The Chubs of Monte Cristo or How I Humiliate My Dog

Our future children should be afraid...very afraid.

Polish Pumpkin Nonsense

I turned my husband into a pumpkin. He was flattered, and then pointed out that I forgot the K in our last name. I told him to relax. We've only been married four whole years. 

Halloween Text

 "I will be post-op Ellie since my meniscus has all of the sudden woken up, gotten angry, and caused a serious limp." #truefriend

A Centenarian Gets a Fortune

Last Sunday, Great Aunt Ida and I dined "al fresco". That means we gobbled down take out chinese on her patio. What fortune did my 100 year old sassy guru draw? "You will make many changes before settling satisfactorily." Can't argue with that. 

Physical Therapy: Dedicate Your Workout to Those Who Can't

Back when my Great Aunt Ida was a spry 96, she shared a dream with me. “Elizabeth, you’ll never believe it,” she said, while perched in her recliner, her cane by her side.

I dreamed I was in a park…Barefoot. Running! I could feel the grass. The wind. The sensations were so real. Oh, to feel that again…

I always hated running. In fourth grade, I finished the mile in 11 minutes. I could sashay across a soccer field faster than I could run. My stepbrothers said I ran like Forest Gump… with his braces on.  

But years later,  I met this really cute guy. We were inseparable, except for when he’d go on never-ending runs. So, I laced up and tagged along. I knew he really liked me because he’d walk with me after the first mile. Or he’d wait for me when I'd have to run into the Beverly Hills Mercedes dealership bathroom en route. I started building stamina and I stopped drinking coffee before heading out. We got engaged and jogging became my bridal boot camp.

Then, my brother-in-law Josh died suddenly. He was active to the extreme. He biked across the entire country. There was no slowing him down. And then, all of a sudden, he was gone. It was devastating to my family. Running became my way of coping with intense anxiety.Josh Taylor

Over the years, Ida and Josh would come to mind when I'd rather sit on my ass. They reminded me how lucky I was to have the chance to wash sweat out of my hair.

There were uphill runs when I thought:  If something bad happens in the future, you need to be strong. You need to be able to call upon this strength someday when you can’t get out of bed. Stock up now. Go! I chalked this crazy talk up to my anxiety disorder. But that inner voice was prescient.

Click to enlarge

This spring, when there were no external signs, just an occasional knee ache when I ran or hiked, I got an x-ray that revealed a rare, aggressive, rapidly growing, benign but potentially metastasizing Giant Cell Tumor in my right femur. My orthopedic oncologist Dr. Rex Marco said that it was the earliest case he had seen. They usually go undetected until they destroy the knee joint. We found it early because I was so active. Because Ida and Josh were always pushing me out the door.  

My extensive tumor surgeries were a breeze (Attention! Flowers! Morphine! Breakfast in Bed!) compared to my long, drawn-out recovery; I was housebound and unable to drive or walk for 113 days (not that I counted). I had a geriatric toilet seat like Ida's, the up high kind with the handles. When I threw Ida's 100th birthday party, she teased that I could borrow her walker. I swung around on crutches instead.

To stave off crazy, I devised my own workout plan: a hodge podge of Sit and Be Fit and Pilates. I could do sit ups and I could do one-legged push ups with my bum leg in the air. I minimized muscle atrophy and I stopped crying.

Ida's 100th birthday

And then, on June 17^th, my family honored the 4^th anniversary of Josh’s passing. Natalie Taylor, his wife and my sis-in-law, designed a special crossfit workout in memory of him. [See video below].

June 17^th was the exact day that my orthopedic oncologist prescribed I could walk unassisted for the first time. I couldn’t do the workout in memory of Josh, but I could put aside the cane and walk.

Once I got my sea legs back, I limped into the weight room at my gym. I kept my eyes down and shuffled over to the pull up machine. The personal trainers saw me and stopped what they were doing. And they clapped. For me! They don’t know my name. But the ponytail girl who worked out every day for years, and then, disappeared in February, and then, came back on crutches to do rehab in the pool, was finally back in the weight room. It felt like that moment in RUDY when he finally gets to charge the field. Rudy. Rudy. Rudy. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.

