Monday, July 30, 2012

The Brilliance of My Adored Object

So we are all agreed that my Rohan-sweetness is brilliant, right?

Of course we are.

He really is brilliant, though. Anne Elisabeth fancies herself to be something of a writer, but I tell, dear readers, she's got nothing on my dearest darlingest love.  He, the adored object of my heart, is a rare and beautiful talent.

Take, for instance, this poem he wrote.

If you have difficulty reading the font, it goes:

I wish I were a hippo
'Cause then I would be fat.
But if I can't be a hippo
I'd like to be a cat.

It takes a unique sort of mind to come up with comparisons of this majestic magnitude! My mind fairly boggles at the idea. Hippos! Fat! Indeed! And who doesn't, ultimately, find themselves desiring a life feline?

It is brilliant. My Rohan is brilliant.

Anne Elisabeth claims to have started it, however. She, being bossy like she is, told Rohan one evening that she needed him to "bring more poetry into our marriage." He, being wonderful like he is, obliged by spontaneously composing this epic rhyme.

"Hey," says Anne Elisabeth, "You could mention that I'm the one who illustrated it! That's my drawing of your Minion there!"

Um, Anne Elisabeth, Copernicus called. You're not the center of the universe.

Really, sometimes, that human . . .

Anyway, Rohan's brilliance combined with the pedestrian efforts of Anne Elisabeth have served well to give our Petting Station corner a decorative upgrade. See here:

"Wait a minute . . . She sayin' I'm fat????"

Sorry, Minion. Next to Marmaduke, everyone is fat.

I know your eye went right to me in the background.
I mean, who wants to watch Marmaduke and
Mama-kitty kissing when they could watch me?

Me: "I approve this change, household lackeys."
Marmaduke: "I wonder if anyone needs a hug . . ."

Monday, July 9, 2012

The Spirit of the Dance and Plastic Baggies

You may think that, with Anne Elisabeth hogging the computer and preventing yours truly from sharing the deepness of my deeps with the lot of you, that I would, thus thwarted, succumb and spend my days doing nothing but nap the nap of the frustrated!

Oh, no.

I have been exploring my creative side. Just the other day, I invented, choreographed, and performed a whole new dance for the benefit of my beloved and appreciative Rohan-muffin. He, being the soulful type, understood the poetry of my performance. Anne Elisabeth, being the wretched type, didn't get it at all and snickered the while.

I know that you are all readers of far superior taste than that of Anne Elisabeth, so I thought I would take the time to share with you some still shots of my elegance as caught on film. Prepare yourselves for beauty unparalleled!

First we have: The breathless hush before I make my entrance . . .

Then, the moment: The pure, shining moment when I enter, my costume donned.

"Excuse me! Clear the stage! I'm about to perform!"

"Uh, sorry, Minerva . . ."

Now, I strike a pose, ready for the music of the soul to play, for the living poetry of movement to take over my being!

I roll! I swoop! I spin! I twirl!


Was there ever a being of such grace, such majesty as I?


"I don't get it, Minerva. Wha's wif da plastic baggy and the writhin' 'round onna floor?"
"It's art, Minion."
"You couldn't possibly understand. Kindly remove yourself from my stage and watch from a respectful distance."

"I jus' fink she looks kinda weird . . ."

A soul as scorched with the Flames of Dance as mine cannot be understood by mere mortals!