Christian fiction and the single narrative

Just to clarify, I mean single narrative as in only narrative, not like not yet romantically paired up narrative. Though the latter does get involved with the former.

But what do I mean by only narrative, then? In short, stereotype: when only a single story is given attention and (ergo) treated as legitimate. As in, not all Australians live in the bush and fight dingos and crocodiles on their way to pick up some groceries or whatever. In more short, it’s about being more deliberate about including the wide range of experiences.

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This is not a real review


Here is Big Cat in his spot on my bed. Right in the middle, right where my shoulders would go if I wanted to flop.

Also, check out The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente. I just can’t seem to write a full review of it that I don’t hate. More awesome genre-savvy YA fairy-taleishness, but more traditional and polished in style than Galendor. It’s like smooth jazz in contrast to contemporary rock.

How do romantic relationship?

After being dumped after a six-year relationship, I’ve had to deal with feels of loneliness and isolation and all that good stuff, but I’m coming out of it by moving away from home and remembering that I’m a competent motherfucker, motherfucker. There are things I want to do, dammit. Some of them are things that it would be nice to have someone go with, like world travel, someone who would also be interested in museums and cool old stuff and not so much in shopping.

That’s one thing I liked about committed relationship, being more or less guaranteed that someone was in your corner and liked doing things with you. But hell, I’ve gotten used to going into new churches by myself, maybe all I need to do to get used to traveling by myself is practice. Though there were times I didn’t know what I wanted to do, and it’s sometimes helpful to have someone with you who’s at least more decisive.

So I’ve been giving halfhearted thoughts about if and when I would date again. The pickings around my area are slim since I’m not into country-western dudebros, but the possibilities of the Internet are endless. Sometimes a little too endless.

So I had a thought. HGTV is the channel I turn on for background noise or when there’s nothing else on. So I’ve watched my share of House Hunters. So what if there was a Date Hunters? That might be the kind of help I need, someone to manage online profiles for me and cull out the creepers and assholes and creepy assholes and narrow it down to guys I might actually like. Because though being female pretty much guarantees me to be awesome at online dating, I don’t consider it particularly awesome to be bombarded with “hurr hurr, slob my knob” messages, which I have on good authority is what happens all the time.

Bonus: Not seeing the “hurr hurr, slob my knob” messages will encourage me to be possibly romantically sociable instead of thinking that dying alone with my corpse feasted on by my horde of housecats is the best option available.

And after being burned by my imploding engagement, I’m naturally cautious of making the same mistakes again. And having never been on an online dating site (who wants to pay for that anyway?), I don’t know if it’s anything like looking for houseplans. I can navigate those sites: two to three bedroom, less than three thousand square feet. I found a new non-bullshit site that allows you to search for features like fireplaces and library/office space and by architectural style. Guys, I’ve found I really like the Southwestern style houses with the adobe and the arches and the big covered porches.

But back to dude-browsing. I’m no longer sure what I’m really looking for, but I do have some ideas. Basics: nonsmoking, compatible interests. Newly learned priorities: realistic and compatible expectations about romantic relationships, can respect and set boundaries without being a fucking asshole.

Other than that, not so sure. My ex-dude is a romantic, and I’m not so much, but I still don’t know if that was a good or bad thing, though I know it contributed to our different expectations in romantic relationships. Also, I’m still on the fence as to whether I want kids, but I know for damn sure I won’t have more than two, probably not more than one. I know I don’t have the resources for a large family, physical or emotional. It would be kinda convenient if I turned out to be sterile—decision made for me—but that wouldn’t solve my problems when it comes to nosy assholes who consider childless women to be the most pathetic things in existence. And it’s worse if you aren’t in sackcloth and ashes about childlessness, let alone if you enjoy it.

But as older people keep reminding me, I’m young and I have plenty of time. Online dating can wait until I can afford the subscriptions.

Brain blorf: News and other junk. Mostly junk.

Mea culpa, I’ve been a bad blogger, not posting in a forever. I’ve started a post and hated it and then had good intentions about starting another one but blaaaah, I’m at a point where I hate almost everything I write, so I’m going to brain-vomit a semi-coherent list of news and things.

Speaking of writing, I have a new local writer potential-bro, W. Eric Myers. He’s been flogging his book around town, and I plan to go support him during the First Friday event downtown at the coffeeshop where I mooch free Wi-fi.

His “day” job is at the same company and on the same night shift that my dad works. Dad saw someone had corrected a sign and found out it was Eric, talked to him, and realized he and I had interests in common like writing and Japanese culture. And I’m OH GOD SOMEONE PLEASE SOCIALIZE WITH ME ready to make friends, especially ones that can talk about anime.

The closest thing I’ve come to that is this junior-high-aged kid who was volunteering at the SPCA at the same time I was, and he pretty much only knew the stuff imported to Cartoon Network. And that kid kinda reminded me of my former boyfriend/fiancé, which prompted me to go on a weird, existentialish musing, because that’s apparently what happens to me after the searing depression after being dumped after a six-year relationship that started in high school. Yeah, it’s a can of shitty worms, but that’s another post, if I’m brave enough to write that post.

To finish up about Eric, he writes YA fantasy. His book Galendor Ye Dude of Yonder Forest is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. And how could you not love that title?

In more entertainment news, I saw on Rachel Held Evans’s site that she recommended Philomena as the religious-oriented mainstream film Christians should be talking about instead of Noah.

YES. Go watch it. It’s about a porpskillion times more genuine and sympathetic and not face-stabbingly awful about interactions between an atheist and a pious person than God’s Not Dead.