I swear, if you get out there and sweat; you’ll be surprised to find all those who are rooting for you. So, GO! Do it for those who can’t. And think of it as stocking up on your strength reserve. You’ll never know when you’ll need it.

Watch this incredible video of the workout in honor of my brother-in-law. My sis-in-law Sarah gives an explanation at the beginning. You can see her at min 0:52 and my brother-in-law David at min 2:26. I point them out, not just to brag about their sick abs, but because here is resilience in action.

Natalie Taylor explains the workout here...

...as a living breathing person, I have the capabilities to put my body through this workout. Sometimes I have moments where all I can do is think about the athletic feats my husband would have conquered had he been given more time here. But he doesn’t get that opportunity. So many people, all too young, are robbed of that opportunity. Because of this, I see it as my responsibility to do something on this day to not only honor his memory, not only to redirect my frustration over his absence, but also to feel my heart pound, to feel my skin sweat, and to feel pain. It is an expression of my appreciation that I get to be here. It is a collision of tremendous sadness and absolute gratitude that I have the chance to live.  

My super sexy super hero power? Doppler Radar Knee. Thanks docs! #L.A.Rain

WASP-loitation & the two seconds I had a nose piercing

We can thank Bravo for creating a whole kit and kaboodle of repressed Wasps who want to be: Famous, hello!

Traditionally, Wasps haven’t aired their dirty laundry. They've sent it out for dry cleaning. So, there’s an inner struggle for these nouveaux Wasps who want to be in the spotlight. They have a hard time expressing themselves without hearing the gin slurred harping of their ancestors. When they do put themselves out there for all the world to judge, you can sense their inner turmoil: the shame and insecurity, which makes fascinating entertainment.

A friend recently sent me a web video ripe for parody where self-proclaimed “Style and Beauty Expert” Wendi Brasswell explains how to dress PUNK. 

The video is a delicious character portrait of a Wasp in over her head. She’s a deer in headlights, but has the gumption to state the obvious with conviction: "No bedazzle on the rear." She can’t hide her disdain for her subject. She sums up the look by saying, "It's anything that normal people wouldn't do."

It reminds me of my parents' revulsion when I got a nose piercing my sophomore year of college. A little cubic zirconia stud glinted in my nostril for two days, long enough for my parents to call seventeen thousand times from Texas.

"What does your boyfriend think of this mutilation?" my father asked in an ice cold tone. My boyfriend was pre-med and captain of the lacrosse team, the holy grail of suitors as far as my father was concerned.   

"He thinks it's cute."

"Well, when he's some big time doctor, he's going to dump your ass."

I was a sophomore at Smith College: home of Betty Freidan, land of Gloria Steinem. His threat fell on deaf ears.

My mom called for back up. "But...why now?! This weekend, we're going to the Greenwich Country Club with your grandfather. You're not even allowed to wear denim there. I can’t imagine their policy on piercings..."  

So, I did take it out, but not for any of my parents' reasons. I took it out because it didn't fit me. I didn't need it. It felt more like a statement against my Waspy background than an expression of my own originality.

While I hoofed it back over to the tattoo parlor to get it removed, I realized:

Bedazzling one's nose, an iconoclast does not make.  

The "punk" video has been set to private now. Wendi probably realized it was getting popular for all the wrong reasons. Here she is more in her element explaining: “How to Dress Like a Wealthy Woman.” 

Creative Friday: Bill Cunningham New York Documentary

Before you cancel streaming Netflix in protest to the price hike, watch BILL CUNNINGHAM NEW YORK. It's a darling film about the iconic New York Times fashion photographer.

Cunningham has no personal life. He's never had a relationship. He doesn't spend money on himself. He doesn't own a car, or a television, or even a couch. His apartment is packed with filing cabinets. He is completely obsessed with his work. 

