I just finished reading St. Aelred of Rievaulx’s short work “Spiritual Friendship”. I love reading old texts on things that feel hopelessly modern. And I especially love reading old texts on things that I enjoy with an almost obsessive energy. Particularly when I think a text will validate my efforts.

This book did not turn out the way I wanted it to. Instead, I found myself confronted with a myriad of failings that I fell into as I attempt the difficult activity of friendship. I’m sure it could be argued that I take something very simple and natural and make it difficult instead of easy and organic. But I’d argue that very few things in life are simple or easy, and that if you find them easy, it’s probably because you’re not interested in taking the time to learn the nuances.

This is the same person who has taken grilled cheese to an art form previously unknown in the culinary world, so it’s possible that I’m wrong on multiple fronts.

My theory is that anything that’s good simple is even better with detail and depth. To that end, I started this exciting project that is researching friendship and how to do it correctly.

Aelred was a monk. So his concept of friendship is in a lot of ways enhanced and supported by monastic living and a culture of poverty and equal dependence all based directly in each man’s relationship to Christ.

The trick is then translating this to a secular world context, where I may be in contact with a predominance of Christians, but certainly not as dedicated a bunch as you might encounter in a monastery.

What most caught me about Aelred’s depiction of friendship was that it so closely mirrored what I have heard a marriage should look like. Themes of trust, loyalty, openness, gentle correction, kindred spirits, faithfulness, and a love that is the basis for all of it, that is everlasting.

I’m not silly enough to imagine then that I could marry my best friend, or that marriage itself can be boiled down to what I’ve listed and provides no other complications, but I think for so long I’ve been under the assumption that single people suffer under the burden of having inferior relationships.

Friendship is a term so loosely thrown about, and so often unfortunately temporary, that we begin to think it’s as tenuous a bond as any grade school romance. It’s been my experience that friendship should and can be an enduring bond that brings strength, growth, maturity and a closer unity with God the longer it continues.

To that end, and on a very personal note, I’ve never felt that my life was especially lacking because I’m not married. Naturally, there are things I am missing out on by not having this relationship in life, but what I mean to say is that I find myself working so diligently at retaining the delightful friends I currently have, and so enamored by their differences and fascinating traits that get revealed level after level, that I’ve not had time to mourn the “missing out” that most people pity me for.

I’m old enough to know that not everyone is blessed to have babies, and that not everyone is blessed to marry, but we are all blessed with the ability to make and retain friends. To me this is one of the more fundamental forms of relationship, and therefore an important and valuable form to continue perfecting over the years.

Right now I’m at a coffee shop and I’m seeing all around me this act of friendship being played out with duos – two men in the corner, two women across from me, two girls next to me that are working out friendship through homework. The human need to relate, to exchange ideas, to laugh, to mourn, to reveal their heart and share the burden of their friend is so innate, so common place that we seek any venue or opportunity to do so.

It’s beautiful watching friendships all around me, and it is something I’m happy to say I’ll keep pursuing and digging at, working to get deeper to the heart of it in the hearts of those around me.

I’ve documented my fear of spiders. I’ve discussed my fear of vomiting in front of strangers, and my fear of appearing weak. I’m also afraid of heights, driving in the snow, and expired food products.

But perhaps my greatest fear is potential fear. It’s the fear that maybe you’re really good at something and if you just gave it a shot you’d attain it. There’s nothing worse for me than having someone affirm I’m good at something. “Oh swell. You think I’m a great cook? Now I have to actually cook!”

Just kidding, no one’s ever said that to me.

In college they thought I was great at writing movie reviews. So I started writing movie reviews for my college paper. Instantly I became a perverse movie reviewer who didn’t go out to review that which was highly sought after by audiences, but the tiny crap films that no one cared about. “Dragon Wars” was one I actually went to review. “Ghost Rider” was another. All the while fielding questions like “have you seen “Pan’s Labyrinth”?” Nope, sorry. Do not come to me for quality movie opinions.

When my family plays cards (pinochle to be specific, and often) I do my best not to pay any attention to the game and distract as many other players as possible. It’s usually when I take time to try out my stand-up material that will never see the front of a stage. You’d be surprised how often I win by not caring about the end result of the game.

