I’m not a big fan of shopping at brick-and-mortar malls, particularly now while my knee is still giving me problems. I’d much rather stay home where I’m warm and cozy, and where the coffee is already paid for, so I can do my holiday shopping online.

Most importantly, online shopping guarantees that my husband won’t find out about my purchases since FedEx and UPS deliver while he’s at work, thus giving me plenty of time to hide the box, the loot and the receipt before he comes home. Sure, I could go to a regular mall first thing in the morning then hurry home, hide the evidence and hope for the best. But I’ve learned the hard way how risky that is.

A few months back, you see, I’d fallen in love with a pair of shoes. A pair of gorgeous, red, stacked-heeled shoes made famous by a certain female Vice Presidential candidate. I’d gone to the mall purportedly to buy towels for our guest bathroom since ours had grown rather ratty and we had company coming. But there, not twelve feet in the door, my eyes fell on those shoes. I had to have them.

Oh, they cost four times what I’d budgeted for the towels, and if the truth be told, I didn’t really need yet another pair of shoes. But, as many women know, “need” is an easily justified thing when it comes to a great pair of shoes. So, rather than buying the top-of-the-line towels as I’d planned, I splurged on the shoes… and stopped at K-mart for some cheapo towels on my way home.

Now, if I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have hidden those shoes in my closet, removed the tags from the towels and hung them up, then shredded the receipts and burned the shoe box. But I was not thinking clearly, and for that I blame the shoes. Yes, they were that awesome.

So, although I took care of all the other evidence, I couldn’t resist slipping the things on with my best pair of jeans and favorite blouse. I was still wearing that ensemble when my husband came home from work. My husband: the man who doesn’t notice when I lose 15 lbs., who didn’t realize for three months that I’d changed from a brunette to a fiery redhead, and who still has to ask me what our home telephone number is.

The man walked in, gave me a hug, and said: “Nice shoes. How much did THOSE set us back?” And in my surprise I actually told him the truth. It was a price that shocked him as much as his power of observation had shocked me.

Fortunately, I hadn’t worn the shoes outside so it was easy enough to convince him that I’d return them the next day. I just conveniently forgot to mention that I’d destroyed the receipt and the box, and when the next day came I “conveniently” forgot to return them, too.

I still have the shoes, and they are still gorgeous. However, because I don’t want him to realize that I never returned them, they’re still sitting in my closet where they’ve yet to be worn a second time.

But I’m waiting.

See, now that Circuit City is closing, I’m pretty certain he’s going to come home some day with his own shopping confession to make.
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Ever since the day it came out, I’ve been begging my husband for a Wii. Oh, I know I could just go out and buy one on my own (assuming I can find one for sale), but I know that unless he agrees to the purchase he’ll never play it.

And I want him to. I really do. Because I want to kick his ass at boxing.

Not that I’d tell him that, mind you. No, I’m working the angle of, “Gee, honey, there are all sorts of fitness-oriented games coming out for the Wii. Think of how much fun you’d have watching me jump around doing them.” Which, because he knows me well, he translates to: “Gee, honey, c’mon. I really want to kick your ass at boxing.”

Which, come to think of it, might explain why we still have only a PlayStation. And why, no matter how much I beg, he will NOT play EyeToy Kinetic with me.

So, my knee is starting to do a little better. I’m walking flat surfaces mostly without crutches now, although stairs hurt quite a bit. Sleeping well is another matter entirely: either I take pain killers and wake up groggy, or I skip them and wake up groggy.

Not surprisingly, all of this sleep deprivation has led to some other physical problems. I’m exhausted, and I’ve spent two days flat on my back with a blinding migraine, no doubt exacerbated by the poor quality of sleep. (One would think that the pain killers would address those migraines, but one would be wrong.) And, I ache everywhere.

I’m not sure if this is another fibromyalgia flare-up or not. I haven’t had one since being diagnosed with Celiac disease and eliminating gluten, so perhaps it has more to do with exhaustion than anything else. Or the change in the weather.

That’s right: I’m old enough now to start complaining that the cold makes my bones ache. And, thanks to that injured knee, I have a cane to go along with it.

What with all of the women wearing Empire waist or baby doll tops these days, it’s getting hard to know who’s pregnant, who’s bloated from PMS, and who’s just making a fashion faux pas.

So one might think I’d know better than to ask a swollen-bellied woman standing next to me in the elevator, “When is your baby due?” But considering that she was wearing a top identical to one I’d worn while 9 months pregnant with The Big-Eyed Boy, and she was carrying a Tarjay shopping bag filled with crib bedding, I thought it was a fair question to ask.

Not surprisingly, she didn’t think so and let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she was not only fat but downright tired of people discriminating against her for it. “Women are supposed to have a womanly shape,” she practically screamed in my face.

And since I do not take kindly to being screamed at, much less by strangers, I couldn’t resist snapping back: “Of course they are. But it looks like you ATE a whole other woman to get a shape like that!”

Thank goodness I got off on the next floor.

For the past week or so, my knee has been a bit suicidal. I can tell this because the dang thing keeps getting hurt: first, when I tripped on our deck after what we’ll kindly describe as “one too many” cocktails. Again when I slid on our wet yard while trying to navigate downhill. The third time when the thing gave out from underneath me as I walked down the stairs. Then the clincher: Monday night when my husband opened a door that hit me in the backside and sent me sprawling… right onto my knee.

In other words, I’ve been in various stages of pain for days now. Self-medicating didn’t work since, as I pondered while sliding down the yard, it’s not such a smart thing to have a couple of cocktails to dull pain that had been caused by too many cocktails in the first place. Ice didn’t work. Even staying off of it didn’t work. So yesterday I broke down and went to the doctor because she, after all, has the good stuff.

