, where I promptly struck out. During an afternoon at the mall, I was determined to try any store that sold women’s shoes, just in case. I wandered into every department store, every teeny-bopper store, and of course, every shoe store. It seemed impossible to find a pair that wasn’t slouchy, covered in decorative junk, round-toed, or out of my price range. Discouraged and footsore, I almost bought some cheap flats at Payless to sate my panicked instinct to buy something today or go home a total failure, but I took deep breaths and backed away slowly.

At one of my last stops, I frowned at my reflection in the full-length mirror. These boots were okay, but they were still loose in the ankle area, which was the theme of the day. I needed ankle support, and these boots did not cut it.

The salesgirl who retrieved my size did her best to be helpful. “It might sound weird, but you could cut up a sock and put it around your ankle. Then there might not be as much wiggle room.”

Um, no. I am not spending almost $100 so that I can cut up a sock, thank you very much. I left the mall empty-handed.

The next week, I went on an online shopping blitz and ordered four more pairs, bringing the grand total up to seven pairs ordered online:

I hemmed and hawed, tried on the boots with tights, tested them under jeans, walked as briskly as possible, and climbed stairs. Each pair had its pros and cons, but I finally settled on the pointy-toed pair from Chinese Laundry (#7). I have never tried this brand before, but I’ll definitely keep it in mind for the future. The 4-inch heel is the highest one I’ve ever tried, but the boot has the look I want without being too shiny or outrageous. After a mysterious promotion I have yet to understand, I got them for under $80 at Endless, so I met all of my criteria.

I wore the boots for the first time this week, and it was only moderately painful trying to break them in. Much to my chagrin, the boot shaft slips down my leg as I walk, so the ankle becomes less supportive, and I struggle with taking strong strides. Nevertheless, they look good, and I am going to carry on. Perhaps a cushioned insole is in order here, or just more practice, but with God as my witness, I will not cut up a sock.

On Tuesday, I took the afternoon off from work to visit Longwood Gardens on my own. With my tote bag bearing my camera, a bottle of water, an apple, and a book, I planned to walk around for a while and then settle down to read. The air was crisp and just slightly warm, and the skies were clear and bright, with the exception of a few vagabond clouds. I didn’t have a specific route in mind, so I wandered among the flower beds, snapping pictures here and there. Near the manicured lawns and prim fountains, I had a lovely time sitting on an old stone bench, listening to the water in the background, and crunching through my apple. It was exactly how fall should be, except that I was too early for pretty leaves. Oh, well.

After my snack, I scouted out another bench for an hour with my book. I wanted it to be out of the way so I wouldn’t be on display, but still near the beaten path for occasional people-watching out of the corner of my eye. I spotted one with arms and a backrest on a path jutting off from the main flow of traffic. Perfect.

I had read but two pages before two old ladies approached me, and one asked, “Do you mind if we sit with you?”

If I was being completely honest, I could have pointed to another bench just ten steps away. However, that would have been mean.

“Of course, not!” I said brightly, moving my water bottle to the ground.

I continued to look at my book as the ladies chatted about their visit and consulted the brochure. When did the tulips come out, they wondered. Was that a tree house they passed? They should have made their trip an overnighter, they claimed, and they were sure there was plenty to see and do. Unable to contain myself, I asked, “Are you from out of town?”

The lady next to me chuckled and said, “It depends on what you mean by ‘out of town.’”

“Well, I live just a few minutes away…” I started lamely.

“We’re from New Jersey. Princeton.”

I had to resist raising an eyebrow. Yes, ma’am, I consider that to be “out of town,” since we were in Pennsylvania, even if you kept calling it Delaware.

“Oh, okay. Did you come here with a group?”

Did they ever! Three whole buses of senior citizens made the trip from Princeton. “It’s Senior Citizen Day, did you know that?” the lady asked me.

I had seen a lot of older folks, but I figured that it was a botanical garden in the middle of the day in the middle of the week; when would that not be Senior Citizen Hour? Still, it explained the odd golf-cart-esque tram running between exhibits and the large numbers of wheelchair-bound visitors.

“It’s just a day trip,” they told me. “We didn’t realize how big the gardens were. We could spend days here!”

I highly doubted that, but I told them that spring was my favorite season at Longwood, especially because of the tulip festival.

“Ooh, tulips! We should come back to see them!” they cried.

“Yes, and there are a lot of nice restaurants in this area if you are here for a longer time.” Look at me go, Miss Unofficial Kennett Square Chamber of Commerce Representative! I gave them a few places “for next time,” before they rose to resume their walk, apologizing for interrupting my reading.

“That’s all right,” I sad, and it really was. Although I hadn’t planned on giving tourism advice to two New Jersey ladies, we had had a pleasant conversation on a fine day. If I really want to read in peace, I only have to go back at some other point and search out a more secluded bench.

For me, fall is a season of many charms, and while I eagerly bust out the apple-cider-scented candles and curl up under my Slanket, I will bask in the glow of new fall television.

It’s one of the best parts of my favorite time of the year! I love all the teasers that ply me with their promised laughs and suspense. We take note of the premiere dates and ensure that the DVR is ready to go. So far, Glee and Community have been pleasant additions to our regular fare, and I’ve been satisfied with the new season of Project Runway. Although we’re looking forward to the returns of shows like 30 Rock, The Big Bang Theory, and House, we reserve the largest measure of anticipation for the Season 5 premiere of How I Met Your Mother.

Tonight! It’s on tonight! Squeal!

For the past week or so, I’ve been watching a glut of old episodes to pass the time while I work on volleyball scarves. Usually, I read a title, scrunch my brow because I can’t elicit a plotline from it, decide to watch it regardless, and end up remembering how much I loved it the first time. Is there an episode I don’t love? They never get old! Our house has been so permeated with HIMYM lingo that JG and I have taken to communicating in mostly corny Barneyisms, especially the gem that I think he should use on a daily basis in his classroom:  “Get ready, because I’m about to drop some knowledge.”

So, yeah, we’re excited. Ooh, what if I had some kind of HIMYM-themed party?

Food:

• To eat: brunch foods and chocolate-dipped pineapple
• To drink: root beer and kahlua cocktails and Thankstinis

Music:

• Barney’s Get Psyched mixes
• “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers, in honor of the Fiero
• “Let’s Go to the Mall” and “Sandcastles in the Sand” by Robin Sparkles
• “You Just Got Slapped (Slapsgiving Song)”

Décor:

• Intervention banner
• Marshall’s charts
• Select quotes from The Bro Code
• Swords on the wall

Activities:

• Marshgammon, which we can re-interpret as HIMYM trivia
• Awarding prizes for suiting up (exception: birthday suits) and creative high-fives

Hm. This party seems like more work than I can manage before tonight, but I should file away this party plan for the series finale (preemptive sob). That will give me some time to figure out how to incorporate zitch dog, the tramp stamp, and a slap bet. Yes, I must be a slap bet commissioner!