Aw, loneliness. Last night's hour, though, really was a clusterfuck of confusing. Between all those thinly veiled conversations and endless euphemisms, I have no idea if Megan was saying she was going to get an abortion, or if Don grew up in a brothel, or what "the work needing work" even means. But, since this isn't a yellow slide straight through Matthew Weiner's utterly complex brain, we're just gonna make fun of the clothes and get on with it. Cool? Cool:
YOU CAN'T SLEEP WITH YOUR NEIGHBORS. Let's just start there. This goes for Pete, this goes for Don, this goes for anyone who lives in a college dorm or small apartment building or I don't know, near human people. DO NOT. DO. NOT. What is so hard about this concept? And why in god's name does anyone think they're going to get away with it? For some reason, this entire band of bullshitters can't understand the first thing about body language — like, I don't know, Don's mistress having an aneurism when he came home during her and Megan's tete-a-tete — and while I can't figure out if Trudy knew Pete was banging that bloodied neighb before driving her to a motel or, she probably should have picked up on it immediately from that neighbor's crazy-eyes, and that NO ONE on this show knows how to have a normal relationship. Never thought a healthy dose of neuroses would be a good thing in life, but it ends up it is.
Fun side note: I realized while re-watching this that the sad puppy tchotchke I carefully schlepped back from an antique store in Iceland is...also atop Peggy's office credenza. Not a similar one, not a different sad puppy, the SAME FUCKING ONE. Just let me emphasize that again: I have, in the year 2013, the same bizarro office decor as Peggy fucking Olson. You guys can master bouffants all you want; I've got the real throwback goods.
Call me old-fashioned — or, well, older-fashioned, considering — but you don't hit on other people in their homes, four feet away from their spouses, especially with a witness in tow like this episode started. And, if you for some reason find that appropriate, you don't go and tell your husband the neighbors want to skinny dip, which is akin to saying, "Oh, and by the way, everyone who lives on our block wants to fuck me in their pool. Ha ha!" Does anybody know how to be discreet with this shit? Thank god these homies didn't have SnapChat, or we'd have a herpes epidemic on our hands. Holy christ.
It's time for my favorite part of the show: when we discuss adulterer Sylvia Rosen's lounge clothes (!!!) I went back at freeze-framed her "Who, me having sex with the upstairs neighbor while you're at the hospital saving lives?!" outfit, and holy christ, this woman is truly just waiting around to be banged. Silk kimono robe, head scarf, fur-toed heels — uh, all up on her Alexander Wang shit, much? I tried to take a TV snapshot, but sadly, it came out looking like mush. More important, though, are those completely inappropriate double cocktail rings. Uh, hi, how do you give a handy with those clunkers on and keep 'em there 'til the post-coital ciggy smoke? For a show that pays so much attention to, oh I don't know, EVERYTHING, they can't even get the bedside jewelry right. Highly disappointing.
"I will destroy you." Trudy Campbell, recipient of the 2013 All-Around Boss award. Best line this show has ever had, best moment this series have ever seen, best thing Alison Brie will ever do. That is how you ruin someone's life. Betty Draper: take note.
Bob fucking Benson. I almost wish this was a scary movie or a CW television show so that we could kill him the fuck off already, or know he's going to break up a couple and bounce eight episodes in. Having him be this ambiguous, annoying, overambitious toilet paper-fetching fuck is just beyond pointless, until he's actually dismembered in an elevator accident or grabs a Holloway titty and is slapped silly on the spot. He is every finance guy you meet in a bar and get a hairball in your throat from how much you're gagging at the sheer, overarching boredom oozing out of him. Do something with this homie or get him out already.
Can I just put Pete and his honey on blast for a second? First of all, you smug mother fucker, peanuts and cheese crackers are what you offer alzheimer-y old people, not blondes you're about to commit adultery with. And girl, if you're nervous in the new city yet waltz into Pete's faux-home like you're dressed for a funeral and just want to get down to business, you's a ho. Also, is nice lingerie something they really wore back then? Because I haven't done laundry in weeks and already went through my last-resort cupcake-printed underwear (seriously) but still have never had a man say, "I really have to get back, can we move it along a little" to my face. I hate to say it, but you deserve a crazy — and I mean crazy — to show up on your doorstep like she just played pitcher for the first and last time if you pull a stunt like that.
Arnold Rosen, kind-hearted rich fella and all-around mensch, is this show's Harry Goldenblatt. Discuss.