Yet, I’ve never seen anyone give that kind of advice to someone in earnest pursuit. “Stop caring! Just pretend it doesn’t matter.” Actually, wait, girls use that to get guys all the time…unfortunately reverse psychology doesn’t work on inanimate objects. That pot will boil in its own time whether you’re watching it or not.

The trick is, as always, putting the water in and turning the heat on. I’m not so great the heat. And a little sloppy with the water. I have the pot though.

It’s a new January, friends. One step at a time. Grab your pot, put some water in it, and turn up the heat. Just a little.

Damn it. How did I end on a cooking metaphor?

In honor of the 80 or so people I know that are having a worse January this year than I was having last year.

I have years of experience with doctors. I’ve been seeing them since I was a kid. And it’s been my experience that doctors, though amazing people, are generally speaking, not hot. I’ve never met a Doctor McSteamy, or McDreamy or whatever else you want to call them.

Apparently they’re all working out of one hospital in Seattle that doesn’t exist.

I’ve never been upset that I haven’t met a hot doctor because I’ve never gone to a doctor when I’m at my most beautiful or sexiest or wittiest or charmingest. For some reason I’m reluctant to encounter physical perfection when I’m so far from it my tongue might be growing moss.

All of this changed when I had a stent put in to relieve the intense pain from a kidney stone. The pain started on a Wednesday and by Thursday night I couldn’t take it anymore. I hadn’t eaten, hadn’t showered, hadn’t washed my face in two days and was in my pajamas with un-brushed hair. I spent a Thursday night and all Friday braless and on morphine in the hospital.

Friday night I went in for surgery (Praise the Lord). The nurses were wonderful, very comforting and encouraging and then one of them says “Your surgeon’s a really great guy, and he’s hot too.”

Of course he is. He’s about to insert a stent into my urethra, why wouldn’t he be the hot doctor?

And the thing is she said this like it would make my surgical experience better. Like I’d be happier knowing a hot doctor was going to go near my nether region while I was unconscious.

And then she told me to take off my underwear. Which was also great because sitting around on a slab covered in a flimsy sheet and wearing hospital socks, having not shaved my legs since last summer doesn’t make me feel vulnerable and exposed at all.

Here’s the thing about morphine and me. When I’m taking large doses of pain killer my perspective shifts. I guess that’s typical, and it’s probably also how some people get hooked. After all, not feeling much of anything is a surprisingly great feeling.

Here’s what it looked like for me: While I had that normal inward acknowledgement that this was all mortifying and unsettling – and could joke around accordingly – the rest of me was thinking “ugh, can we just move on to the surgery already?”

Sadly, hopped up on drugs and in intense pain means I don’t really care about the looks of the physician. So while I did check for a wedding band, and did note he resembled some famous actor or other (because come on, I’m not dead), I was more attracted to the anesthesiologist who promised me that if I woke up during surgery I could punch him in the face.

Clearly morphine does alter your perspective and your personality a bit, but in my case it was a weirdly positive change. There you have it. Drugs make me appreciate substance over style.

Crap. I forgot to check the anesthesiologist for a wedding band.

I saw another birth announcement on my facebook newsfeed the other day and my first thought was “ANOTHER one? How many babies can you HAVE in such a short time??”

Herein lies the problem facebook presents me with. Instead of seeing all the birth announcements, birth celebrations, baby showers, room painting, small shoe buying, sideways pregnant photos as a series of friends getting pregnant, I now view them as one large entity. Indeed, for me, it’s as if my friend facebook is forever pregnant, forever getting engaged, forever taking pictures of their coffee, and I am beyond annoyed with my friend.

She’s always pregnant. If I’ve seen one “six months belly! squee! I’m so huge lolz” I’ve seen them all. Because she’s always posting them.

If she’s sent out one set of “got the DJ booked now on to find the perfect invitations! Hit me up with your address” she’s done it eight too many times.

If she’s taken one picture of her soy no fat extra caramel crème brulee seasonal latte in a lolz cat mug proclaiming “Iz morning? NOOOOOOOOOOO” she’s …well she seems to do it every day.

It’s like having an amnesiac friend with only one story in their repertoire. “Remember that time I got married? Had a baby? Bought shoes? Have I filled you in with all the details? I’m sure I haven’t. Also, I have pictures!”

