The Divan Mrs. N

Jesus & I had our first fight this past Sunday. I don't know if my melancholia seeped into yesterday's entry, but it seems pointless trying to fight the Good Fight for faith-based cosmetology while I'm feeling so horrible. Bear with me while I unload, or perhaps you might want to skip this one entirely. If you're here for Sister Nancy Beth's patented blend of righteous Christian fury, you're not getting it today. Sorry.

The flashpoint for this conflict was the exquisite new sofa I had been planning on getting for our apartment. I optimistically assumed it would be an investment in the quality of our homelife together, where we could drift off to sleep while enjoying our ceremonial frankincense and watching wholesome Debbie Reynolds movies, instead of becoming a nervous stomach ache presently going on day two. We looked at countless sofas, and when we shared mutual dislike for what we were seeing, it seemed we were easily heading toward our goal of finding what we wanted. However, once we did both find a sofa we liked, and it wasn't the same one, the friction began.

I doubt it's worth replaying who said what, but on further reflection it became clear that this was another installment in the unfolding drama whose central question of plot is either that (1) Sister Nancy Beth is too unyielding in her beliefs, or that (2) Jesus should stop feeling deficient because His religious convictions require Him to give all His money to the poor and His credit card companies. Also, the couch we presently have was originally Jesus' and it's the only thing in our living room that was there before I hauled all my crap over there. It remains the lone hold-out before the Glorious Nancy Beth Style Revolution sweeps through the apartment entirely, and Jesus may not be as committed to the Revolution as I may have thought.

There was actually another argument Sunday night after that, regarding my pledge to help a fellow parishioner with her colors after mass on Sundays on an indefinite basis ("I know I'm an Autumn, but I don't feel like an Autumn," the pitiful creature confided in me, before she burst into tears -- how could I possibly cast her into the darkness?). I have to concede that Jesus has a point, that now what we're living together in blessed union, I can't unilaterally decide how I'm going to spend half of one of our two days off together for the indeterminate future. And if that weren't enough, my dad & stepmother invited Jesus & me to protest the Max Liebermann exhibit at the Skirball, which sounds pleasant enough until you learn of my dad's quirk of trying to set things on a firm timetable down to the minute. After two rounds in the ring with Jesus, this was not the conversation I wanted to be having with Him.

I doubt this will turn into anything more, and I hope this experience will be what we recall when we nod our heads in agreement when some sage says that some days are harder than others when you're in a relationship. The warmth I felt last night when I looked up and saw the kitchen light on outweighs today's malaise, so I guess we're in the clear. Anyway, it's time for lunch, and one of the stylists remarked on my timorous nature today. So, liberals, you got off easy today. I go back to kicking treasonous moonbat ass tomorrow.