This is MOOP:
I'm always trying different chocolate chip cookie recipes. I've been mining for the concoction that would win a place so dear to my taste buds that I could give it the "you and only you." It will become MY cookie route, and when this phase of life is applicable, every Sunday afternoon I'll bake them with my younglings while Anne of Green Gables streams from the televiz. It might be too early to tell, but this recipe might be the winner. I take a couple of liberties -- I used wheat flour, and 3/4 pound of a Belgian Chocolate Bar (with almonds) which I cut into chunks. "I do not profess to be an expert in the field of [cooking]", but I can say that this recipe has had the most zealous following yet.
I'm skipping this one. I've already talked this blog away about Canada, which I obviously and surprisingly loved, and so I shan't revisit that vacay topic now, and everywhere else I might put I haven't been (yet); I only imagine it to be marvelous. And once I get to thinking about how marvelous some unseen destination might be, I start to get cranky because I have no reason to believe I'll get there any time soon. Buh. Not only is my MOOP supposed to be superficially deep, but it is also supposed to radiate serenity, and this section is foiling that. Buh again.
A refrigerator. Oh, you already have one? Well, my inner MOOP is urging me to just make sure. My apartment didn't have one until today, and let me tell you, there are only so many times you can enjoy take out for dinner. I felt at peace with the world while at the grocery store tonight, picking up items that I knew I could stash away in a cold closet. Dre Filio sighting, by the way. Albertsons. 10:45 pm. She's so cool.
A bridesmaid 3 weekends in a row this summer. I looooove weddings; they're all about the fuuuture, and they're fragrannnnnnnt and pretty and I happen to LOVE the pairings, and nary a Bridezilla in sight, so BING! I'm down in a most up way. (P.S. Blogger quirk: My spell check took issue with the way I just typed "future" but not with the way I typed "fragrant." ??)
When I was a wee lass, most Saturday afternoons my dad would rent a movie for the family to watch that night. My parents had no stomach for new releases like The Mighty Ducks or Free Willy; indeed the likelihood of being rented by Jimmy Eato increased in direct correlation to the film's age. Most movies I was raised on were thick on the themes of "Improving Socio-Economic Status While Appeasing Demands of the Heart" and "Surviving Child Birth, both Mother and Child". Nice. Each flashed a frame of "THE END" in swirly letters at its close, and the credits did/could not scan across the screen. Good times. I really wouldn't trade it for all the Emilio Estevez movies in the world. Here's one of my childhood favorites:
There you have it. MOOP.