Of course, in reality I know that each marriage, pregnancy, first trip to Kansas is unique. But ooh-de-lally does it all roll together for the rest of us.

But I miss the days when I read up on these announcements. I looked at all the “pre-engagement” photos. I kept up with the daily pregnancy log, I read the travel vlog.

Truth is, I have trouble being interested this late in the game. After that first wave of getting married, having babies, donating kidneys the novelty wears off.

As it stands, happy for them and all, but I kinda wish my friends were doing more interesting things. Like making log cabins out of swizzle sticks, grilling up an epic cheese, pranking their own children.

These are the important moments in life. Finding a spouse cannot possibly be as life changing as getting a 10 pound bag of taffy from the bulk foods aisle.

I had in mind to write an original thoughtful poem about being single at Christmas. Or stealing a poem to re-word it to be a parody of being single at Christmas.

“Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, especially Katrina who was single.”

But that’s a freaking long poem to rework and I have a regular job to go and other priorities besides ruining a perfectly nice poem about Christmas.

Which leaves me with making my own poem. But again, between family obligations, friend gatherings, regular Christmas shenanigans, and shopping in a haphazard manner for presents, not to MENTION my Christmas movie watching which includes but is not limited to Die Hard, and When Harry Met Sally, I’m a bit busy.

So, instead of a full poem which I’m not very good at anyway, I mean even limericks take work, I have a haiku for you.

The poem is based on the below photo which was taken several Christmases ago and was thought, by some, to be a hilarious present. My brother-in-law who took the picture has enjoyed this photo for years and regularly shows it to friends, strangers, people he meets on the train.

This truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

Tumescent Christmas Present

A boyfriend she has

not. But water she can get.

This was a good gift?

Anyway, my Christmas experience is yours to enjoy.

And my hope is that all of you enjoy your Christmas, even if you’re the butt of the joke.

In fact, while the laughing is going on, I encourage you to come up with your own haiku. Definitely let me know the results 🙂

Happy holidays, friends!

Last night as I was having some of my special eggnog (1 part milk, 2 parts nog, 1.5 parts brandy, .5 parts amaretto) I was also cooking.

Jana can cook and do a lot of other things. I’m sure, though I haven’t caught her at it, that she can cook and do encaustic work, shave a poodle, and then knit a sweater.

At any rate, as I was pitting an avocado using my special trick (stab the pit with a really sharp knife and twist it out), I ended up slicing my thumb.

Like a giant paper cut across the top of the thumb into the nail, which of course caused it to bleed a lot. At which point I remembered that I had meant to get band aids and antiseptic cream and somehow had forgotten, because, thank you very much, it’s been over a year since the last major slicing.

But I have paper towels and tape. Which is basically a band aid anyway. Of course, the end result — due to bulky paper towel wrapping — is that it looks like I violently stabbed myself in the thumb with a knife, instead of violently grazing my thumb with a knife.

But the moral of the story, and the reason for writing, is that sometimes that “special avocado trick” we think we have is sometimes not special at all. It’s just stupid.

Naturally, had my mother been around, she would have stopped all this before it even happened. Like her cold prevention method of always wearing a sweater.

But the reality is sometimes you have to gently abrade your own flesh with a paring knife before you realize that you’re an idiot, and the old ways are best.

In this particular case, I have no idea what the “old ways” are, but I welcome any and all advice on how to properly pit an avocado without a blood sacrifice.

Maybe that’s the real avocado trick, learning how to ask for advice when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.

What seems like a decade ago now I watched the film Prince of Persia: Sands of Time. I’m sure for some of you this effectively affirms your belief that I have terrible taste in films and you’re not wrong, but I agree with G. K. Chesterton on this point — if you want to know what’s important and interesting to the masses, don’t go to the high forms of art, go to the crudest incarnations of it.

This film qualifies, and boy does it have a lot to say about society. What I found most personally irritating was the female lead.

Gemma Arterton is not a terrible actress and you could argue that she only seems to be cast in terrible films, and this film did a great disservice to her. It forced her to be “sarcastic”.

