Daniel and I joke (with all sincerity but laughing still) that we are too churchy for our non-Christian friends and not churchy enough for the ones with whom we attend--because we have real conversations about what it is that makes us unappealing to others, quick to forget, not invited. We have a kid now, so that is a large part I'm sure. We're too traditional, I say. We're too white, we're too do-things-in-the-right-order-before-you-reach-30, we don't smoke marijuana, we live in a nice home, our tattoos are too Christian. Nobody cares, nobody cares, nobody cares. Most days I'm over it. I tell him, we should probably become more Christian; someday we'll find someone with just the right amount of grit, someone who makes us laugh and think, crass but accepting of our gentle lifestyle: evening walks in the back ally, early bed-sharing bedtimes and talk of finding future companionship in cows, horses, chickens-- most recently a pot-bellied pig. I tell him, we should probably invite people over if we want to be invited over. Naw, he says, and so stagnant we remain, complaining about being left out, resenting in-opportunities of friendship-making, wondering where our recently-separated neighbour is at these days, always driving off, like everyone else, to somewhere.