Meet my new friends: James Gandolfini, Slingblade, and Lily Van der Woodsen

Every month Martha Stewart publishes an online planning calendar. Without it, I'd forget to bring out my summer dishware. I'm sharing my recovery calendar as a Martha homage.

Update on Thursday, May 5, 2011 at 2:58PM by Ellie Knaus

The bald headed girl on April 5th is Britney Spears. Not me. Just thought I'd clarify. 

100 Year Assignment

In elementary school, our math teacher said: Show us how you would spend one million dollars. I promptly cut out photos of Shetland ponies, a trapeze, and a dance studio. 

But suppose the teacher had said: Show us how you would spend one hundred years. At age eight, I probably would have had an answer. Now, at twenty-eight, I'm not so sure. 

My Great Aunt Ida never had a million dollars. But she's one of the few who's earned one-hundred years. And she's spent it wisely--not carefully--she's taught me there's a difference. 

We're celebrating her 100th birthday this weekend. She'll be walking into the restaurant--no help-- and I'll be hobbling along behind her with my crutches. She's offered to let me borrow her walker. She's a regular jokester. 

Over the past few weeks I've been collecting photos for the party. They're clues as to how she's spent her hundred years. There's one of young Ida showing off a dress with big pockets--used to smuggle her father's liquor when they crossed the Canadian border. Ida living in a railway house when she was mining for gold in Northern California. Ida in India the time her girlfriend fell in the Ganges. There's the van she and her husband Uncle Joe sold the house for and drove all over Europe. And then, there's Ida sitting on an elephant waving like the queen.

Ida with my Grandfather

When I told her I was planning the party, she said:

"Who are you inviting? Everyone is dead."

And then, she gave a little laugh like she always does when she says something wicked. I wish I could tell her she's wrong. But the 40+ party guests mainly consist of "the children": the children of Ida's siblings, the children of her friends, the children's children, and the children's children's children. Some of the children are nearly seventy. She's babysat for all of them.

Ida still lives independently. She drinks one warm coke a day to keep the doctor away. And she has a secret stash of cigarettes in her midcentury sideboard. She quit decades ago. She says she saves them for company. Once, I went to her apartment and she had the KAMA SUTRA as a book on tape alongside THE KORAN. She never talks about her work life. She always talks of family, her husband, and the friends she made while traveling and volunteering. "I'm so lucky," she says. "Oooooh yes."  And when she tastes ice cream, you can see every ounce of her relish the taste.

Ida's been a lot of help to me during my recovery. We chat over the phone. We commiserate about not being able to drive. She demands I get better and have a baby already. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to hold a Knaus baby," she says.

The night before my surgery, I rang her up. "Ida, I'm going on the cutting board tomorrow so they can remove that damn tumor."

"Are they taking out a hunk of your thigh bone? Big enough to make a good soup?" 

"Yep, and they're filling my leg with cement."

"Well, don't go swimming. You might sink."

She laughed at her own joke for a minute and then added: "Well, you'll be okay. I'll be thinking of you."

And this is when our voices always crack...

"I love you."

"I love you too, honey."  

But when we ended our call today, she added something new:

"Do you know anyone who's ever been 100?"

"Nope, Ida."

"Me neither. Well, now you do."

Happy Easter!

A crazy gift from my girlfriend Whitney. Wonder if my tumor had Reese's Pieces inside.

Rehab in Palm Springs

 Bathing beauties need not walk. 

Feeling Mad Love for NoHo

How I "Almost" Became a Princess

Click Image to go to my CultureMap ArticleWhen I woke up this morning, the Internet was abuzz with T-Mobile's Royal Wedding Dance video. The funny clip took me back to my time spent studying at the University of St. Andrews, where, for one semester, Prince William and Kate Middleton were my schoolmates.

Why did I study abroad in Scotland? I had a theory that Scotland was the Texas of Great Britain: awesome accents, fried food, lots of cows. And I was a Texas girl with Scottish heritage; I d be right at home. It also didn't hurt that: a) I already spoke English and b) I'd get a two week spring break in Europe. Sure, a lot of American girls applied to University of St. Andrews with dreams of snagging the prince. But that wasn't my intention. It was my father's.