It’s a well known archetype that actually goes back quite a few years. Jean Arthur played a world weary cynical D.C. aide in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and nailed it perfectly and it’s incredibly prevalent in cinema today because it’s one of the easiest ways to prove your female character is a strong independent woman who doesn’t need a man while…having her depend on a man.

It’s also a nice ironic take as many films like to subvert our independent sharp-tongued heroine by making her an idiot.

Sands of Time does BOTH. It’s incredible really.

But what really bothers me is that sarcasm, like any kind of humor, is not simply a speech pattern that can be worn like a new shirt. You can’t put on sarcasm. (Fun fact: Friends almost left the character Chandler out of the cast because they couldn’t find someone who could be sarcastic, dry, and likeable until Matthew Perry auditioned) Forcing a female to be sarcastic to sell her strong willful meet-the-hero-on-his-level character can result in the most annoying, abrasive, irritating character if the actor can’t do it.

Gemma Arterton can’t do sarcasm. This is not a criticism. In fact it’s probably a compliment. I’m sure she can do a lot of things well, and I have a feeling that humor is one of them, but it’s not sarcastic humor.

All of her supposedly clever lines just come out mean and angry. She’s not sassy and brassy, she’s rude and obnoxious.

Look, women are funny. Women are clever. Women are great. But they’re usually great when you’re not shoehorning them into the “it” girl of the moment.

Not every girl can be Katherine Hepburn. Not every girl can be Jennifer Lawrence. And, oh dear God, not every girl can be Zooey Deschanel.

None of that’s bad even! It’s all good! Jean Arthur rocked the sharp-tongued brilliant independent woman because that’s what Jean Arthur did best. She didn’t do it best because all women could do it best, nor should they.

What’s great about women (and men) is that they can rock all kinds of personalities and humors with sass and class. Of course, in order to do that, you should probably stop watching crap films and taking tips from them…she said to no one in particular…

At the tail end of the 80s a film came out chronicling the plight of the modern woman to achieve success in both her personal life and her professional life, and the obstacles in both. Appropriately called “Working Girl” starring Melanie Griffith as the titular lead, Harrison Ford as the love interest, and Sigourney Weaver as the antagonist/sensei, it dealt with the catch-22s of being a working woman.

Griffith starts the movie as an overly capable and reliable secretary who is grossly taken advantage of and sexually assaulted when she tries to get ahead in her career. As she goes in for yet another placement, we see she’s quit multiple jobs, making her look temperamental and unreliable.

She finds employment under Weaver, and there’s almost a relief in this. A woman working for another woman. A Senior executive, a female who managed to get ahead, surely she’ll help pave the wave for this fellow corporate climber.

Instead, we discover that Weaver is simply out for herself, and in the dog eat dog world of male corporate scrabbling, she’s simply joined the fray and sees Griffiths as easy meat. She takes advantage of her ideas and inspirations, and gives no credit to our poor working girl. Simultaneously, Griffiths catches her live-in boyfriend, played by a slimy Alec Baldwin, having sex with a mutual friend. “It isn’t what it looks like. It is, but I love you!”

With both spheres of her life falling to pieces, it’s up to Griffiths to take the reins, and with artful maneuvering and a little dirty pool come out on top for a change.

Along the way she meets up with Ford who manages to be insecure, noble, and genuine in an environment that encourages men to be anything but. If only this movie was a template for how men should act as well as women.

Ford makes it a point that Griffiths manages to dress like a woman “not like how a woman thinks a man would dress if he were a woman”, taking a dig at the shoulder pads and professional suits of the time. But it strikes too at the fine line women were required to walk of being perceived as both female and professional. How else to do it and be taken seriously but then to pretend you’re a man?

It’s not difficult to understand why Weaver chose to go the route she did. It was safer, easier. As she parries sexual advances from men over cocktails, she notes to Griffiths that “today’s junior prick is tomorrow’s executive”. Reminding us yet again of that fine line women must walk to be sexual object enough to be counted in for the next business talk.