This sweet, funny, humble man has dedicated his entire life to documenting his passion: clothes. The odd thing is he doesn't own any himself. He says that if he had a nice jacket, it would just get ripped up by his camera. And he's never without his camera. He rides his bike past the town cars and the limos to the extravagent parties he photographs. He still shoots with film. He places little value on money. Money means you are owned by somebody else. And to him, creative freedom is everything.

Even if you have no interest in fashion whatsoever, this is a portrait of an artist worth watching.

A Date with My Texas Surgeon

Photo taken March 2011: The drain removal a couple days after Giant Cell Tumor surgery. As you can see, I'm about to lose my hospital lunch. 

From my biopsy surgery on Feb. 24 until  June 17th (113 days!): I got around on crutches, and then, the last few weeks I used a cane. If you're going to a bar or checking out the sales rack at Anthropologie, crutches are the safer option. They're more noticeable, so you're less likely to get pushed around. And then, you don't have to embarrass everybody by saying, "I know you're trying to get to those 25% off chinos, but I'm handicapped. Just give me a second." 

Photo taken September 2011...Minimal muscle atrophy. So happy to have my freedom back.

MY DOCTOR DATE...

The last time Dr. Marco saw me, I was knocked out on an operating table like a slab of meat. He spent four hours scooping out maverick Giant Cell Tumor cells that had eaten away at my femur.  He burred out any surrounding cells that could go rogue at a later date. He wiped the area down with a cell-killing chemical formula. And he spackled up the huge gaping hole where bone should have been with cement putty.

Yesterday, I wore a sundress and sandals to my appointment. I believe bad news is never given to a girl in a sundress. My outfit was a fake out to the vengeful Gods peering down on us. She’s not going to the orthopedic oncologist. Look. She’s dressed for aperitifs on a cruise deck. The disguise worked. Yesterday’s check up was a success.

Dr. Marco is one of those unflappable types. His first name is ‘Rex’. You've got to be self-possessed with a name like King Marco. But he was visibly shocked by how far I’d come in my rehabilitation.

DR. MARCO: When was your surgery again?

ME: March.

DR. MARCO: THIS?! MARCH?!!!!!!!

The doctor's animated response kind of startled me. It meant there was doubt that I'd be as far along as I am. It felt kind of like how, when I was younger, my Mom always supported me in all my endeavors, but then, when I actually got accepted into what I had gone out for, her loving congratulations always had a tinge of surprise. People should know: It’s my job to self-doubt and everybody else’s job to believe in me 100%. Capiche?

Dr. Marco said I had gained more strength and mobility in the past seven months than many patients like me ever recover. His young entourage in white coats nodded their heads in agreement.

I’m pleased that I’m surpassing Dr. Marco's expectations. And I'm grateful. But I’m also sad for other GCT patients who have a harder time. I know I'm lucky. I had a great doctor, a knowledgeable physical therapist, a mom who bought me five pound weights so I could do bicep curls in bed, and a husband who made me protein shakes every morning.

Of course, I still found time for “Ellie-aching” at this appointment. My knee still hurts. The doc said the pain could be caused by a protrusion from the cement rubbing against my tendons. He said he could burr it down in another surgery. No guarantee that would help. I’d be able to walk out the same day, but the wound would have to heal again. Oh brother! I never want to have to take another “trash bag wrapped around the leg with duct tape” shower ever again. We’ll reassess in six months. I’ll be stronger by then. And the pain might go away on its own.

In the meantime, more pilates-style workouts and physical therapy. And guilt-free valet parking.

Unsaid: A Short Film

I'll be playing this on repeat at the old folks home someday...

"Unsaid" was written, directed, shot, and edited by Joe Ballarini.

The Players: Adam Sztykiel, Ellie Knaus (yours truly).

The gorgeous song you won't be able to get out of your head is "Ghosts" by Laura Marling.