Mary Tyler Moore (the television series, not necessarily the person) is the pop culture equivalent of Sex and The City of the late 70s.
1. Season Two of the Mary Tyler Moore show on DVD (FYE didn’t have Season One)
2. One pepperoni pizza
3. One six-pack of wheat ale
4. One pair of gray sweat pants
5. Two remote controls
6. One DVD player
7. One 37-inch flat screen TV
1. I started my experiment by opening the set of DVDs for season two of the Mary Tyler Moore show (24 episodes over 3 discs). I placed the first disc (disc 1) into my dvd player and used the remote controls to start the first episode and adjust the volume on my television. I also started in on the pizza and brew.
2. I then watched episodes back-to-back, and took note of the similarities between the Mary Tyler Moore show and that of Sex and The City.
Variables & Controls:
1. The number of beers and the number of pizza slices changed as the evening grew darker.
2. Mary Tyler Moore, however, remained witty, fashionable, and amazing.
Within the first five minutes of watching the Mary Tyler Moore show, my point was being proven in two ways: 1. Mary’s colorful roommate, Rhoda, was totally ON an episode of Sex and The City. Please recall the SATC episode when Carrie dates the writer (not Burger, the guy with the sex problem) and she falls in love with his mom, RHODA.
The first episode of season one of the Mary Tyler Moore show, “The Bird…and…um…Bees,” features Mary the day after her documentary on “your sexual IQ” airs on televison—gasp!!! Just like the ladies of SATC, Mary Richards is on the cutting edge of sex.
Some other similarities I found include the characters—Mary is Carrie, Rhoda is Miranda, and Phyllis is Charlotte. Mary and Rhoda are single, and suffer from ridicule as single career woman, much like those on SATC. Mary is a journalist…need I say more?
Many of the episodes surround issues that are still relevant today—blind dates, being more eco-friendly, fashion (Mary is quite fashionable), living in a rent-controlled apartment, filling the evenings as a single woman, high school reunions, finding a job during a down economy, bad service at a restaurant, and dating at the office.
After conducting this experiment to the best of my abilities, I’ve come to my conclusion that, indeed, the Mary Tyler Moore show was the Sex and The City of the late 70s. Then, it was a show tapped into controversial issues that were previously bottom-shelf. The fact that the show’s main character, Mary Richards, was a single career woman was a stand-alone touchy subject, not to mention her take on sex, dating, and fashion.
Final words? MTM is the shit!
No seriously, I cannot wait to watch all SIX seasons of MTM—coincidence that MTM and SATC have the same number of seasons? I think not.
Outside my apartment, things have come to a simmer—which means good things for my sleeping habits (Saturday night I went to bed early, woke up at 3 am, when I was still awake at 6, I made my first batch of pancakes, ever. They tasted like shit), and generally, boring things for the blog.
I’m trying to take a “it’s just work” approach to my day job, so I don’t get caught up in the minutia of dumb asses. However, two things have happened in the last few days that really irked me.
First of all, Shyneesha strikes again. I will say, after the The Great Self-Esteem Blunder of 2011, she backed off on the weight talks for a bit. However, randomly, as we passed in the hallway last week, she mentioned (once again) “Giiiirl, I can’t WAIT to get down to your size so I can borrow your clothes.”
And it bothered me just as much this time as it did the first time. Like yeah, she is losing weight, but she ain’t my size and even if she WAS, she is NOT, I repeat: she is NOT borrowing my anything.
Secondly, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned my coworker, Boots. Boots is almost 40, a complete man-whore, and wears boots that make him look like a homosexual. I met Boots when I was working as a bartender, and he told me about this job, so I applied and now we work together.
In our office, he’s known as the “funny guy,” which is cool sometimes, but I’ve noticed he always has to be the funniest one in the room, which gets really old. Outside of work, we grab drinks sometimes, to which the conversation always leads to his sex life or his new man-groomer, which makes me drink heavily and shower later.
Yesterday, after my weekly meeting I host, he felt it necessary to approach me about a book title I said wrong, which he thought was so hilarious he could hardly tell me without laughing.
Really? Like you can’t find anything or anyone else to make fun of in the meeting, so you have to call me out because I transposed a fucking book title? Why don’t I tell everyone here about your latest incident with the man-groomer and it’s wacky “settings” that did a number on your junk?
Here’s a thought: go shove that side-zip chocolate suede boot up your ass.