Three years today.
I'm all smiles.
 |
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
I want to like Don Draper.
I really do.
He's Handsome in a way Humphrey Bogart should have been, his voice is hypnotic and he makes smoking a pack a day and celebrating client approval/coitus/humiliating Pete Campbell/9 am with a tumbler of whisky look sexier than Chuck Bass does.
But, midway through season two, I can't help myself coming to the conclusion that this man, this wonderful, honey-voiced man, is actually a douche.
He appears to be such a prince among men, the happy ending of a bad beginning, defender of Freddy Rumsen's pants wetting and knocker-off of hats when a lady enters the lift.
But when it comes to poor, desperately perfect Betty Draper, he is a cad supreme.
Cheating on her is bad enough, but hey, it's 1960, who's not cheating on their devoted housewife? Cheating on her, and then organising a dinner during which Betty unknowingly sits and makes small talk with the woman he's cheating on her with, is downright disgusting. Lying to her face and pretending she's having a hysterical meltdown when she confronts him about said woman... Well, that's my tipping point.
Why, Don, why? I was in your corner. Now I want to punch you.
He's Handsome in a way Humphrey Bogart should have been, his voice is hypnotic and he makes smoking a pack a day and celebrating client approval/coitus/humiliating Pete Campbell/9 am with a tumbler of whisky look sexier than Chuck Bass does.
But, midway through season two, I can't help myself coming to the conclusion that this man, this wonderful, honey-voiced man, is actually a douche.
He appears to be such a prince among men, the happy ending of a bad beginning, defender of Freddy Rumsen's pants wetting and knocker-off of hats when a lady enters the lift.
But when it comes to poor, desperately perfect Betty Draper, he is a cad supreme.
 |
| My cupcake dress does not protect me from the pain of your philandering, Don. |
Cheating on her is bad enough, but hey, it's 1960, who's not cheating on their devoted housewife? Cheating on her, and then organising a dinner during which Betty unknowingly sits and makes small talk with the woman he's cheating on her with, is downright disgusting. Lying to her face and pretending she's having a hysterical meltdown when she confronts him about said woman... Well, that's my tipping point.
Why, Don, why? I was in your corner. Now I want to punch you.
Monday, August 15, 2011
TGIM
Okay this is going to be one the stranger things that comes out of my mouth, but sometimes ... I kind of like Mondays.
Yeah they suck mostly. Playtime's over, you may still have a hangover from Saturday night, it's back to seriousness and work, and there's a full five days before it's the weekend again.
But occasionally, Mondays are good. Like coming to after a bender and finding you don't have a hangover, you didn't do anything stupid and embarrassing the night before, and there are no unexplained bruises anywhere on your person.
Take today, for example. After the fun and games of a looooong weekend, a three-day week and another weekend, it's almost nice to get back to reality, get back on top of work things, head back to the gym ... you know the drill. Pull up my socks, roll up my sleeves and be productive again.
Yeah, maybe I am a little strange after all.
Yeah they suck mostly. Playtime's over, you may still have a hangover from Saturday night, it's back to seriousness and work, and there's a full five days before it's the weekend again.
But occasionally, Mondays are good. Like coming to after a bender and finding you don't have a hangover, you didn't do anything stupid and embarrassing the night before, and there are no unexplained bruises anywhere on your person.
Take today, for example. After the fun and games of a looooong weekend, a three-day week and another weekend, it's almost nice to get back to reality, get back on top of work things, head back to the gym ... you know the drill. Pull up my socks, roll up my sleeves and be productive again.
Yeah, maybe I am a little strange after all.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Because everyone loves to poke fun at a hipster from time to time
 |
| Cute no? No. Edgy, maybe. Existential even. But never cute. |
 |
| Before his time? |
The long weekend in numbers
Miss me? Here's where I've been and what I've been up to lately...
Number of days in my weekend: four. Which makes this a three-day week for me. Bliss.
Number of hours spent working on Boyfriend's car on Saturday: a few. I'm his spanner bitch, and I'm strangely okay with that.
Number of big, drunken girls' nights out: 0. With half our posse bailing on our Deco Dance mission on Saturday night, the three remaining musketeers opted to stay in, in bed, in our pyjamas, with popcorn, ChipNiks, Cadbury Top Deck and hysterical girly chatter. Awesome throwback to our teenage years.
Number of cocktails consumed during lunch at Beluga on Sunday: one. Look at that restraint. (Although I made up for it by having promised to go back next Sunday purely for martinis and that ridiculously decadent Lindt chocolate Sundae – it's all about moderation you see.)
Number of artery-choking meals on Monday: one. Le Boyfriend and I finally took a wander down to Kalk Bay harbour for fish and chips at the water's edge from the wonderfully dingy Kalky's. Trans fats at their oil-dripping best. Plus I could finally tick that little outing off my 'fun Cape Town things to do with Boyfriend' list.
Number of lifelong dreams fulfilled on Monday night: one. Well, to be fair, it was the lifelong dream of my 19-year-old self, but let's not quibble over details. Went to see The Used at Grandwest Arena and sang my little heart out to Taste of Ink, sandwiched between my fellow former emo kids, back in our black eyeliner and red lipstick of yesteryear. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Number of picnics in the sunshine on Woman's Day yesterday: one. Boyfriend and I headed into the sunshine of Kirstenbosch to lounge under a tree and nibble on an assortment of goodies. It may have been somewhat less relaxing then intended, what with the screaming children and hipster teenagers everywhere, but at least I got to tick another item off my abovementioned list. Oh and thanks Mother City, for organising such spectacular weather for my long weekend.
Number of times I hit snooze this morning: twice. WedMonsday mornings are no fun.
Number of days in my weekend: four. Which makes this a three-day week for me. Bliss.
Number of hours spent working on Boyfriend's car on Saturday: a few. I'm his spanner bitch, and I'm strangely okay with that.
Number of big, drunken girls' nights out: 0. With half our posse bailing on our Deco Dance mission on Saturday night, the three remaining musketeers opted to stay in, in bed, in our pyjamas, with popcorn, ChipNiks, Cadbury Top Deck and hysterical girly chatter. Awesome throwback to our teenage years.
Number of cocktails consumed during lunch at Beluga on Sunday: one. Look at that restraint. (Although I made up for it by having promised to go back next Sunday purely for martinis and that ridiculously decadent Lindt chocolate Sundae – it's all about moderation you see.)
Number of artery-choking meals on Monday: one. Le Boyfriend and I finally took a wander down to Kalk Bay harbour for fish and chips at the water's edge from the wonderfully dingy Kalky's. Trans fats at their oil-dripping best. Plus I could finally tick that little outing off my 'fun Cape Town things to do with Boyfriend' list.
Number of lifelong dreams fulfilled on Monday night: one. Well, to be fair, it was the lifelong dream of my 19-year-old self, but let's not quibble over details. Went to see The Used at Grandwest Arena and sang my little heart out to Taste of Ink, sandwiched between my fellow former emo kids, back in our black eyeliner and red lipstick of yesteryear. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Number of picnics in the sunshine on Woman's Day yesterday: one. Boyfriend and I headed into the sunshine of Kirstenbosch to lounge under a tree and nibble on an assortment of goodies. It may have been somewhat less relaxing then intended, what with the screaming children and hipster teenagers everywhere, but at least I got to tick another item off my abovementioned list. Oh and thanks Mother City, for organising such spectacular weather for my long weekend.
Number of times I hit snooze this morning: twice. WedMonsday mornings are no fun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)