Moo Love Quotes

. . . how easily some things can be broken for good and for bad, and how some things, no matter how shattered, can still go back together. Like Moo, my family may never be as strong as it once was. There are chips and cracks and scars, But some of them can be repaired, piece by piece, rebuilt into something even more cherished and loved and unique.

What the Motorcycle Said Br-r-r-am-m-m, rackerty-am-m, OM, AM: All-r-r-room, r-r-ram, ala-bas-ter- Am, the world’s my oyster. I hate plastic, wear it black and slick, hate hardhats, wear one on my head, That’s what the motorcycle said. Passed phonies in Fords, knockede down billboards, landed On the other side of The Gap, and Whee, bypassed history. When I was born (The Past), baby knew best. They shook when I bawled, took Freud’s path, threw away their wrath. R-r-rackety-am-m. Am. War, rhyme, soap, meat, marriage, the Phantom Jet are sh*t, and like that. Hate pompousness, punishment, patience, am into Love, hate middle-class moneymakers, live on Dad, that’s what the motorcycle said. Br-r-r-am-m-m. It’s Nowsville, man. Passed Oldies, Uglies, Straighties, Honkies. I’ll never be mean, tired, or unsexy. Passed cigarette suckers, souses, mother-fuckers, losers, went back to Nature and found how to get VD, stoned. Passed a cow, too fast to hear her moo, “I rolled our leaves of grass into one ball. I am the grassy All.” Br-r-r-am-m-m, rackety-am-m, OM, Am: All-gr-r-rin, oooohgah, gl-l-utton- Am, the world’s my smilebutton.

All those cows with the same pattern of black and white, all turning their heads at the same time, all mooing in unison (his first love was still cloning) and all feeling pregnant when they were not, didn’t seem to be an image she could hold in her head along with the rest of what she knew about life.

As Douglas Moo notes, “God’s ‘giving’ to us is not simply a past basis for Christian obedience; it is its continuous source.”5

Confident women don't COMPARE themselves to other women

Even the moos, neeeighs, and quack quack are lovely, if you have musical ears

I love eating meat and she always tried to ruin it. I'd get a rare steak, chew it slowly in front of her, and moo. People like her make you revert back to your worst adolescent behavior. Please say you eat meat.

Charlotte had tried to read his work. It seemed only polite, after all, given that they were neighbors. But after a while, she'd simply had to give up. 'Love' always rhymed with 'dove,' (Where, she wondered, did one locate that many doves in Derbyshire?) and 'you' rhymed so often with 'dew,' that Charlotte had wanted to grab Rupert by the shoulders and yell, 'Few, hue, new, woo, Waterloo!' Good gracious, even 'moo' would have been preferable. Rupert's poetry could surely have been improved by a cow or two. Saying moo on cue at Waterloo.

Oh, Michael, soon we’ll be parkin’ in front of Grand Moff Tarkin Enjoying veggie moo shu to the beeps of R2-D2 And maybe even holding hands while gazing upon the Tatooine sands And knowing that our love by far has more fire power than the Death Star And though they may blow up our planet and kill every creature living on it Like Leia and Han, in the stars above, they can never destroy our love— Like the Millennium Falcon in hyperdrive our love will continue to thrive and thrive.

We've simply become too attached to work," I explained. "We've become too addicted to working and we need to balance our lives with a little idle activity like sitting on porches or chatting with neighbors." "I would HATE that!" she answered with a moo of disgust. "I LOVE to work! I can't stand just sitting around. Work makes me happy." This woman, by the way, is one of the most grounded, cheerful, and talented people I know. She's also not an outlier. I've had this conversation many times over the past few years with both friends and strangers and I often get some version of, "but I love to work!" in response. The question for me wasn't whether people enjoyed their work but whether they needed it. That was the question that drove my research. The question I asked hundreds of people around the country and the essential question of this book: Is work necessary? A lot of people will disagree with my next statement to the point of anger and outrage: Humans don't need to work in order to be happy. At this point, in our historical timeline, that claim is almost subversive. The assumption that work is at the core of what it means to lead a useful life underlies so much of our morality that it may feel I'm questioning our need to breathe or eat or sleep. But as I examined the body of research of what we know is good for all humans, what is necessary for all humans, I noticed a gaping hole where work was supposed to be. This lead me to ask some pointed questions about why most of us feel we can't be fully human unless we're working. Please note that by "work" I don't mean the activities we engage in to secure our survival: finding food, water, or shelter. I mean the labor we do to secure everything else beyond survival or to contribute productively to the broader society - the things we do in exchange for pay.