And then I read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian because I hadn’t yet and people I Internet-knew had been gushing about it. I briefly wondered what it would be like if I had had a teacher who assigned “banned” books, but aside from living in the conservative South, my English teacher had enough of a job re-hammering basic grammar every year, in every class.

Part-Time Indian is worth reading because it talks about identity and the realities of being poor as hell and a minority and so forth. And masturbation, which may not be as esoteric, but I think society could be improved just an eeny bit if masturbation were “decriminalized.” Though I should be specific because by society, I mean the conservative, Bible-thumping Southern one I am familiar with, the one in which three girls in my high school class were expecting oops babies* before graduation. There is more than one way to interpret the story of Onan, and that’s pretty much the only proof text on that specific subject.

And I think it’s been awhile since I’ve talked about pets. Due to unfortunate circumstances, my aquarium was emptied, but now I have a betta that I’ve named Corbulo. He’s pretty, with a dark body that shades out to blue that turns into red fins.

The roomie found a home for Goober Cat, but almost immediately after, she rescued a Pyrenees-mix puppy with her dude. Her Dude is now living with us full-time, but at least that means the rent will be split three ways. Her Dude doesn’t bother me. We leave each other alone. Her Dude favors shirts with the armpits ripped out, which pretty much means he is Not My Type, even just as friends. Puppy and I are becoming walking buddies, though Memorial Day is about the time when the weather decides to sweat on everybody instead of vice versa.

So hopefully things will keep thinging satisfactorily until I get more ducks lined up. In the next few weeks I’ll get to see if Plan A will work or if I’ll have to resort to Plan B or C. Maybe I will even tell you what those things are, eventually.


*To clarify, I don’t mean that someone “oopsed” the other by sabotaging birth control. That at least implies that birth control was thought about for a split second. I mean: oops, now pregnant (though what did you expect, dipshit?).

This isn’t a real post, birfday bonus

I feel like a bad blogger because I haven’t posted since the end of March, but I haven’t gotten a post ready. I just haven’t felt like reading much lately, and I’ve been spending time crocheting afghans and throws instead. I don’t know if crochet sounds like an incongruous hobby for me, but it’s something to do with my hands, which is a nice change of pace. I finished one during the end of March, and I’ve got one on ice, waiting for my yarn order to come in so I can finish it, and I’m working on another one that I’ll probably finish within the next week. I’d post a pic of the one I’ve finished, but I’m actually doing this post while on my security shift at work (shhhh, but they don’t really mind us using the computers for personal junk as long as we get our shit done adequately) and the pics are on my laptop.

In other news, my birthday is this weekend. May age 23 be better than age 22 was. Twenty-two ended up being a pretty harsh year for me. I don’t really do birthdays, but I bought myself some expensive work shoes because I’ve beaten my expensive regular shoes to shit doing outside maintenance work at my other job. I may end up replacing my expensive regular shoes because they’ve stopped making my feet not hurt. These goddamn flat feet I’ve inherited don’t like budget shoes.

I’m making my own cake because butter pecan is the shit, and also because I’m planning to take it to the small-church-group potluck thing that we have on Sundays so I stop feeling like a mooching turd. I thought about buying myself some celebration booze, something in the fruity chick drink range because that’s about the only taste I like, but I decided that I’ve been spending too much money between Amazon purchases, garage-saleing, and goddamn expensive shoes.

Blarg on changes

I’ve spent about a week in my new place, new town, and while some things are better, like not having to fill my gas tank two or three times a week, some things are still the same, in that I’m still a lonely weirdo with no social life. Intellectually I know I can’t expect a circle of friends to appear ex nihilo, but this town isn’t really happening for single twenty-somethings, and I’m still feeling the same old blah. Maybe I just need my meds adjusted.

Around here, church is just about the only way to socialize. I tried going to probably the biggest church around here, probably with the biggest number of single twenty-somethings, and it’s a freakin’ Calvinist Baptist church. I was desperate, and I thought I could handle what Baptists dish out, but I didn’t expect that everything I hate about Baptists would be crammed up into my face all at once. I left the service early, pissed the hell off, and drove around the downtown area looking for the big Methodist church. I found some Presbyterians — apparently the liberal Presbyterians — and it was nice. I was so inexplicably upset from the Baptist sermon that I cried all through the Presbyterian one, but there was a little old lady who came back and sat beside me and took care of me. It was nice. The pastor was a 28-year-old New Englander, very different than the run-of-the-mill pastor around here, and I felt I could finally talk about my problems with religion and depression to someone who wouldn’t give me the party line.

But I hope to take a page from Candide and at least be occupied if I can’t be genuinely happy. I plan to get set up with the local SPCA to volunteer this week, and I hope to find more things to do. Maybe get involved with this, that, or the other. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I feel like I’m running on increasingly depleted inertia, but I know I need to pick up and do something.

Newsish stuff

I’ve found a place and someone to move in with, so the logistics of moving all my junk has cut into my (re)read-and-review time. And the snow doesn’t make it easier. And the new place doesn’t have an Internet connection yet. It might be a while before I can resume anything resembling the vague schedule I had going. But I’ll probably post things about kitties, because my roomie has three and a foster. And I might be adopting a 15-year-old cat from a friend of the family who just passed away. The family hasn’t responded yet. Barbara Ann is a domestic shorthair (cat-mutt) that looks a little Siamese. And I’m still in a financial hard place, so I don’t know how well I’ll be able to afford her. She probably needs a vet check-up, and I don’t know how well a geriatric like her can adapt to completely new surroundings with an established band of cats.