The verdict: I’ve fractured my knee cap. We’re not sure which fall did it, but there’s no doubt that the thing’s fractured.

The prescription: some niiiiiiice pain killers, a directive to keep the thing elevated and iced, and a cane. Or crutches. My call.

Yesterday I gave the crutches a try. My husband, being the penny pincher that he is, suggested we just borrow some crutches from a friend of his. While that sounded like a good idea at the time, the fact is the man’s considerably taller than I am… and so are his crutches. So, in addition to having an aching knee, I also now have very sore armpits.

Today I opted for the cane and, while it works rather nicely if I need to change channels on the TV without a remote or tap my cat’s behind to keep myself amused, it does not help much when it comes to keeping weight off of my foot (and hence keeping my knee from hurting).

But that’s fine. Really it is. Because, as I mentioned, when it comes to pain relief my doctor has the gooooood stuff. And now, so do I!

While laying here on the floor of my office pondering the pain-relieving beauty that is Tylenol with Codeine, I couldn’t help noticing that J&J makes the stuff. I hadn’t realized that. Then again, when it comes to pain medications I’m typically in too big a hurry to take them to notice much about their manufacturing.

Anyway.

Did you know that in addition to making a variety of products we all use (Tylenol, Band-Aids, Baby wash, etc.) J&J is committed to protecting the environment? One area of particular interest is their efforts to minimize paper and packaging. While the company did completely eliminate PVC in its packaging, let’s face it: those regular bottles of Tylenol are STILL heinously over-packaged. Especially when you’re in pain.

Which, by the way, is another reason why I love the prescription stuff.

Although I forgot to mention it here, I flew down to Austin on Tuesday to be with my mother following her hernia surgery. Ordinarily, that kind of travel spells disaster for my efforts to diet and exercise. Not this time, however.

First thing I did upon arriving at her house: stand on her scale. (This isn’t as callous as it sounds: she was recovering in the hospital and didn’t feel up to visitors.) Granted, her scale was kinder than mine by a couple of pounds, but I figured it gave me a good baseline by which to weigh myself for the rest of the visit.

Second thing I did: drive to the grocery store. Since I have Celiac disease, and can’t eat gluten in any form, dieting can get extra tricky. If I get too hungry, but don’t have healthy yet gluten-free foods on hand, it’s too tempting to reach for potato chips, cheese or some other calorie-laden quick fix.

To prevent that, I bought a variety of salad fixings and fruit, brown rice and a carton of egg whites. (My one splurge was a small package of tortilla chips just in case I found myself dying for something to crunch besides my own knuckles.) After an hour in the kitchen I had several small salads fixed, wrapped and ready-to-eat in the fridge. Ditto with sliced fruit and brown rice. By the time I got her home, I was confident I’d not only be able to stick to my diet but would be able to feed her something more healthy than the take-out food she usually lives on.

I’ve started both mornings that I’ve been here by exercising for a half-hour in front of her TV. Nothing spectacular, mind you: some jogging in place, push-ups (the girl kind), squats and lunges, some dumbbell work and, of course, crunches. Lots and lots of crunches. So many, in fact, that at one point my mother wondered aloud whether she could’ve avoided hernia surgery had she been better about exercising her abdominals. (Answer: well, duh.)

And, of course, I’ve continued to sprinkle Sensa on all of my food without fail.

So now that I head home tomorrow morning, I figured I’d stand on her scale one more time before bedtime. You know, just to see if I’ve been a good girl on my diet or not.

Baby, I must’ve been extra good, because somehow I’ve lost another 2 pounds while I’ve been here. Sure hope my scale agrees when I get home!

Best thing about my new office space: having plenty of space and my own TV. Now, instead of tripping over the theater seating in our family room, I can lock my door and do aerobics and Pilates.

Not that I am, mind you. But I could.

Come to think of it, I may have to move my treadmill desk upstairs now. Heh, I may never come out!

Weight loss is continuing, albeit at a slower pace. I’ve been exercising quite a bit more lately, so as the scale stops reflecting rapid changes, I’m trying to convince myself that I’m replacing fat with muscle.

One truly good thing for my diet/exercise efforts: we moved my office from the basement (where there was a fridge conveniently located nearby) to the top floor of the house. Now when I want a snack I have to hustle down 26 steps, which isn’t really that big of a problem: going downstairs is easy. It’s the 26 steps to get back to my office that slow me down. Ditto if I want a cigarette (we don’t smoke in the house).

Yesterday, those trips — along with a few extras for doing laundry, moving the remainder of my office upstairs, dragging up the votive candle holders and other stuff necessary to prettify my space — added an additional 1109 steps to my daily average. Today my thighs and butt are definitely feeling that increase.

The bad part of moving my office is that I somehow messed up my right rotator cuff. Seriously messed it up. As in, I had to brush my teeth with my left hand today, and turning the steering wheel while driving my son to school was sheer torture. Rather than let this derail my exercise plan, I’m going to see my doctor this morning and demand painkillers. Good ones this time, too.

Of course, that means I’m going to have to step on the doctor’s scale, a self-esteem crushing machine that inevitably says I weigh 10 lbs. more than my home scale does. (I’m convinced that’s intentional since the stress will either trigger a heart attack which would make my doctor more money, or it’ll trigger depression which will make my doctor more money. See, like I said: intentional.)

This time, though, I won’t have to stand there listening to her cluck while I try levitating. This time — even with the stupid scale intentionally inflating my weight — I’ll still check in weighing 15 lbs. less. I’m just not going to give her the satisfaction of admitting I did it by following her advice to eat less and exercise, and that’s intentiona on my part.