So what's going on with you and your boyfriend?" Eli asked me right before he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth during breakfast the next morning. I made a face in the direction of my plate before shooting a glance upward to find Gordo’s eyes on me, a smirk on his face. "Mason?" I asked, going back to my food. Eli made a gagging noise, elbowing me hard in the ribs. "I'm not gonna go into details on how disturbing it is that I say ‘your boyfriend’ and you automatically think of fucking Mase." "He's always calling me his wife, or telling people I don't know that we're getting married," I replied, elbowing him back as hard as he got me. It was partially the truth… but mostly, I didn’t want to talk about the man who had been kissing my shoulder hours ago. "I love Mase, but it'll be a sunny day in my asshole before you and him get together," he mumbled. I snorted, biting into my biscuit. "Who the heck else would you be talking about?" I asked, but I knew. Oh, I knew damn well he was referring to Sacha. Freaking Gordo snickered from across the table before putting his hands up in surrender when I glared at him. "I didn’t say anything." "Sacha, Flabby. Sacha. Your boyfriend. Your snuggle bug." Eliza finally answered. Suddenly the half-eaten biscuit on my plate needed to be eaten immediately. I shoved the entire piece into my mouth to avoid the conversation my brother was trying to edge into. I'd had talks about boys with Eli in the past, and they never ended—or started—well. "There's nothing going on between us. We're just friends." Because we were. Eli made a noise that sounded like “hmmph” deep in his throat. It was incredulous and disbelieving. Then he asked the question to prove it, his attention back on his band mate. "Gordo, do you think I'm blind?" Gordo shook his head. "Gaby, do you think I'm blind?" he asked. "Not blind, just dumb.” I smiled. He shot me a frown. A moment later, he threw his arm over my shoulders and started shoving his plate away with his free hand. "Flabby Gaby, that kid is in love with you." In love. With me? I leaned forward and tried to sniff his breath. “Are you still drunk?” But my brother kept talking before I could keep going. "Anyone with eyes and ears knows that guy thinks you shit out Lucky Charms." Gordo and I burst out laughing. "Is that a good thing?" I asked him. Eliza shoved my face away with his palm, ignoring my commentary again. "And I think that you love him, too." The noise that came out of my mouth sounded like a hybrid “moo” and squawk at the same time. "I—,” I slammed my mouth shut before opening it again with a sputter. “What?

Cade eyes traveled over her when she answered the door, coming to rest on her shoes. “Are those the ones from Monday night?” “They are.” He stepped inside her apartment and kicked the door shut. Well, then. “I have good memories of those shoes.” With a warm gleam in his eye, he reached up and cupped the nape of her neck, leaning in to kiss her. Hmm. She might have to wear these shoes all the time around Cade, if they put him in this good of a moo— He jerked back, cursing under his breath. Brooke blinked in surprise, still feeling the warm press of his lips on hers. “Um . . . what just happened?” He winced, rotating his arm gingerly. “I reached around to grab your ass.” “And . . . it electrocuted you?” He chucked her under the chin. “No, sassy. My shoulder’s a little sore after playing football today.” That was news to her. “I didn’t know you still played football.” “I don’t. I was helping out someone else and got caught up in the moment.

After dinner, as we had so many times during our months and months together, Marlboro Man and I adjourned to his porch. It was dark--we’d eaten late--and despite my silent five-minute battle with the reality of my reproductive system, there was definitely something special about the night. I stood at the railing, breathing in the dewy night air and taking in all the sounds of the countryside that would one day be my home. The pumping of a distant oil well, the symphony of crickets, the occasional moo of a mama cow, the manic yipping of coyotes…the din of country life was as present and reassuring as the cacophony of car horns, traffic sounds, and sirens had been in L.A. I loved everything about it. He appeared behind me; his strong arms wrapped around my waist. Oh, it was real, all right--he was real. As I touched his forearms and ran the palms of my hands from his elbows down to his wrists, I’d never been more sure of how very real he was. Here, grasping me in his arms, was the Adonis of all the romance-novel fantasies I clearly never realized I’d been having; they’d been playing themselves out in steamy detail under the surface of my consciousness, and I never even knew I’d been missing it. I closed my eyes and rested my head back on his chest, just as his impossibly soft lips and subtle whiskers rested on my neck. Romancewise, it was perfection--the night air was still--almost imperceptible. Physically, viscerally, it was almost more than I could stand. Six babies? Sure. How ’bout seven? Is that enough? Standing there that night, I would have said eight, nine, ten. And I could have gotten started right away. But getting started would have to wait. There’d be plenty of time for that. For that night, that dark, perfect night, we simply stayed on the porch and locked ourselves in kiss after beautiful, steamy kiss. And before too long, it was impossible to tell where his arms ended and where my body began.

