The Mad Men Conundrum

Mad Men. Most people would agree it’s the best thing to happen to Sunday nights since the three-day weekend. And what’s not to love? Three martini lunches. Cigarettes in the conference room. Jon Hamm in suit. It’s got must see tv written all over it.



If nothing else, Mad Men made it possible for me to tell people my occupation and not get blank stares in return. A few years ago, if someone asked me what I did for a living, “copywriter” didn’t garner much of a reaction. In a crowded bar, it was usually followed by an awkward pause, a couple of nods and a swift change of subject. Now, 9 out of 10 times, I say, “copywriter,” and I get, “Oh! Like Mad Men!”

Yep. Just call me Don Draper.

Or not. I have a confession. For all that Mad Men has done for me (making copywriter a profession people recognize, putting Jon Hamm in a suit), I don’t watch it. I’ve seen it a few times, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every episode I’ve seen. But when Sunday night rolls around, I am inevitably not tuned into AMC.

Forget the fact that Mad Men is a critically acclaimed, Emmy-winning drama. Never mind that I’ve always found something tragically beautiful about the disillusionment in post-war America. Not to mention that most of the plot revolves around advertising’s hey day and the creative revolution and everything I’m stupidly passionate about. It’s almost as though the entire show was tailored around my interests and created to end my weekend on a high note.

And yet, I’m not watching. I’m not DVRing. And despite the fact that my roommate swiped her father’s Christmas gift (sorry, Mr. Mallon) and Seasons One and Two are sitting in our living room, I can’t bring myself to crack open the DVD case.

Because doing so will undoubtedly confirm one of my worst fears. Once I start watching, there’s no turning back. And I’ll have to come to terms with a very real problem. Despite being a writer by trade, I’m a lot less like Don Draper than I would like to admit.

I’m not talking about his countless infidelities or his weird flashbacks to his childhood or whatever. I can do without those. I’m talking about his ability to command a room and dazzle the client. That episode where he waxed poetic about the Kodak Carousel?

(Watch it. Watch it right now. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suRDUFpsHus)

Ho. Lee. Crap. Knowing full well that this is a fictional situation fabricated by writers in Hollywood, I got chills.

So while Don Draper’s got that whole well spoken, debonair, looks-good-in-a-suit thing down, I don’t. Well, okay, the business suit my mother insisted I purchase junior year of college made me look really masculine the three times I wore it, but that’s not the point.

Truth is, I’m pretty sure I’m way more Peggy Olson than I am Don Draper. And again, I don’t mean to say that I’m like Peggy in all her after-hours exploits. (Pete Campbell? The weasel in accounts? Girl, please.) But I can’t deny that we’ve got some things in common.

That awkwardness? Got it. The overwhelming need to gain the approval of others? Check. Walking around the office, constantly reminding everyone I’m a copywriter now? Oh, you have no idea. Plus, thanks to an over-zealous hair stylist, I spent the last 2 months of 2009 growing out bangs like Peggy’s.

(That look is not good on anyone.)

So that’s that. My fear of identifying with a fictional character is keeping me from watching the greatest drama on tv. That’s totally normal, right?

Rant. Rave. Et cetera. Et cetera.

So a buddy of mine asked if this is going to be a collection of rants, and if so, could he have a guest rant once a week. I don’t think that was really my intention with this whole blog thing, but I had to stop and think of what I would normally write to my email buddy. Yes, there were probably some rants in there. But there were also what I like to think were interesting observations and musings.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a lot of rants. (The blatant misuse of exclamation points. The entire concept behind running skirts. Female sportscasters. I could go on.) And who doesn’t love a good diatribe? I just don’t want that to become my schtick. Like Seinfeld’s “Have you ever noticed…” or Jeff Foxworthy’s “You might be a redneck…” or whatever it is that makes people think Dane Cook is funny. I don’t want to be The Girl Who Rants. Especially since, at this point, I’m the Girl Who Rants About Facebook. A.) Yikes. and B.) Sounds about right.

So here’s hoping there’s more to me than angry fist-shaking and snarky Facebook hating. It’s not like I’m walking around, all full of anger all the time. I just have a lot of feelings.



Editor’s note: You should probably go watch Mean Girls right now. Or as soon as you can. It’s a great movie. You’ve got the comedic stylings of Tina Fey, early Rachel McAdams and the only worthwhile thing Lindsay Lohan ever did.

Oh, and that near-rhyme in the last paragraph? The one above the clip? It kills me.

That was a long post.

So normally after writing an excessively long, rambling email (like the previous post), my email buddy and I would apologize for the wordiness. Or we'd preface our emails with a verbose warning. Sorry I didn't do either. But hey, I can add pictures to blog posts and, well, if that's not cool, I don't know what is.