But Tess doesn’t have the smooth corporate talk down. She’s honest, candid, smart, but straightforward. As such her aspirations and gumption are repeatedly talked down and disparaged. Her business degree earned at night school is worth nothing, and her soft voice and willingness to take direction is taken advantage of. If you can’t play the game…

In the private sphere as well, Griffiths can’t do anything right. For her birthday her boyfriend gives her lingerie prompting her to respond, “just once I wish you’d give me something I can wear outside the apartment”, supporting that once again, she’s perceived as less than, an object of sexual delight, not a person. Cheating on her means almost nothing. As seen by the women in her life who encourage her to go back to the man who cheated on her, though there’s no sign of change on his part.

Of course, by the end, things are looking up. She’s being taken seriously at work, and she’s being treated like a human in her relationships. But the next question is, as she advances, how will she treat the next generation? How will she treat men? Will she, with vengeful glee, wreak havoc on them as they did her? Will she grind more lowly women under her foot because she now has the power?

Sure, the hair is big, the outfits hysterical, the technology dated, the very feel of the picture a dirty 80s movie in the best way, but watching it this year felt eerily modern.

Women who still compete with women for those few select positions for women, women who parry thrusts from men in almost every aspect because to confront directly is to risk everything. Women who gradually become more and more bitter as the challenges erode their kindness, their generosity, their desire to play fair.

It’s a great romantic comedy of the time, sure, but today, it feels like just a bit more.

If you can’t picture what being single feels like, imagine you’re afraid of spiders, you’re home alone and a spider shows and you are the only one available to kill it. Or as I would refer to it, Thursday.

I was sitting on my couch doing a crossword and watching a TV show of questionable virtues, and this episode was particularly action packed — meth lab explosions, nuclear weapons, cocaine flying through the air, bodies piling up, in a word everything that is why I watch the show. After most episodes I feel cooler, a little bit tougher for having spent time with special ops guys on covert missions in exotic parts of the world.

But then this monster showed up. And guys, it’s the biggest freaking spider I’ve ever had to witness up close. It’s certainly the biggest I’ve realized I had to kill. Because you go through stages of figuring out what to do next.

• Stage one: Panicking. In which I leapt over my sofa to get farther out of its reach.
• Stage two: Bargaining. Do I call someone? No, it would take them too long to get here and I have to keep watching it to see where it goes. I have to kill it.
• Stage three: Weapons Assessment. I have a bottle of spray poison that seems to only stun and irritate them, often causing them to go into hiding. This was out. The vacuum was in the closet the spider was guarding. Thankfully the broom and dustpan were out. Weapon selected.
• Stage four: Strategizing. I knew that if I hit it with the broom I would stun it, it would drop and then it would start moving for real and carpeting is nice and cushiony, harder to kill something on a soft surface (I remember this from last year when I had to kill one crawling toward me on my bed at 1 am. Another time).
• Stage five: Killing. I hit it hard with the dustpan attached to the broom. The dustpan came off, I had barely winged the villain. I go in with the broom. Knock it down, of course. And then it does the most terrifying thing possible. It runs at me. RUNS. You know in your nightmares when you’re being chased by the most tenacious, undeterable evil ever? Yes. But I hacked away at it and spread its remains over a foot of carpet so that it would have a hard time rebuilding itself.
• Stage six: Recovery. I had to try and start breathing normally and let the shaking abate. I also called friends, just to assure myself that there were humans in the world not currently plagued by spiders. I took a walk outside to ease the claustrophobia, I forced myself back to the scene of intense violence and terror and pressed play on the remote. I also vacuumed up the corpse.
• Stage seven: Acceptance. There are other spiders in this apartment. I am not alone. It’s just how it goes. It’s not ideal, but it’s life. I am never going to be on good terms with spiders, I may always jump when a picture of one is on a computer screen or in a magazine, but to date I haven’t lost a battle with a spider.

Like any crap opportunity I’ve had the pleasure of enduring, spider killing has its rewards. This time the reward is in knowing I can do it. Even when that part of me that’s terrified is screaming “there’s no way you can kill it”, I did it anyway. (Don’t get me wrong, had there been a qualified adult present I would have had them do it. I’m not ashamed to ask for a grown-up when I can.)

And finding out you can do something that you knew you couldn’t do is almost exhilarating. It’s terrifying and exhausting and empowering. Or it will be tomorrow after I’ve stopped checking every surface every five seconds for my victim’s friends and families members seeking revenge.