My dad was giddy with the prospect. It'd give him the perfect excuse to play the Scottish golf courses. And, he was desperate to have a prince for a son-in-law. If Prince William gets one look at an American blond like you Right, Dad. But I let my father dream. He had tried his best to shape me into a woman worthy of the Royal Family. He sent me off to a Ritz-Carlton Manners Weekend for Girls when I was seven. By high school, he defined all my actions as: Classy or Not Classy. Lilly Pulitzer sundress with cardigan (Classy). Boyfriend with backwards baseball cap (Not Classy). Most things fell into the latter category. But, University of St. Andrews was definitely classy.

Life at St. Andrews was fantastic and different from American college life in every way. I arranged my class schedule in order to have four-day weekends. I took golf lessons on the course where golf was invented. I was an enthusiast of Hendrick s Gin and Talisker whisky. I followed a boisterous and very naked student body into the freezing North Sea in celebration of May Day. My study abroad friends lived in St. Salvator's Hall, a gothic Harry Potter dorm where Kate and William had met two years before. When William ducked into a bar, students would text friends and the place would be packed within minutes. St. Andrews students didn t raise money for charities by selling T-shirts like we did back home. They threw full-on galas like the Kate Kennedy May Charity Ball. (Prince William was in attendance). The poshest students dressed up for class like they were in a Town & Country fashion spread. Pashminas were all the rage. Herve Chapelier totes (classy). North Face backpacks (not classy). Sneakers, or trainers, were reserved for the gym only.

And instead of throwing keg parties, students threw fancy dinner parties. I was actually invited to one. I sat next to a guy named Fergus who wore pink socks. I thought that was funny. He did not find me funny.

And yes, Fergus is invited to the Royal Wedding.

Family Ties

I joke that I married my husband for his family. They’re remarkable characters as illustrated in my sister-in-law Natalie Taylor's new memoir Signs of Life (Broadway Books, $24). Natalie was a 24-year-old high school English teacher and expecting her first child when her husband passed away. Her memoir is an inspiring, honest, and laugh out loud funny account of her nearly simultaneous crash-courses in widowhood and motherhood.

It takes a village to raise a child. Natalie assembles a stellar cast. Her parents, siblings, in-laws, and friends help her cope and raise her son. This is how I was inducted into that village before Natalie knew she'd need one.

I met a boy in a bar in L.A. in May. He took me to meet his family in Michigan in June. Dad/Vito is a burly man with a thick mustache (to hide hockey scars) and punishing bear hugs. Mom/Lynn is a natural beauty with enthusiasm to spare, who keeps her figure by mowing the lawn while rocking out to her iPod.They were college sweethearts, and after raising four kids, they're still crazy for each other.

The moment I first stepped into their home, I thought: So, this is what Dorothy was prattling on about! Fridge photos were proof of all the happy moments: Homecoming dances, college graduations, his sister Natalie and brother-in-law Josh dancing at their wedding the December before. It was clear this was a magic family. I wanted to be adopted immediately. A month later, we were engaged.

Over the next year, we planned our wedding. I asked my husband's three sisters to be my bridesmaids. We chose baby-bump friendly empire-waist bridesmaid dresses as Natalie, the middle sister, was expecting her first child. Adam asked his sisters' husbands to be his co-best men. The ceremony would be a family affair on top of Aspen Mountain.

And then, our lives came to a halt. Josh fell and hit his head while carveboarding (a modified skateboard used to practice snowboarding and surfing). He was pronounced dead at age 27 on Father’s Day with a baby boy on the way. With six weeks until our wedding, my new family was broken. 

Natalie addressed over a thousand people at Josh's memorial. She stood in a black maternity dress and read the following:

…My older brother Adam is getting married this July. A few months ago Adam and his fiancée Ellie created a website featuring all of the wedding party with small, concise biographies. Josh’s biography reads as follows:

QUESTION: If Superman and the Flash raced to the end of the Universe, who would win? ANSWER: Josh Taylor. Yes, the groom’s Brother from Another Mother is a superhero. If Lance Armstrong, Indiana Jones, Jack Bauer, Emeril, and the cast of Jackass had a baby—a blond barrel-chested baby who was addicted to Moomer’s ice cream—it would be Josh or Diz (or “Dizzle” if you’re addressing him formally).