So I have a confession to make.

I have to be honest. Isn’t that what the internet’s all about? Honesty and presenting oneself in a truthful manner? I mean, what’s the world coming to when people start lying on the internet? Am I right? Am I right?

I digress. My confession is this: That last post wasn’t really a blog post. It was an email I actually sent to my email buddy. She said it was funny, so I archived it, thinking it might come in handy one day. Then like six days later I got canned. Then a month later I decided to start a blog. And then another month went by and I actually started a blog. So it’s a good thing I held on to it.

Anyway, my point is that I removed my relationship status from Facebook shortly after the banner ads started pimping celebrities in hopes of getting me to join their crappy dating sites. Without any sort of relationship label assigned to my profile, it’s like Facebook advertisers don’t know what to do with me. “Okay, so she’s female. Mid-twenties. Uhhh...."

Apparently being 25 qualifies me for some free Uggs. I have no idea why my age makes me a candidate for complementary boots that are ugly as sin (full disclosure: I already own two pairs and despite the fact that they look like someone wrapped puff pastry around my feet and ankles, they’re warm and I love them). Also, no matter what time of day I stumble upon this ad (what? So I spend a lot of time on Facebook. I’m unemployed, lay off me.), there are always 4 minutes remaining on the offer. Always.



Other assumptions made by Facebook advertisers once I removed “single” from my profile and failed to replace it with anything else:

- I must be a single mother looking for a $10k grant. Also, I must enjoy staring at banner ads of pregnant women. (I am not and I can assure you, I most certainly do not.)

- I should probably become a fan of the SIU Alumni Association. (Alumni status not required, apparently.)

- I'm a pretty lady and should totes play Sorority Life. (Is the mid-twenties set really the one they want to go after? That makes me sad. Almost as sad as the girl from my high school whose Sorority Life updates show up in my newsfeed regularly. Yikes.)

- I must be in debt. (Have to love the picture though.)

- If I can’t find someone new to have a relationship status with, I should probably just go crawling back to my old boyfriend. (I'm not sure what they mean by "post notes at their old houses and hangouts," but it would appear that Facebook is crossing the threshold from online stalking to real life stalking.)

Oh Facebook. How you know me so well.

Questions for another time: if your relationship status is “it’s complicated,” what kind of ads do they throw at you? Tips to keep your man? Self-help books to the tune of, “You’re too good for him anyway”? Ugg boots?

Not sure if you're listed as "single" on Facebook...

But the ads they put on the side of the page--the ones that take information from your profile and try to use it to their advantage--have really gotten out of control. If you're single, they’re always for dating sites. I have no idea what it is in my profile that suggests I want to meet single dads in my area. And since I removed "single millionaires looking for love" from my interests, I'm not sure what makes Mark Zuckerberg think I'm in the market for a rich old man. But today, they crossed the line. There’s an ad in the margin that says, "See who’s searching for you!" on some crappy dating site I've never even heard of. The picture? Leonardo DiCaprio. Thank you, Facebook. I'm sure Leo checks his online dating profile every hour to see if someone like me has messaged him. "Hey, I know this is random, but I came across your picture on stupidsinglesdatingsite.com and I was wondering if you'd maybe want to get coffee sometime? I'm sure we'd have lots to talk about, seeing as how you’re a famous movie star in Hollywood and I'm an unemployed copywriter who lives in a basement apartment in Chicago. Well, message me back if you're interested. Oh, and I know you used to date Giselle. I see that as no problem whatsoever. Thanks."

An open email...to anyone who will listen.

My generation has a bad rap for being self-important narcissists operating under the delusion that everything we do or say is of utter importance. And social media seems to cater right to this. Got a point to make? Time to drag out the digital soap box. Going on a private journey of personal growth? Tweet about it. Excited to be expecting? You can post pictures of all three pregnancy tests that came back positive. Oh, how I wish I were kidding.

With the exception of probably clicking through my “photos of you” on Facebook maybe a little too often, I’d like to say that’s not really my style. In fact, I’m pretty sure nothing that I say is ever of any real consequence. Nothing on here is going to be that important. It’s probably going to be pretty banal, everyday stuff. The stuff I’d normally email my old roommate, except she got promoted the same week I got laid off. So while I've got nothing but free time, she's got increased responsibility at work.

Thus, a blog is born.

It's not really about anything. It's blog about nothing. Yes, that’s a Seinfeld reference. And yes, I realize comparing something I've written to one of the greatest sitcoms of the ‘90s (if not one of the greatest shows in television history) is pretty much the definition of self-importance. But whatever. I’m a product of my generation.