Marlboro Man paused, his eyes piercing through to my marrow. We’d started out watching the sunset over the ranch, sitting on the tailgate of his pickup, legs dangling playfully over the edge. By the time the sun had gone down, we were lying down, legs overlapping, as the sky turned blacker and blacker. And making out wildly. Making out, oh, so very wildly. I didn’t want to wait for him to bring it up again--the dreaded subject of Chicago. I’d avoided it like the plague for the past several days, not wanting to face the reality of my impending move, of walking away from my new love so soon after we’d found each other. But now the subject wasn’t so scary; it was safe. I’d made the decision, at least for now, to stay--I just had to tell Marlboro Man. And finally, in between kisses, the words bubbled suddenly and boldly to the surface; I could no longer contain them. But before I had a chance to say them, Marlboro Man opened his mouth and began to speak. “Oh no,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “Don’t tell me--you’re leaving tomorrow.” He ran his fingers through my hair and touched his forehead to mine. I smiled, giggling inside at the secret I was seconds away from spilling. A herd of cows mooed in the distance. Serenading us. “Um…no,” I said, finding it hard to believe what I was about to tell him. “I’m not…I’m…I’m not going.” He paused, then pulled his face away from mine, allowing just enough distance between us for him to pull focus. “What?” he asked, is strong fingers still grasping my hair. A tentative smile appeared on his face. I breathed in a deep dose of night air, trying to calm my schoolgirl nervousness. “I, umm…” I began. “I decided to stick around here a little while.” There. I’d said it. This was all officially real. Without a moment of hesitation, Marlboro Man wrapped his ample arms around my waist. Then, in what seemed to be less than a second, he hoisted me from my horizontal position on the bed of his pickup until we were both standing in front of each other. Scooping me off my feet, he raised me up to his height so his icy blue eyes were level with mine. “Wait…are you serious?” he asked, taking my face in his hands. Squaring it in front of his. Looking me in the eye. “You’re not going?” “Nope,” I answered. “Whoa,” he said, smiling and moving in for a long, impassioned kiss on the back of his Ford F250. “I can’t believe it,” he continued, squeezing me tightly.

8:00am The sun is shining, the cows are mooing, and I am ready for the mines. I hope I find something awesome today. Steve has told me about some pretty crazy things I had no idea existed. According to him, I must find empty tombs in the desert. That’s where the real treasures are. For today, I will stick to regular mining. Who knows, maybe I will come across an abandoned mine shaft; could be my lucky day.   12:30pm I was forced to come home for lunch today because I had too much stuff to carry. I was getting low on my iron ore, gold, and lapis lazuli stocks before this mine trip. It’s amazing how quick lapis goes when you are busy enchanting everything but the kitchen sink. I’d enchant that too if I had one. I wonder what an enchanted kitchen sink would do. Would it do my dishes for me? That would be so cool.   I have plenty of both now. I can make some new armor and enchant it! I love mining.   Steve decided to join me for lunch and we ate a couple of pork chops and some cake. I love cake! We ate until no more food could fill us up. Then, Steve had the guts to brag about how, when he mines, he takes a horse with extra storage so he can stay down there all day long. Well fancy you, Steve.   He also went on to tell me about how well the crops are doing these days. He thinks it’s because he is looking after them half of the time. What he doesn’t know is I throw bone marrow on them when I am working. Makes my job faster and gives me more free time so whatever you need to tell yourself, Steve.   Life may be easier switching every day between mines and farming, but it still doesn’t make me his biggest fan. I just don’t think he needs to fall in a hole, either. At least… Not right now. I would consider us to be frienemies; Friendly enemies. Yes. At times we pretend to get along, but most of the time, we are happiest doing our own thing.   6:00pm Mining this afternoon was super fun… Not! I got attacked by a partially hidden skeleton guy. I couldn’t see him enough to strike back until half of my life hearts were gone. I must not have made the space bright enough. Those guys are nasty. They are hard to kill too. If you don’t have a bow and arrow you might as well surrender. Plus, they kind of smell like death. Yuck.   Note to self: Bring more torches on the next mining day.   On the other hand, I came back with an overshare of Redstone, too much iron for my own good, and oddly, quite a few diamonds. I won’t be sharing the diamonds with anyone. They are far too precious. They will go to some new diamond pickaxes, and maybe some armor. Hmm, I could enchant those too! The iron and Redstone though, I am thinking a trip to the village may be in order. See what those up-tight weirdos are willing to trade me.   For now, it’s bedtime.   6:10pm You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night.   6:11pm That stupid rule gets me every time. Why can’t I decide when it’s bed time?   First, I will go eat a cookie, then I will go to sleep. Day Thirty-Three   3:00am I just dreamt that our world was made of cookies.