Anytime our wedding came up, all I could think was who wants to toast to love and eat cake? Happily ever after? What a joke.

I thought maybe we should postpone the wedding. I didn’t have cold feet. I felt the opposite of cold feet. Natalie mentioned building a family compound. That wasn't radical enough for me. I wanted to build a commune where we would not only live together, but where I could monitor where everyone was at all times. The Sztykiel's basement would do. Walls could be padded. All risk would be averted. Not even driving would be allowed.

But then, one evening, I logged onto our wedding website for the first time since the accident. There was one single new comment on the guest page. From Josh. He had posted it just days before he passed. For the first time, I read about how he couldn't wait for our wedding. He wrote how he planned to rent a bike to screech down the mountain after the ceremony. He signed the post “Dizzle.” Josh believed in love and family and living big. He did not believe in padded walls and safety nets. 

The note was his blessing. It was a sign. 

Six weeks later, I married the Sztykiels on top of a mountain. I was just beginning my marriage and Natalie was seven months pregnant and a widow. She wore her plum chiffon bridesmaid dress, gripped a bouquet of poppies, and forced herself to smile in the wedding portraits. She did it for us. You could feel our family's raw love for one another. I took a vow that I would cherish these people as dearly as Josh had. 

Over the next year, Natalie kept a journal as a means of dealing with her grief. Her memoir Signs of Life emerged from these entries.It overflows with wonderful characters from literature, pop culture, and the suburbs of Detroit. It’s a window into the world of my magic family and a testament to their resilience. You will laugh and cry with them and wish they were your family too.

It's true: I totally married my husband for his family.

Ticker-Tape Parade

Texas-based laywer MOM snuck away from the L.A. courthouse yesterday to spend the afternoon with Ellie. In celebration, Home Depot gave the 'latch-key crutches kid' an industrial-sized Rascal. Mom went straight to work hauling large bags of soil and petunias. Ellie scootered from hardware to gardening, only clipping the heels of one slow-moving, snack-munching child. Back at Gimpy's Abode, mother beautified the flower beds (former backyard mud pits) and daughter painted window boxes. Ellie admited she likes being craftsy, as long as Mom sets up/cleans up her workstation--Not much has changed since Kindergarten. Ellie hopes more of Mom's LA-based clients get sued in the near future cause Ellie's patio could use sweeping.  

Let's Be Honest

I'm not much of a problem solver--more of a problem pointer-outer. 

The Little Delights

A girl on crutches starts placing importance on ridiculous things like restaurant delivery orders. It's the easiest way to spice up her life. She can't exercise--except for hopping up the stairs on crutches. She can't drive to Anthropologie to sniff the candles--no driving. And, it's nearly impossible to scoop a bowl of coconut milk ice cream cause with her metal arm-legs, she's hand-less. Her restaurant delivery order becomes her way of interacting with the outside world. Tonight, she's going to India. 

She knows two things about ordering Indian. 1. Stick with a Tandoori entree if she's going to stuff her face with Naan. 2. Steer clear of Makhana. She intends to look up the cuisine of the southern state of Andhra Pradesh, but gets sidetracked googling: "Indian cheese cubes." It irks her that cheese cubes are listed in the salad description. Are these cheese cubes like the ones found on Costco trays? Or more like curdling lumps? Finally, she calls the restaurant, delivery menu in hand. She delights in how Indian restaurants delight in the word delight. She is told to hold. She hears the cacophony of fifty dates in the restaurant's background. It's a popular restaurant. That's a good sign. She marvels at technology like google, the cell phone, and the ability to pay people to arrive with food. She's thankful she'll be eating Indian takeout in pajama pants with an elastic waist. It's the little delights. The man on the other end of the line takes her order. Then, he tells her it will be fifty-five minutes. FIFTY-FIVE minutes! GOOD GRIEF! She hangs up. And then, she realizes that it will be something to look forward to and asks her husband to go ahead and bring her a bowl of ice cream. She'll have dessert first while she waits for the world to come to her.