Damn, how dope was it when Megan grabbed Don's hat and coat and hung it up? My boyfriend and I can't figure out how to keep our shit off the floor and in our closets, and I had no idea it was jut that I'm not a lady and he doesn't demand it of me. If I was a man, I'd be so pissed to give up nightly hot dinners and things being put away correctly just so that my wife has the privilege to complain about work each and every night. But then again, my perma-roommate barely wears jackets and doesn't wear a hat, so it's kind of like the workload is minimized enough to do-it-yourself levels. (Or so I tell myself.)
That Megan muumuu! It looks like the Lilly Pulitzer bag I had for all of five minutes when I was a teenager, mixed with a maternity ward hospital dress and the worst blanket in your childhood home, wrapped into one. I mean, literally, wrapped into one, because that thing is heee-uge. I know they make this show such a fucking handful sometimes when it comes to interpretation and symbolism and character depth but to put Megan in that bikini last week — and throw her in this lil' thang yesterday — is sheer wardrobe brilliance.
I'm probably throwing any dimebag of feminism I still have out the window by saying this...but why exactly did this lifestyle of living like a rich person's miniature schnauzer end again? I've been up since 6:30 AM, have about thirty To Do lists to prioritize and still have to drag my sorry ass to a yoga class all before the afternoon sets in, and this 16th Floor broad spends her time lounging around while "feeling guilty" for watching TV because it cuts into her schedule of, what, nothingness? The New York Craziness of having a job and a side gig might be catching up with my sleep-deprived brain, but this lifestyle looks pretty, pretty pret-ty good.
There's never been anyone who's had a lush bowlcut and that bird beak nose as a child who's turned into a strapping stud like Don Draper. Never.
As someone who's never liked Megan because I'm predisposed to hate naturally thin women, I kinda love the lady after this episode. If someone that worked for me fucked up my delicates, I would have torn them a new asshole, not gently lobbed a firing their way. I, unlike most people who live in tiny metal boxes within a city, don't dry any of my clothes. Towels? sure. Cotton t-shirts for the gym? Yes. Tank tops? GOD NO NEVER. Now that we're past the age where people care about bra sizes, getting fit for one is just a pain in the ass, and having to go back because this homie shrunk 'em all is totally can-worthy. Miscarriage Megan = my new favorite.
I'm becoming more and more convinced that Pete Campbell is becoming the "real life" version of Don Draper. DD can get away with anything and still pull work triumphs out of his ass at the end of the day, but Pete implodes whenever he tries to emulate that swagger. There were some unignorable parallels (wife conversations, neighborly fuckings) between those two homies on last night's episode, but while Don has (literally) too much sperm to go around, Pete's sad life just imploded around him. Moral of the story: you're an individual, and if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with.
It's really about damn time someone murdered someone on this show.
Does anyone else get the feeling that Don's like, sixty years old by now? I guess all that sex is keeping him young, but what are we doing wrong where the only way to stay trim in our day is by 1. Cutting out everything that's available to eat save for almonds and bee pollen and 2. Going to a Haus of Exercise and sweating til you want to die, then waking up and doing it all over again? How did he manage to turn from a miniature John Oliver into a stud with no gym shorts required?! Why does he get to eat steak and still have sex with everyone? I did notice, with jealousy, that the restaurant had crudite on the table instead of bread — lucky bastards and their empty calorie avoidance — so many the answer is just piles and piles of carrots.
"Sometimes you gotta dance with the one who brung ya." Oh, fuck me. Such a know-it-all, that one.
This week's lesson in "Who The Fuck": is that crazy blonde bitch? We don't even know her name, let alone any other details besides her feelings on the musical "Hair", and she already wants to live her life with the endlessly creepy Pete Campbell? Talk about picking the short straw of people to cheat with.
Trillest Of The Week: Trudy pulled out some fuckin' G shit with that kitchen speech — while inches from a bloodied rag, mind you — but I gotta award this diamond-encrusted crown to Joan. Just waltzing right into Don's office and helping herself to liquor without him saying a word? So badass, there are no words.
Actual transcription of "On The Next Episode of AMC's Mad Men": "So, you haven't officially told him." "You know that every gripe he has is directed at me in this company." "If you come, I'm dying to hear what you have to say next." "Please don't involve youself in this." "What is that supposed to mean?" *stares* "That's not going to happen." "I don't know if that solves my problem." *elevator door close*
Previous Instances Of Me Ranting About This Old-School Show:
Season 6, Episodes 1 and 2: The Doorway