A week before my due date, Marlboro Man had to preg-test a hundred cows. Preg-testing cows, I would learn in horror that warm June morning, does not involve the cow urinating on a test stick and waiting at least three minutes to read the result. Instead, a large animal vet inserts his entire arm into a long disposable glove, then inserts the gloved arm high into the rectum of a pregnant cow until the vet’s arm is no longer visible. Once his arm is deep inside the cow’s nether regions, the vet can feel the size and angle of the cow’s cervix and determine two things: 1. Whether or not she is pregnant. 2. How far along she is. With this information, Marlboro Man decides whether to rebreed the nonpregnant cows, and in which pasture to place the pregnant cows; cows that became bred at the same time will stay in the same pasture so that they’ll all give birth in approximately the same time frame. Of course, I understood none of this as I watched the doctor insert the entire length of his arm into a hundred different cows’ bottoms. All I knew is that he’d insert his arm, the cow would moo, he would pull out his arm, and the cow would poop. Unintentionally, each time a new cow would pass through the chute, I’d instinctively bear down. I was just as pregnant as many of the cows. My nether regions were uncomfortable enough as it was. The thought of someone inserting their… It was more than I probably should have signed up for that morning. “God help me!” I yelped as Marlboro Man and I pulled away from the working area after the last cow was tested. “What in the name of all that is holy did I just witness?” “How’d you like that?” Marlboro Man asked, smiling a satisfied smile. He loved introducing me to new ranching activities. The more shocking I found them, the better. “Seriously,” I mumbled, grasping my enormous belly as if to protect my baby from the reality of this bizarre, disturbing world. “That was just…that was like nothing I’ve ever seen before!” It made the rectal thermometer episode I’d endured many months earlier seem like a garden party. Marlboro Man laughed and rested his hand on my knee. It stayed there the rest of the drive home. At eleven that night, I woke up feeling strange. Marlboro Man and I had just drifted off to sleep, and my abdomen felt tight and weird. I stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply in an effort to will it away. But then I put two and two together: the whole trauma of what I’d seen earlier in the day must have finally caught up with me. In my sympathy for the preg-tested cows, I must have borne down a few too many times. I sat up in bed. I was definitely in labor.

14. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Cows. Cows who? No, owls who! Cows moo!

The seventeenth-century Jewish philosopher Spinoza observed: "I have often wondered that persons who make boast of professing the Christian religion - namely love, joy, peace, temperance, and charity to all men - should quarrel with such rancorous animosity and display daily towards one another such bitter hatred, that this, rather than the virtues which they profess, is the readiest criteria of their faith.

Primer of Love [Lesson 50] There will be trouble if the cobbler starts making pies. ~ Russian Proverb Lesson 50) Don't give or take advice about something you don't know about -- consult the experts. If you're having a serious problem in your relationship don't only consult friends -- they are not disinterested parties and will only reaffirm your misgivings -- after all, what are friends for -- sounding boards to bounce our premature conclusions off of. Go to the experts -- Meinecke Mufflers. Seriously, avoid divorce lawyers -- their sole job is to exacerbate things between you so they can milk you until you moo. I mean therapists, marriage counselors, social workers and clergymen. If you're anti-let's-talk-about-it, i.e., any man, then start by taking some new age intimacy workshop -- even if you have to fly to Taos for the weekend. Even if you break up you'll wind up with some cool turquoise jewelry and a banded agate Bola tie to wear at court.

