Happy Birthday Fred, Wilma, Barney, Betty, Pebbles, Bam-Bam, and Dino

I don't care what anyone says. I love the Flintstones. (ok, Patrick is the only person I know who genuinely dislikes the Flintstones.) I spent many a morning hunched in front of the TV with my bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats in tow, missing the bus because I was unable to tear myself away before finding out what Fred was going to do next. 

Today the show turns 50. Thanks to Google for the tribute image they had up today, and thanks to the Christian Science Monitor for their attempt at making clever observations about how horrible the show was. That article only made me appreciate the show that much more.

Water, Water Everywhere

If I were ever to get a tattoo, and I probably never will, it would be something to remind me to drink more water.

Shoe Milieu

Shoes have always been a mystery that I never cared much to figure out. In fact, I kind of hate shoes. I know that being a woman and all, I am supposed to have some kind of fixation or natural inclination when it comes to buying those thingys that cover up your feet. I should have a selection of pairs to go with different outfits, some for rainy weather, some for hot weather, and maybe even some for winter time. Instead, I have a pair of flip flops and few sneakers, all of which look like they had been snacked on by a teething puppy.

If I had my way, I would wear flip flops all of the time. Stupid winter makes that nearly impossible as I am a wuss in cold weather. Add to this the fact that I am now 32 which has left me feeling like I need to act more like a woman which in my mind equals entertaining the possibility of wearing makeup, taking a new-found interest in moisturizer, and obtaining some lady-like, lady-style footwear. All of these thoughts give me anxiety.

I don't want to go to the mall, and I have no idea where to look online, nor am I willing to spend any of my precious internet time searching for the best place to look. So naturally, I went to Urban Outfitters.I found these and am going to contemplate buying them for the next 2-3 days after which time I'm sure I will forget about the  need for decent shoes until I leave to catch the bus in sad chewed up flip flops during a snow storm. Blah.

I Feel Tremendous!!

One of the many films obtained from my recent DI pillaging was the Ron Howard classic Cocoon staring Steve Guttenberg, Wilford Brimley, Brian Dennehy, Jessica Tandy, and D.A.R.Y.L.'s Barret Oliver. I recommend checking it out so that you can enjoy Mr. Guttenberg's bulge in his teeny tiny shorts, Wilford Brimley's nasty jokes about his drooping balls, the weird alien sex scene that was in all the previews (I never knew we were all watching Guttenberg climax when you see that blip) and one of the greatest sequences in movie history: the scene where the old men are nancing around the pool like a bunch of little girls accompanied by synth rock.




Guttenberg's bulge (which I am unable to find an image of on the internet oddly enough) has inspired a new piece of slang around the house which I plan to submit to the urban dictionary.

Having a Guttenberg:  A large bulge in a tiny pair of pants or shorts; having to make emergency crotchal adjustments in public due to one's junk being bunched or pinched into a tight spot.

Eg: "Wow, that guy's got a serious Guttenberg"
or "Pardon me while I fix my Guttenberg"

School Has Taken Over

Class and homework have managed to suck up all of my free time. Lucky for me, my homework involves working on art projects, so I am not complaining. Right now I'm working on a drawing of a robot holding a stuffed giraffe which is pretty rad.

I have much to write about, but rather than expending any more of my empty stores of energy for the day, I will just post one of my favorite photographs of all times and stare at it for a minute...

Aaaaah..... Mr. Newman. Sugarhouse Movies 10 has a poster-size version of this hanging in the hallway. I have spent many a walk down that hall while making kissy faces at.said poster, just as I am doing right now from my laptop.