The Sorcery of Romance (Song) All romancers do what they gotta' do; A chef will woo you with her cordon bleu, A dancer with a graceful pas de deux, A barista will blend you her finest arabica brew ~ All romancers do what they gotta' do. A necromancer's allure on the other hand, may be to conjure up the dead for you. Wooing is sorcery's shiny brass band, Milking love from us until we moo. Yeah, romancers do what they gotta' do; Necromancers do what they gotta' do.

I remembered how Maggie did not want to give up on seeing the cows of the  kibbutz. I knew she would love to see them, and Altar did not disappoint. He took advantage of our visit to the barn and showed us the distribution of food there. Maggie followed his agile activities closely, as he threw the packs of hay in front of the calves. It seemed that the smell of manure and the aromas of the hay did not deter her. Altar went further, calling a number of calves by their names and also tried to talk with them. Although they did not answer him, or answered with a monotonous mooing, Maggie laughed to high heaven again.

I love the feeling when new information that I receive rings true in my soul.

I’ve been thinking . . .” He stared into his cup as if he could read his next words on the dark, shifting surface. Frank’s low laughter drifted in from the parlor. My feet longed to run to him, to hear what childish antic had brought amusement, but I stayed in my seat. Henry pulled a paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across the table. “What’s this?” I unfolded it, and my breath caught at the words. “A Texas Ranger.” He nodded, pride shining in his eyes. “It’s all because of you, Rebekah.” “Me?” I bit my lip to hold back the tears. Henry would get to live his dream. “I’d have never tried if you hadn’t encouraged me.” I reached across the table and squeezed his hand before I realized what I’d done. I let go as fast as if I’d touched a frozen water pump handle barehanded. But he held on. “I love you, Rebekah. I think I have since the moment I caught you on the train platform.” I held my breath, wishing I didn’t have to disappoint this man. “Come with me. Marry me.” His eyes radiated hope. I remembered the driving lesson—and the dinner at Irene’s. Henry Jeffries had adventuresome dreams, but he wanted a safe wife. Someone to be coddled and cared for, like Clara Gresham. I wasn’t sure I could be that, just as I could never seem to be the docile daughter Mama longed for. I reclaimed my hand, wishing I could soften the hurtful words. “I can’t.” He sat back as if I’d struck at him. “We aren’t right for each other, Henry. We’d come to despise each other, I think. Eventually.” His head shook. “We wouldn’t, Rebekah. I’d do whatever you wanted, be whatever you wanted.” Such the opposite of Arthur. Humble. Caring. Saying he loved me. “That’s the problem, Henry. You shouldn’t have to change for me.” Why couldn’t I return his affection? Why did the Lord doom my heart to care for those who didn’t care for me? “Everything all right?” Frank poked his head into the kitchen, his eyes meeting mine. Those blue eyes, deep with passion and love for his family. I pushed away from the table and ran out the door, all the way to the barn. I groped through the dark interior, hearing Dandy and Tom and Huck gallivanting in the corral, Ol’ Bob mooing from her stall. I lifted my skirts, charged up the ladder and into the hayloft, and wept, wondering if I’d just turned down my very last chance at love.

Thoughts of being obliterated were a moo killer.

soon as a soul is ‘embodied,’ it becomes attached to its surroundings, particularly the body it inhabits. For this reason, dogs bark, cats meow, and cows moo. Human beings crave loving, eating, fighting, the arts, eating, sex, drugs, children, wealth, and intellectual prowess. But mostly, we work hard to gratify our senses. In today’s world where wants are defined as needs, and needs become ‘rights,’ the right to have what you want can be addictive. So accepting only what we really need requires discrimination and steady awareness of another dimension.

Rhys leaned over and whispered. “Have a care, love. It’s already been slaughtered.” Smile lines appeared at his eyes. “Now, if it were the roast at evening meal, then you’d have reason for your suspicions.” That gave her pause. “Truly?” He lowered his lips so close they nearly brushed the shell of her ear. “Does my mother strike you as one who’d tolerate a roast that is still mooing?

—” “MOO!” he yells loudly, cutting me off. I stare at him. Then I laugh. I laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long damn time.

A strong woman owns her confidence, she knows she is beautiful before she even looks in the mirror

Just moo for me,’ Ed said. ‘Maybe a wee Hobnob?’ ‘I only have Rich Tea,’ Myra said. ‘Sorry.’ ‘That’s alright, love.’ To Bob: ‘Cardboard. That’s the sort of biscuits they start dishing out on the lifeboat when they’re done eating the other passengers.